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“Patricia Godin is your wife?”

Billy looked at his companion. There was a change in Armand’s voice, in his whole demeanor. It was subtle but there.

Monsieur Godin nodded. “Yes. My late wife. I spoke to the local Sûreté detachment when it happened. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“May we sit down, please?” asked Gamache, and Monsieur Godin guided them into the comfortable living room, where a small fire was muttering in the hearth.

“Can I get you anything? You’re wet. You must be cold. A hot tea or coffee?”

“Not for me, thank you,” said Gamache, and Billy also shook his head, though both men sat close to the fire.

Billy was aware that Armand had been replaced by Chief Inspector Gamache.

“I need to be honest with you,” said Gamache. “We came here to discuss the letter your wife forwarded to Monsieur Williams. I’m sorry, but I’m not familiar with what happened to her.”

“Letter? What letter?”

“Perhaps you can tell us about your wife first.”

“So, the local Sûreté didn’t contact you?”

“Non.”

“They said they would, but…” He raised, then dropped his hands. “I contacted them a few times, but then stopped … And then when so much time passed … But when I saw you at the door…” He stared into the fire. Unable, it seemed, to form a complete thought or sentence.

“What happened?” Gamache leaned forward, not a lot but enough to show Monsieur Godin that he had Gamache’s full attention.

“They say she killed herself. Hanged herself, out back. I know it’s not true. Pat would never do that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Gamache and paused a beat before asking, “When was this?”

“April twenty-first. I found her…”

“Five weeks ago,” Billy whispered, and Gamache nodded. He was thinking the same thing. It was exactly the time she’d forwarded the letter to Billy.

“Did she leave a note? Any message explaining?” Gamache asked.

Monsieur Godin shook his head. “She’d had a hysterectomy and the coroner said that had upset her hormones. Made her depressed. That’s bullshit. She had trouble sleeping, but she wasn’t depressed. There’s no way Pat killed herself. And…”

“Yes?”

Godin heaved a sigh. “Even if she had, she wouldn’t have hung herself. That must be a terrible way to go. Wouldn’t she have tried pills?” He was beseeching them. “Wouldn’t you?”

Billy had to agree. If it came to that, he’d try many things before hanging. And there was something else.

“You say it happened out back? A tree?” When Monsieur Godin nodded, Billy asked, “Which one?”

Monsieur Godin stared at him with something akin to disgust. “Does it matter?”

“It might.”

“I can show you, if you want.” This was said to Gamache.

“Please.” Though he was also unsure why Billy would want to know. But he knew Billy Williams, and knew it was not prurient interest.

“I wanted to cut it down,” said Godin as he took them through the kitchen and out onto the back porch. “But the children stopped me. Said it wasn’t the tree’s fault.” He pointed. “That’s the one.”

In the middle of the yard, about twenty meters from the house, there stood a huge maple. Old, gnarled, its limbs thick and solid.