“Of course not,” she said. “He barely left Three Pines his whole life. He probably picked it up at a yard sale. We don’t owe you an explanation. We’ve committed no crime, and you’re no cop.” She got up. “Now please leave. We have work to do.”

She turned her back on him and so did Brian, but not before giving Armand a slightly apologetic grimace.

As he drove down the dirt road toward Three Pines, feeling the familiar and almost comforting washboard bumps, Armand Gamache came to a realization. One he’d probably known since he’d discovered who’d written She Sat Down and Wept.

He would have to read the play.

*   *   *

Armand walked up the path and onto the rickety front stoop. And then he knocked.

“What do you want?” Ruth demanded through the closed door.

“To read the play.”

“What play?”

“For God’s sake, Ruth, just open the door.”

Something in his tone, perhaps the weariness, must have gotten through to her. A bolt slid back and the door opened a crack.

“Since when have you locked your door?” he asked, squeezing in.

She shut it so quickly behind him the corner of his jacket caught in the doorjamb and he had to yank it free.

“Since when have you cared?” she asked. “What makes you think I have the play?”

“I saw you take it when you left last night.”

“Why do you want to read it?”

“I might ask you the same thing.”

“It’s none of your business,” she snapped.

“And I might say the same thing.”

He saw the briefest flicker of a smile. “All right, Clouseau. If you can find it, you can have the goddamned play.”

He shook his head and sighed. “Just give it to me.”

“It’s not here.”

“Then where is it?”

Ruth and Rosa limped to the kitchen door and pointed to her back garden. The flower beds held late-blooming roses and creamy, pink-tinged hydrangeas, and trellises on which grew bindweed.

“Blows over from your garden,” she complained. “It’s a weed, you know.”

“Invasive, rude, demanding. Soaks up all the nutrients.” He looked down at the old poet. “Yes, we know. But we like it anyway.”

And again the smile flickered, but didn’t catch. Her eyes had dropped to a large planter in the middle of the lawn.

Gamache followed her gaze, then he stepped off the porch and walked over to the planter. It was empty. Without a word, he dragged it a few paces away, then looked down at the square of fresh-turned earth. Rich and dark.

“Here.” Ruth handed him the spade.

Sinking to his knees, he dug.

Ruth and Rosa watched from their back porch.