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When he’d first visited Three Pines, he’d had the impression the four roads radiating off the village green formed a sort of sundial. Which had struck him as ironic. To have a huge timepiece in a place that was so clearly timeless. But soon he’d realized the roads were a compass. Each one corresponding exactly to north, south, east, and west.

With Three Pines in the center.

And again, the irony was not lost on him. A compass for a village not on any map. Only found by those who were lost. But then maybe it wasn’t ironic.

He stood there and considered what might have led to the murder of Debbie Schneider. Could love really have been at the heart of it, the start of it?

If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, he thought, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.

Was he looking for someone who was nothing? A shell? Or was he looking for someone whose love was so great it had moved them to murder. Could love really do that?

“Close the fucking door” came the shout from the body of the chapel, followed by a muttered “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Armand was pretty sure it wasn’t the voice of God. At least he hoped not. Though he suspected God might want to, at times, scream at them.

He did as he was told.

Ruth was in her usual pew, bathed in the bright reds, blues, and greens of the three stained-glass boys. Brothers. Marching forever into a battle from which they would never return.

Armand crossed himself, by habit, even though this was not a Catholic church. And he no longer considered himself Catholic. Or Protestant. Or Jewish. Or Muslim.

He was, in the words of Abu Ben Adhem, one who loves his fellow man. Though the duck, he had to admit, took some effort.

“Sit in the last pew,” Ruth said, at least her tenth command of the day. “The one to the left of the door.”

Again, Chief Inspector Gamache did as he was told. It took him a few minutes, but he finally found out why he was there. A small figure was etched into the wood on the back of the pew, hidden by a Book of Common Prayer.

He got up and joined Ruth.

“What do you know about the monkeys?”

Ruth’s face was in profile as she stared ahead. And stroked Rosa.

“I know they weren’t drawn by a crazy woman. Enid came here most afternoons. So did I. She was here when I arrived, and here when I left. We never spoke, barely acknowledged each other. Not because we didn’t like each other, but we’d both come here for peace. One day I heard scratching. Now, as you know, it’s not in my nature to be critical, but I just thought I’d point out that this is God’s damned house and she should fucking stop desecrating it.”

“Amen,” said Armand, and saw her smile.

“If you can believe it,” said Ruth, turning to him, “she took offense, and left. So I looked at what she’d done.”

“The monkey.”

“No, the stained-glass window. Of course the monkey, Clouseau. When I saw her next, I asked her what that was about.”

“And?”

“And it took her seven years to tell me. We sat in silence all that time. Every day. She in her pew, me in mine. She didn’t draw any more monkeys, but she seemed to get some sort of comfort from that one. Then one day she just blurted it out.”

“What did she say?”

“That she’d been a patient of Ewen Cameron.” Ruth studied him. “I already told you that.”

“But you didn’t tell me about the monkeys.”

“No. Reine-Marie found something in those boxes, didn’t she. I thought she might.”

He nodded but didn’t tell her about the letter from Vincent Gilbert.

“Ruth,” he asked softly. “What do you know about Ewen Cameron?”