Four thirty-five. Nine thirty-five in the evening in Scotland. Late, too late to expect a response. But still, for twenty minutes Gamache sat in his car and stared at his device. Willing an answer to appear.

It did not.

As he drove back to Three Pines, he thought about the Robert Frost quote. He’d come across it years ago and remembered it because, while a poem might begin as a lump in the throat, so did a murder investigation.

So did a murder.

Chapter 19

NINETEEN

“Anything?” Reine-Marie asked when her husband crawled back into bed.

“Nothing,” he whispered.

It was just after 3 a.m. and he’d gotten up to check his emails. Henri had lifted his head, but even the dog was too tired to take this seriously.

Gamache had connected to the dial-up, wincing as the beeping and screaming filled the quiet night. Finally the messages downloaded.

Russian brides.

Lottery winnings.

Some emails from a prince in Nigeria, but nothing from Scotland.

It was 8 a.m. there. He’d hoped Constable Stuart might have an early shift. He also hoped Constable Stuart would care enough about the message to act on it.

This was, truth be told, the third time that night Gamache had gotten up to check his emails. The first two without real hope, but this time there’d been a chance.

He returned to bed and fell back into a restless sleep.

An hour later he got up again. As he crept down the stairs he saw a rectangle of light coming from the study. He didn’t think he’d left a lamp on and smiled as he stood in the door frame.

“Anything?”

“Tabarnac!” Beauvoir started. “You scared the shit out of me. Sir.”

“I hope not.” Gamache went in and looked over Jean-Guy’s shoulder. “Porn?”

“Not unless waiting ages for the damned dial-up to connect turns you on.”

“I remember when—” Gamache started and was rewarded with a surly look from Jean-Guy.

Finally the emails started downloading.

“Rien,” said Beauvoir, pushing away from the desk. “Nothing.”

The two men walked into the living room.

“You think that constable will recognize something from the paintings?” Beauvoir asked, sitting on the arm of the sofa. Gamache dropped into an armchair, crossed his legs and adjusted his dressing gown.

“Frankly, I’m hoping he doesn’t just delete my messages.”

“You really think those paintings are landscapes?” Beauvoir seemed less than convinced.

“I think it’s a possibility.”

Maybe, thought Gamache, Peter’s paintings really were markers, recording where he was. His inuksuit.

“If those’re landscapes, Scotland must be a pretty weird place.”

Gamache laughed. “I didn’t say he was good at it.”

“No kidding.”

“It might be like the Impressionists. They painted nature, but it was like they painted with their feelings.”