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“The one in the basement?” Ruth nodded toward St. Thomas’s Church. “Yes. I was there when Armand put it up. He’s obviously shown you too. I didn’t think he was that bright.”

Reine-Marie smiled. An insult from Ruth was the equivalent of an embrace. A declaration of profound friendship and, perhaps more important for the wizened old poet, trust.

“Well, he bumbles along,” she said, and saw Ruth smile. “I think we should talk.”

“Your place or mine?”

“The church.”

They picked up Rosa, then walked up the hill. For the first time since moving to Three Pines, Reine-Marie did not want to go home. Clearly their “guests” were still there. The last thing she wanted to do was run into “that man.” She’d called him that for years, not wanting to humanize him by saying his name. A name his parents had given him. A name repeated by godparents and the priest at his christening.

Was holy water sprinkled on that head? Did it scald?

It was strange to think of that man having parents. A wife. A daughter. A personal life.

She knew that in refusing to name him, she was giving him more power than he deserved. More power over her. He’d become, inadvertently, not less than human but, in his anonymity, superhuman.

But her heart overruled her head, and she still did not name the man who’d almost killed their son. And who’d almost certainly ordered her husband murdered.

As she walked up the hill toward the church, Reine-Marie wondered how Armand was getting on. Would she return to find fresh-turned soil in their back garden?

If so, she would plant digitalis over it, a perennial that could kill but also heal, and get on with life.

The body of Frederick Castonguay was delivered to the forensic pathologist in Montréal.

“Would you like to stay?” she asked Isabelle.

“Non. I need to speak to his family. Can you let me know as soon as possible how long ago you think he was killed?

Dr. Harris looked down at the body on the table. “It won’t be easy, but I’ll give you my best guess. Won’t be for a while though.” Now she studied Isabelle. They’d worked together for years, often in the worst of conditions. Rarely had she seen the senior homicide officer so stressed. “Everything all right? I’ve been following the fallout from the poisoning plot. Horrific. Can you imagine—?”

She stopped. Of course Inspector Lacoste could imagine what would have happened if …

“But at least it’s over now.”

“Oui.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just please let me know what you find, as soon as possible.”

“Should I copy Chief Inspector Gamache and Beauvoir?”

Lacoste nodded, distracted by her next task.

The team at Sûreté HQ had reported that Frederick Castonguay’s family lived on rue de Bullion, just off boulevard Saint-Laurent, the long artery that bisected Montréal. Not geographically but culturally. For decades the Anglos lived to the west of what was called “the Main,” and the Francophones lived to the est. And never the twain, on the Main, shall meet.

That was no longer the case, and yet the sensibility was still there, of the Two Solitudes.

Isabelle stood outside the Castonguay home and tilted her head back. It was an old town house, restored. The door, painted a glossy and cheery cherry red, opened right onto the sidewalk. It was attached to other houses on both sides, the homes marching up and down the block, undivided, as though locking arms for support. For company. For security.

Once a neighborhood of immigrants, the homes were now bought up by creatives and academics. Though here and there were still the old working-class families. Homes kept in the same family for generations. You could tell them by their slightly weary but dignified exteriors, and the lace curtains.

The Castonguays’ was not one of those. Their place was immaculately restored and renovated. The stone re-pointed, the windows new, and not a hint of lace at any of them.

Her team had informed her that Frederick was one of four children. Two boys, two girls. He was the second oldest.

His father taught at the Université de Montréal in the economics department. His mother was a senior organizer for the Parti québécois, the separatist political party in Québec, and had a PhD in sociology. Frederick himself was a poli-sci grad from Laval in Québec City.