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But he resisted.

“What time were you last there, before you found the body?” Beauvoir asked.

“I dunno.”

“Try. Was it before the firecrackers?”

“The ones that scared you?”

“Yes,” said Beauvoir. “Those.”

“I guess it was a little later. About ten to twelve. I went inside and watched Bye Bye.”

“Did you see anyone else going into the woods last night?”

“My friends.”

“Yes, but anyone else? Any adults?”

He thought, then shook his head. Then stopped. “Well, yes. Two women. At least I think they were women. They were by the fire, then walked away. I watched them because I was afraid they’d find the booze, but they just kept walking. I’m not sure they went into the woods.”

“Did you see them come back?”

“No.”

“Let’s get back to the body,” said Beauvoir. “When you saw it on the ground, what did you do?”

“I thought someone had dumped a bunch of clothes. I called my friends over.”

Which was, the homicide investigators knew, natural but unfortunate.

“And?” said Beauvoir.

“And we looked more closely.”

“Did you touch the body?”

“No,” he said. “But . . .”

“Yes.”

“I poked it.”

“Sorry?”

“I picked up a stick and poked it.”

“Jacques!” his father said.

“What? I didn’t know. That’s when I realized . . .” His chin dimpled and his lips compressed. His father laid a hand over his, and gently squeezed. “That was,” he gasped, “when we”—he wiped his eyes with his sleeve—“all started to shout for help.”

Beauvoir reached out and tapped his knee. “It’s okay. I see this sort of thing all the time and it still upsets me. It would be pretty terrible if it didn’t. If you think of anything else, you’ll let us know?”

Jacques nodded.

“I have a question,” said Gamache.

The boy turned to him. He was more than a little in awe of the Chief Inspector, having seen him many times on the news.