“At a guess, I’d say that.” The coroner leaned close to Antoinette’s head and pointed to the back of her skull where her purple hair was clotted and matted a deep red.

“It looks like a single catastrophic blow. Crushed the skull. She probably didn’t know what hit her.”

“And what did?” asked Lacoste.

They looked around and quickly found blood staining the corner of the hearth.

Beauvoir leaned closer. “Looks like it.”

He stood and stepped aside so that the coroner and Lacoste could get a better look. They stared at the stone corner, then back to Antoinette, glassy-eyed and shocked.

“She was either pushed or fell backward, hitting her head,” said Lacoste, and both Dr. Harris and Inspector Beauvoir nodded agreement.

“Murder,” said the coroner. “But perhaps not intentional. Looks like she might’ve surprised someone robbing her home.”

“There doesn’t seem to have been forced entry,” said Lacoste. “But that could mean nothing.”

As often as she’d been to this area of Québec, it still amazed her that people didn’t lock their doors. Perhaps when they went to bed, but beyond that anyone could walk in and out. Sometimes people survived. Sometimes they did not.

But the fact that the door was unlocked did suggest Antoinette Lemaitre hadn’t yet gone to bed. And she was still in her street clothes, not pajamas.

“She was supposed to go to Clara Morrow’s for dinner last night,” said Beauvoir. “But she called to cancel.”

Sharon Harris looked up. “How do you know?”

“We were there,” said Lacoste.

“You know her?” Dr. Harris motioned to the body.

“Not well,” said Lacoste. “But yes. What time did Antoinette call Clara?”

Beauvoir thought. “Not sure exactly, but it was before dinner and we ate at seven thirty.”

“Did Clara say why Antoinette canceled?” asked Lacoste.

“No, she just said she thought Antoinette wanted a quiet night to herself after all the stress of the Fleming play. Brian, her partner,” Beauvoir explained to Dr. Harris, “had a meeting in Montréal. Something to do with his job. So Antoinette had the place to herself.”

“I believe he’s the man in the kitchen,” said Dr. Harris. “He found her.”

Beauvoir turned to the local agent guarding the scene. “Is that true?”

“Yessir. When we arrived he was next door, but we brought him over. He’s pretty shaken up. He was her conjoint.”

“What did he tell you?” asked Lacoste.

“Not much,” said the agent. “It was all we could do to keep him upright.”

Both looked down again at the dead woman.

They hadn’t known Antoinette well. Beauvoir had seen her and Brian in the bistro a few times, and once at dinner with the Gamaches.

The Gamaches, he thought. He’d have to tell them.