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She held the button between two fingers, her hand stretched out as though the object stank. “What do I do about this?”

“Not to worry,” he said. “Easily handled. I can have a word with Professor Robinson and remind her of the email you sent. Can you forward it to me?”

“Yes. And tell her to donate any money she raised with my poetry to LaPorte,” said Ruth.

He smiled. “I’ll ask. If that doesn’t work, contact your lawyer.”

“I don’t have the money.”

“Don’t worry about that. It’ll be covered.” He bent down and whispered, “You can always sell some of your weeds.”

She laughed. “Not much of a market for dried Bishop’s weed these days.” Then she grew serious. “Merci, Armand.”

They both knew that in doing this for her, he could be accused of a conflict of interest. But sometimes, he knew, as his father had before him, that conflict was necessary.

Chapter 25

Like Isabelle before him, Armand went around to the back of the Auberge first, before heading inside.

He walked down the trail he’d been on many times with friends, cross-country skiing on winter afternoons through the quiet woods. Just the shhhhh shhhhh shhhhh of the long, narrow skis on the tracks. Rhythmic, meditative. The sun breaking through the bare branches overhead.

Shhhhh shhhhhh shhhhhh.

They’d follow the trail for several kilometers, before bending back and ending up at the bistro. Unclipping their skis and leaning them against the building, they’d go inside to sit, rosy-cheeked, by the open fire and drink hot chocolate, or scotch, or hot rum toddies. And tease each other about their huffing and puffing.

But today his heavy boots crushed the narrow tracks as he made his way to the tent. Sûreté officers were combing the woods for the murder weapon or other evidence easier to see in the daylight.

When they heard someone approach, the senior agent had turned and was about to warn the curiosity seeker away. But when he, then the others, saw who it was, they stood up and saluted.

“Bonjour,” said Gamache. “Bonne année. Anything?”

“Nothing yet, patron.”

He went into the tent. It was eerily quiet in there. He stood at the spot where Debbie Schneider had lost her life and looked around. Then he closed his eyes briefly, taking in what couldn’t be seen. Then he left and walked briskly back to the Auberge.

At the top of the stairs into the basement he paused and looked down. He saw not a well-lit, freshly painted stairwell but a crypt. In an instant he was propelled back to the first time he’d chased ghosts through the Old Hadley House right into that hellhole.

He saw the thick cobwebs, he saw the skeletons of rats who’d been poisoned and had crawled into a corner to die.

He smelled again the decay, the rot as he’d followed the beam of his flashlight deeper into the darkness. He felt the thick electrical cords dangling from the beams overhead. They brushed his head. His face. His shoulders.

And then they’d moved. And he’d realized the basement was infested with snakes.

Then came worse.

But, he told himself, that was in the past. This was a different time. A different place. And yet, as he descended, he felt the chill rising like floodwater up his ankles, to his knees. To his torso, his chest.

It reached his neck, then spilled over his head. And for a moment Armand felt he was drowning in a memory.

“Patron,” called Jean-Guy from what seemed like very far away.

Armand felt a hand on his arm.

“You took your time getting here,” said Jean-Guy, his voice light but his grip tight. “Isabelle thought you’d gone back to bed, but I defended you. Said you’d probably forgotten where we were.”

“Merci.”

They both knew this wasn’t genial kidding, it was a rescue. Thanks to Jean-Guy, the wraiths were shoved back into the walls. Back into memory. Where they belonged. He was once more in control of reality.