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“Then what, in your opinion, did it?”

“It’s not an opinion. I know. She was killed by a brick. Someone hit her with a brick and threw her into the lake.”

Gamache stared at Beauvoir, then walked away to join Chernin and the coroner.

After introducing himself, Gamache said, “Tell me what you know.”

“I know she’s dead,” said Dr. Mignon. “I have to get her onto my examining table before telling you more.”

It was maddening, though not unexpected. Chief Inspector Gamache knew that most local doctors, designated as coroners, had only accepted the position because it came with much-needed extra money and absolutely no responsibility.

Most deaths were not at all suspicious. There were some hunting accidents. Some suicides. Car accidents. All tragic. But not homicide.

A country coroner in Québec could, and most would, go through their entire career without meeting a murder victim.

But this poor man just had. Fortunately, he was also conscientious enough not to pretend to know more than he did.

Dr. Mignon looked down at the body, then at his shoes, soaked through and caked in muck. Then, as a loon called, he gazed out at the misty lake.

“A terrible place to die,” he said. “I’m guessing she’s the missing woman. Heard about it on the news.” His eyes returned to her body. “Her poor kids.”

The woman’s eyes were still open, her right arm lifting and dropping with the movement of the waves. Languid. Graceful, even. As though waving hello, or goodbye.

Like “free” and “lost,” it was often difficult to tell the difference.

After doing a slightly more thorough exam, the doctor stood back up and removed his gloves.

“A catastrophic wound on the side of her head. No other obvious injuries. I’ll need to look closer. See if there’s water in her lungs.”

If there was, she went in alive, and it might have been an accident or a suicide. If not, then she went in dead, and it was definitely murder.

While Gamache already knew the answer to that question, he would see what the coroner concluded.

“Merci” was all he said.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Agent Beauvoir practically vibrating with the effort not to shout out his opinion. To his credit, he remained silent, if not still.

Gamache nodded to Inspector Chernin. They could move the body now.

As his agents pulled her out of the cold water, Gamache walked Dr. Mignon to his mud-spattered vehicle and gave him some guidance on what to look for in the autopsy. The coroner listened, then thanked the Chief Inspector.

“Who’s going to break it to the children?”

“We need to confirm her identity first, but once we do, I’ll tell them.”

The coroner put out his hand. “Better you than me. I’ll be at the hospital, waiting for the body.”

From the shore, Agent Beauvoir watched the two men talk, then turned to Inspector Chernin, who was kneeling beside the corpse and going through her pockets.

“The coroner doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“And you do?” she said, not looking at him.

“I know enough to recognize murder. I told Gamache, but I don’t think he was listening. Here, let me show you.”

He knelt opposite her and reached out, but Chernin stopped him. “Don’t touch.”

“Then give me gloves.”