Cover

Dedication

For my mother, Barbara, who read to me

Chapter One

Armand Gamache didn’t like what he was looking at, but then, few people would.

“I don’t see a note, chief,” Inspector Beauvoir reported. He was searching the ground.

“Keep looking, please,” said Chief Inspector Gamache. “It might have blown away.”

All around him his police team was hard at work, taking pictures, taking samples, putting out police tape.

“Crime scene,” the bright yellow plastic tape said.

But was it a crime scene?

While his team was busy, Chief Inspector Gamache was still and silent, like the forest itself. They were deep in the woods of Quebec this November morning. The chief felt the cold and damp. He pulled his coat closer, trying to find some warmth. But there was little warmth and no comfort to be found.

A man was hanging from a tree in front of him.

Gamache tore his eyes from the body and looked at the tree. It, too, looked dead. Its leaves were brown and dry. The branches clacked together in the wind like bones.

What a terrible place to end a life, he thought. Why would someone choose to die here?

Gamache turned back to the dead man. He was middle-aged, with greying hair. He wore a warm coat, but his hat lay on the ground below him.

Did it make sense to dress warmly to kill yourself?

Did this poor man take his own life? Gamache wondered. Or was it taken from him?

Had he been murdered?

“Dr. Harris is here.” Inspector Beauvoir pointed to a woman following one of the police officers through the woods.

“Doctor.” He greeted her with a small bow, then stood aside.

The doctor saw why she was there. She had never gotten used to violent death, though she saw it almost every day. It still made her sad. That was one of the many things she liked about Chief Inspector Gamache. Death also made him sad. He never joked in the company of the dead. Never made fun.

This was not funny.

“When was he found?” Dr. Harris asked as they walked closer to the hanged man. She tried not to think of him as just a body. It was important not to forget that this thing strung up from the tree had once felt as they did. Had once held a lover’s hand. Had once smiled at a child. Had once had dreams. And sorrows.

What sorrow had brought him here? To this tree and to this end?

“He was found about two hours ago,” said Gamache, and pointed to a man wrapped in a blanket. “By that man over there.”

“A jogger?” Dr. Harris asked. The man was wearing a sweat suit and running shoes.

Inspector Beauvoir nodded. “He’s staying at the local Inn and Spa. Name is Tom Scott. He found the man at seven-thirty this morning and called the police.”

“Do we know who the dead man is?”

“Not yet, but Mr. Scott thinks he may know the man. It’s hard to say for sure.”

Dr. Harris nodded. She doubted that the dead man’s mother would know him right away. Hanging did that to a person’s face.

“Scott didn’t try to cut him down?” she asked.

Chief Inspector Gamache shook his head. “No. He told the officers he didn’t have a knife.”

Gamache knew that was reasonable. Who went jogging with a knife? Except maybe in Detroit. And even then the weapon would be a gun. And the person would be running more than jogging.

But he also knew the doctor had hit on one very troubling part of this sad event. Why hadn’t Tom Scott tried to help the man? It would be natural to at least try to do something. And yet he’d done nothing.

Chapter Two

Dr. Harris and Inspector Beauvoir watched the dead man being lowered to the ground. At the same time, Chief Inspector Gamache walked over to the living man. Tom Scott.

“How are you feeling?”

“Sick and cold. Can I go now?”

“In a minute.”

“I’ve been here for hours.” Tom Scott looked at his watch. “It’s almost ten. I’ve missed breakfast. My wife will kill me.”

“Perhaps you should call her.”

Scott paused. “That’s okay.”

“I insist. I wouldn’t want her to worry.”

“I already called. She’s fine.”

Seeing Gamache’s face, he said in a small voice, “This is my vacation. I don’t get many. I just want to get back to the Inn.”

“Tell me again what happened.”

Tom Scott took a deep breath. “I woke up early, and it was a nice day, so I decided to go for a jog. The woman at the front desk said there were paths cut through the woods where I could run. So I did. After about five minutes, I found . . .” He jerked his head toward the now-empty tree.

“What did you do?”

“I had my cell phone with me, so I called the police. Then I called my wife.”

Gamache studied Tom Scott. He was lying. That much was certain. But why? What was this nervous little man hiding?

“And then what did you do?”

“I waited for the cops. What else would I do? Keep on jogging?”

“You might have tried to help the man.”

“Are you crazy?” Scott yelled. “Did you see what he looked like? You should thank me for even stopping and calling. I could have just run away. But I didn’t.”

Scott was so angry he trembled.

The chief inspector waited. And waited. Quietly staring at Tom Scott.

“What?” Scott’s voice was high, like a girl’s. “What is it?”

“You might have helped the man,” Gamache said again.

“He was dead!”

