Gamache nodded and, stepping outside, brought out his cell phone. He didn’t tell Myrna that this call wasn’t to his wife. It was to someone else in Three Pines.

“What the hell do you want?”

It was Ruth’s version of “Hello.”

“I want to talk to you about your visit to the art college today.”

“Didn’t you talk to your wife about that? Why bother me?”

“I wanted to ask you something Reine-Marie couldn’t answer.”

“What?” came the impatient voice, but he could hear the note of curiosity in it.

“That couplet of yours keeps coming up.”

“Which one, Miss Marple? I’ve written hundreds of poems.”

“You know which one, ma belle.” He could almost hear her cringe. Gamache had long ago learned that if you wanted to endear yourself to Ruth, you gave as good as you got. But if you wanted to terrify her, be kind. “I just sit where I’m put … That one.”

“So?”

“So Reine-Marie said you and Professor Massey quoted it together today. I’ve never heard you do that before. You must have liked him.”

“What’s your point?”

“Reine-Marie says he was quite taken with you.”

“You sound surprised.”

“And you with him.” That brought a pause. “And that when she asked you about it you said something. She thought it was in Latin. What was it?”

“None of your business. Is it so laughable that two old people could find each other attractive? Is it so unbelievable?”

Something else that was inexplicable?

Far from being angry, Ruth sounded on the verge of tears. Gamache remembered then, though it was never far from the surface, some of the things he despised about his job.

“What did you say, Ruth, when Reine-Marie asked you about your feelings for Professor Massey?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“I was quoting one of my favorite poets,” she said. “And no, it wasn’t me.”

“Who was it?”

“Seamus Heaney.”

“A line from one of his poems?” Gamache asked.

“No. It was the last thing he said. Before dying. He said it to his wife. Noli timere.”

Gamache felt a lump in his throat but pressed forward.

“The poem you and Professor Massey quoted,” he said. “I just sit where I’m put, composed of stone and wishful thinking.”

He waited for her to complete it, as she had with the elderly professor. But she didn’t, and Gamache finished it himself.

“That the deity who kills for pleasure will also heal.”

“What of it?”

Gamache looked back to the house and saw Clara and Chartrand framed by the panes, their heads bowed together over the meal they were preparing.

Noli timere, he thought.

“Who was that poem written for?” he asked Ruth.

“Does it matter?”

“I think it might.”

“I think you already know.”

“Peter.”

“Yes. How’d you know?”