Gamache ordered Myrna a beer and looked at the book she had placed on the wooden table between them. It had a hard cover. Gamache picked it up and scanned it, as Myrna sipped her beer. It was a murder mystery by a Canadian writer. Barbara Fradkin. It looked very good, and Gamache thought he might buy it, but he wondered why Myrna had come back to the bistro just for this.

He lowered the book and looked at her.

She took it back, turned it over, and placed one very large finger on a large sentence on the back cover.

“Winner of the Arthur Ellis Award for Best Mystery in Canada.”

Gamache’s eyes widened, and he looked at Myrna, who was smiling slightly.

“I knew the name was familiar,” she said. “You kept calling him Mr. Ellis, but the name didn’t click until I was leaving and heard Gabri say ‘Arthur Ellis.’” I went through my books, and there I found it. Arthur Ellis. It’s an award. For murder mysteries.”

“Is it a coincidence?” Gamache asked.

“You tell me.”

Gamache stared at the book. As the head of homicide for the Quebec Provincial Police, he’d come to realize that coincidences almost never happened in murder cases.

“Was Arthur Ellis a mystery writer, too? Is that why the award is named for him?”

“No. This is where things gets strange.”

“Stranger than they already are?” he asked.

“Lots,” said Myrna. “Arthur Ellis was the name of Canada’s official executioner. He hanged people.”

Chapter Eight

Fifteen minutes later, Inspector Beauvoir joined Gamache in the bookstore. As soon as Beauvoir walked through the door, Gamache handed him the book. The chief had on his half-moon reading glasses and looked at the inspector over them.

Beauvoir took the book, and Gamache went back to the computer screen on Myrna’s desk. Myrna herself was reading over the chief’s shoulder.

Inspector Beauvoir looked at the murder mystery in his hand. He was confused.

“Was it a copycat murder? Is the answer in here?” He held up the book. “Did this Barbara Fradkin kill Mr. Ellis?”

Once again, Gamache looked up, this time with a small smile. “I don’t think so, but that book certainly holds a clue. With Myrna’s help, I’ve found Arthur Ellis.”

Gamache got up and offered his seat to his second-in-command. Beauvoir sat and looked at the computer screen. On it was a black-and-white photo of a middle-aged man. It was taken in 1912. He had on round glasses, an old-fashioned hat, and a suit. He looked like a banker.

But he wasn’t.

He was Arthur Ellis.

As Inspector Beauvoir read, his breathing all but stopped. Finally, he sat back from the screen. He looked up at Chief Inspector Gamache and Myrna.

“What does it mean?” he asked, almost to himself. “It can’t be the same Arthur Ellis.”