“He certainly was by the time we arrived.”

“What are you saying?” Scott’s face went from red to white. “That I had something to do with this?”

Armand Gamache said nothing. He knew that screaming and yelling upset people. But silence was even more disturbing.

“Tell me the truth, Mr. Scott,” the chief inspector’s voice was calm but commanding. Here was a man used to leading and used to being followed.

“I am.” Tom Scott dropped his eyes to the dead leaves on the ground. A few feet away lay the dead man. The earth seemed covered in death.

Gamache decided to drop the subject and move to another topic.

“You told one of my officers that the man looked familiar. Where did you see him?”

“The Inn. I think he might be one of the guests.”

“Chief?” Inspector Beauvoir waved. He and Dr. Harris were kneeling over the body.

“Excuse me,” Gamache said, and walked over. “What have you found?”

He knelt to join them.

“He’s been dead since last night, probably since early evening,” said Dr. Harris. “Say, seven or eight o’clock. Hanged himself with medium-weight rope. His neck is broken. I suspect he climbed to the second branch, tied the rope on, then tied it around his neck.”

“And threw himself off,” said Inspector Beauvoir.

The chief inspector looked down at the dead man’s face. What despair had driven him to kill himself? And in this terrible way?

“Would his death have been fast?”

“Very,” said Dr. Harris.

That was something, the chief thought. Perhaps he didn’t suffer in death the way he had suffered in life.

“Can I go?” Tom Scott called.

“Do we have his information?” Gamache asked. Beauvoir nodded.

The chief rose. “You can go, but please don’t leave the Inn and Spa.”

“He gives me the creeps,” said Dr. Harris, watching Scott disappear into the woods.

“Creeps?” asked Beauvoir. “Is that your medical judgment? Does he give you the willies, too?”

“No. You give me the willies.”

“You wish.” Beauvoir smiled and all but winked.

Dr. Harris blushed and silently cursed herself. Inspector Beauvoir was kneeling on the opposite side of the body. He was in his mid-thirties, lean, and athletic. His hair was dark and his eyes playful. Beauvoir always made her feel a little uncomfortable.

Chief Inspector Gamache was another matter. She found him very attractive, too, though not as a lover. In his mid-fifties, he was old enough to be her father. His dark hair was greying, and so was his trim moustache. Where Beauvoir was slim, Gamache was a large man, without being fat. Where Beauvoir was active, always moving, always ready with a quick comment, Gamache was calm. But the most striking thing about Armand Gamache was his deep brown eyes.

They were kind.

“Who is he?” Gamache looked at the man lying between them.

“That’s why I called you over, Chief,” said Beauvoir. “We don’t know. We’ve been through his pockets, and there wasn’t a wallet. Not even papers.”

“Nothing? Not even a suicide note?”

Beauvoir shook his head. That was the real mystery. They’d find out who this man was easily enough, but the real question was, why didn’t he write a note? Not everyone who committed suicide left a note, but not leaving one was rare. Most people wanted to explain. It was the last natural act of a person about to do something very unnatural.

“So far, nothing.”

Gamache stood. The others joined him.

“What can you tell us, doctor?”

“I can tell you that he’s in his late forties or early fifties. His hands are soft. He’s an office worker, I’d say. His nails are trimmed. We didn’t find anything under them.”

“Nothing?” Gamache asked.

She shook her head.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Dr. Harris looked at Gamache. He rarely questioned her so closely. “Why?”

“I was just wondering.”

“I’ll have more for you later.” She signalled the paramedics to take away the body and turned to follow them.

“May I join you?” Chief Inspector Gamache fell into step beside her. “Inspector Beauvoir will continue the work at the scene. I want to check the Inn and Spa.”

“And the fact that the place is warm and you might find hot coffee there has nothing to do with it?”

“Nothing at all, doctor. I’m shocked at your suggestion.” But he smiled a little as they followed the path out of the woods.

“Ever climb a tree, doctor?” he asked after a minute.

She grinned. “Of course I have. What Canadian child hasn’t?”

“So have I,” he said. “But that man hasn’t. Not recently.”

Chief Inspector Gamache nodded toward the body being carried just ahead of them.

“How do you know?” Dr. Harris asked.

“Think about it.”

Under their feet, twigs snapped and dead maple leaves swished. The forest smelled of moss and pine.

Dr. Harris thought about climbing trees. Reaching for the branches. Worrying one would break and she’d fall. But that was part of the fun. Anything could happen.

And then she stopped, amazed that she’d missed it.

She looked down at her hands, then up into the chief’s thoughtful eyes.

“His hands,” she said. “They were clean. No dirt. No tree bark. He didn’t climb that tree himself.”

“No,” said Gamache sadly. “He was helped up it and helped off it. He was murdered.”

