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“Tell us again about that weekend in the Cotswolds,” Gamache said. “When you showed Abigail and Debbie the letter.”

Though still guarded, the Chancellor relaxed, slightly. “I remember it was Saturday afternoon. Dreary. We’d been on a long walk and stopped for lunch at a pub. Sat in front of the inglenook and had a ploughman’s.”

Though not a lot of that sentence made sense to Beauvoir, he followed the gist. “You remember that much detail?”

Colette turned to him. “I couldn’t tell you what I had for lunch the day before, or after. I remember because I knew what I was about to do. I had the letter on me, and as we sat with our pints, chatting, it seemed the perfect time to show Abigail. Everyone was relaxed. Comfortable. I actually had it in my hand, then put it back in my pocket. It was too public. By the time we left it was drizzling. One of those cold, damp English days.”

Armand remembered them well, and with fondness, from his time at Cambridge. Sitting in the pub by the fire with a pint, studying, as a heavy mist settled outside.

“When we got home, I made tea and took the tray into the living room. Jean-Paul was laying the fire while the girls got into warm, dry clothes. I knew it was time.”

She paused. Reliving that moment. What she was about to do.

Armand knew what it felt like. He again had the sense of standing in front of the closed door. Two inches of wood between the family inside and catastrophe.

He saw his hand lift. Made into a fist. Ready to rap on the door and change a life, end a life. He’d look into those mild, inquiring eyes. I’m sorry, but I have news about your daughter. Son. Husband. Wife. Mother.

Father.

“I brought out the letter,” said Colette, “and gave it to her.”

“What was her reaction when she read it?” asked Jean-Guy.

“I watched her face, of course,” said Colette. “I could see exactly where she was in the letter. When she came to the part about him killing Maria, she crumpled it in her lap and made a noise. Sort of deflated.”

“Did she say anything?” asked Jean-Guy, quietly.

“She whispered, ‘Oh, God. Daddy. You did that?’ ” Colette shook her head. “I’ve asked myself a thousand times if I did the right thing, in showing her. It seemed . . .” She searched for the word.

Cruel? thought Jean-Guy.

Unkind? thought Isabelle.

“Unnecessary?” suggested Armand when Colette seemed stuck.

She looked at him. “Yes. That was it. I couldn’t understand why he’d want or need her to know. But he did. And it wasn’t for me to question. I was like the executor of his will, with a small w. Paul had his reasons, and he knew his daughter better than I did.”

“And Debbie?” Armand asked. “Jean-Paul said she reacted even more strongly when she read it.”

“Yes.” Then her brow creased in an effort to recall. “But she never actually read the letter.”

“Pardon?”

“She reached for it, but Abigail did this.” Colette mimed turning away and clutching something to her chest, protectively.

“So how did she know what was in it?” Isabelle asked.

“Abigail told her.”

“Read it to her, you mean?” asked Armand. It was important, vital at this stage, to be precise.

“No. She described the letter.”

“Accurately?” asked Isabelle.

“Oui. Debbie started to cry. Abigail didn’t. At least, not that I saw. I think she was just too shocked.”

“Did you and Abigail have a chance to talk about the letter privately?” asked Armand.