Chapter Three

Chief Inspector Gamache stood outside the Inn and Spa. It used to be a large private home, but it had been turned into a small hotel. The wide porch felt welcoming, and he could smell the smoke from a wood fire inside. The cold had chilled him, and he longed for warmth.

Pushing open the large wooden door, Gamache walked over to the front desk. A woman in her early forties looked up and smiled.

It was Dominique Gilbert, one of the owners of the Inn and Spa.

“Hello, Chief Inspector.” She shook hands with the large man. “Come for a massage? Or perhaps a pedicure?”

“Sadly, no.” He returned her smile. He liked Mrs. Gilbert. He’d met her on earlier cases in this part of Quebec. “I’m afraid my visit is much more serious in nature.”

He watched as her smile faded and a look of worry crossed her face.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s been a murder.”

“Oh, no. Who?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m here. He might be one of your guests.”

“Really? What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. I have a picture of him.” The chief inspector studied Dominique Gilbert. She was a sensible woman. A former Montrealer who had moved to the country to open the Inn and Spa. It was a great success, but anything Dominique Gilbert did would likely succeed.

Dominique nodded, knowing what it meant to look at the picture. She steeled herself. “Of course. Angela?”

A woman in her mid-thirties appeared. “Yes, Mrs. Gilbert?”

“Could you look after the front desk?”

Dominique led the chief inspector into her office and closed the door. She squared her shoulders and looked directly at Gamache.

“I’m ready.”

Armand Gamache thought she probably wasn’t ready. No one could be prepared for what he was about to show her.

As she looked at the picture, her face became pained, as though he’d hit her.

“Are you all right?”

It was, he knew, a stupid question. Of course she wasn’t all right. She’d just seen the face of a man strangled to death.

“I’m sorry,” she kept saying, as if she had something to be sorry for.

Finally, colour returned to her face.

“What happened to him?”

Gamache chose to ignore her question. “Do you know him?”

“It’s hard to say, but I think he might be Mr. Ellis. One of our guests.”

“What can you tell me about Mr. Ellis?”

Chief Inspector Gamache led her to a comfortable chair. She sat and he pulled another chair over.

“Not much, I’m afraid, but Angela might be able to help. I think she checked him in.”

He went to the door and quietly asked Angela to join them. There were no guests around, so she was able to leave the front desk.

“Is anything the matter?” she asked as she entered.

“Angela, this is Chief Inspector Gamache, of the Quebec Provincial Police. I’m afraid a man has been murdered, and he might have been one of our guests.”

Angela’s blue eyes widened. Red spread across her pale skin, moving up her neck to her cheeks.

A blusher, Gamache guessed. Some people were. They turned red when anyone so much as looked at them. Or was there another reason? Did this young woman know something?

“Angela,” the chief inspector began, and Angela blushed to almost purple. “What can you tell me about Mr. Ellis?”

“Oh, no. It’s not him, is it?”

“Please just answer the question.” The chief made his demand gently.

“Well, he arrived two days ago. He was by himself. He’d booked a standard room, but since business is slow, I gave him a better one.” Angela looked at Dominique for approval, and Dominique smiled at her. It occurred to Gamache that they were about the same age. But Angela seemed so young, and Dominique seemed, what? Not old. Mature.

“Is Mr. Ellis the dead man?” Angela asked.

“We think so,” said Gamache. “Can you describe him?”

When she did, Gamache had little doubt that the man in the tree had been Mr. Ellis.

“You liked him?”

She nodded. “He seemed lonely. He always smiled, but his smile never reached his eyes, you know?”

Gamache did know. He’d met many people who could easily put a fake smile on their lips, but they could never put a fake sparkle into their eyes.

“Did he have any spa treatments?”

“None,” said Angela.

“Was this his first visit?”

She nodded.

“Then why was he here?” Gamache asked.

“Not everyone comes for the spa, Chief Inspector,” said Dominique, now fully recovered from her shock at seeing the dead man’s picture. “Some are looking for peace and quiet.”

Gamache thought of the dead man, swinging from the tree. He might have been looking for peace and quiet, but something else had found him. Something horrible.

Chapter Four

Chief Inspector Gamache stood alone in Mr. Ellis’s room. Arthur, that was his first name on the register. He had paid cash and planned to be there a week. That was a long time to stay at a costly place. Dominique herself had been surprised when Angela had told her. Most guests were there two nights, maybe three. Few stayed longer.

Almost no one stayed a week.

And, as it turned out, Mr. Ellis didn’t stay a week, either.

The chief inspector started a careful search of the room. It was very comfortable. And very tidy. Mr. Ellis had been an orderly man.

Gamache walked around, opening drawers and doors with his gloved hands. There were clothes neatly put away in the dresser and hung in the closet. Good clothes, but no designer labels.

Opening the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, he found nothing unusual. Though there was a bottle of extra-strong aspirin. Did Mr. Ellis get headaches? The bottle was half empty. In the Gamache home, a bottle of aspirin could last him and his wife a year or more. Gamache glanced at the “best before” date. Still two years away. It had to be a fairly new bottle, and yet it was already half gone.

He would ask Inspector Beauvoir to have the room searched for fingerprints, but he was certain this was where Mr. Ellis had spent his last days.

They had not found a wallet on the dead man, and there was no wallet here. No papers at all to say who he was. And yet Mr. Ellis had signed the register and told people his name. He did not seem to be hiding.

The facts didn’t make sense. Soon, though, all the things that seemed so odd would begin to form a pattern. And in that pattern Chief Inspector Gamache would find a killer.

He stopped at the door for one last look.

Then he saw it: something white, leaning against the white pillow as though resting.

A letter.

Gamache picked up the envelope. It was unsealed. With his gloves still on, he removed a single sheet of lined paper with very neat writing on it. All the letters were carefully formed in black ink.

Did the writer know that the first person to read it would be a police officer?

Armand Gamache put on his half-moon reading glasses and walked to the window. There, in the sunshine, he read the dark words.

If you are reading this, my body has been found. I am sorry. I hope the discovery did not upset anyone. I tried to go as far away as possible so that no children would find me.

My work is finally done. I am tired, but I am at peace. Finally.

I know you cannot forgive me, but perhaps you can understand.

Gamache read the letter several times. It was a suicide note. He had read quite a few in his time, and none were clearer than this.

Lowering the letter, he took off his glasses. He sat in a chair and stared out the window at the horses in the field.

Mr. Ellis had intended to kill himself. And yet he had been murdered. Someone had beaten him to it.

Why?

Perhaps the murderer did not realize that Mr. Ellis was going to do the job himself. If the murderer had just waited a few hours, Ellis would have been dead by his own hand.

Unless.

Gamache looked at the letter again. It was neat, clear. Too clear? Surely someone about to end his life would tremble a bit? Would write quickly, before he changed his mind?

This note had been written by a steady hand. No emotion here. Not in the words. Not in the writing.

Once again, the chief looked out the window, as though the answer to his question was grazing in the field with the horses.

Then he smiled. But it was not a happy smile. It did not reach his thoughtful eyes.

He had his answer.

The letter he held had not been written by Mr. Ellis, but by his killer. The murderer had tried to make the death look as though Ellis had hanged himself. This letter was meant to confirm it.

Instead, the letter confirmed that Chief Inspector Gamache was on the trail of a cruel and cunning killer.

Chapter Five

Back downstairs in the entryway of the Inn and Spa, Gamache met Inspector Beauvoir.

“I’ve been thinking, Chief,” said the inspector, taking off his hat. His hair, normally so neat, stood on end. “Not everyone could carry a dead man up a tree.”

“Then tie a rope around his neck and throw him off,” agreed Gamache.

“Exactly. I’m not sure I could.”

“If you were afraid enough, you could,” said the chief. He knew that fear was so powerful it made people do things they could not normally do. Like lift a car off a loved one. Or race into a burning building.

Fear saved lives.

But fear could also kill. It made men into murderers.

Beauvoir nodded. “Still, the killer would need to be young and strong.”

From the entrance hall where they stood, they looked into the living room. Tom Scott was sitting by the fire. He had changed from his jogging clothes into jeans and a sweater. A workman was stacking wood for the fireplace, which was lit. Tom Scott ignored the man and put his feet up on the old coffee table.

Gamache handed his inspector the note he’d found and watched as Beauvoir’s handsome face showed interest, then surprise.

“So what’s the story?” Beauvoir asked. “Did he kill himself or not?”

“Not. I think that letter wasn’t written by the dead man, but by his killer, to make the death look like suicide.”

“Shit,” said Beauvoir with a sigh. “Where did you find it?”

“In the dead man’s room. His name is Ellis. First name is Arthur. I’ve locked the door.” He handed the key to Beauvoir. “Can you get the scene-of-crime people to dust for fingerprints? And check the letter, too?”

At that moment Angela, the receptionist, appeared at Gamache’s elbow. She smiled and waved into the living room.

“You know him?” Gamache nodded toward Tom Scott.

“Very well. He’s my husband.” She smiled.

“You’re married to Tom Scott?” asked Inspector Beauvoir.

“No, of course not.” Angela made a sour face and lowered her voice. “He’s just strange. No, I mean him. Mike.”

She pointed to the other man in the room. Mike was still filling the wood box.

“You both work here. That must be handy.”

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