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“That is strange.”

“What is, sir?” asked Lacoste.

“Did you notice that this marker is at a different angle than the rest? I’ve been in a lot of graveyards, and tombstones are almost always facing east. To meet the sun, or the risen Christ, depending on the faith. Yours is facing north. Why would they suddenly do that?”

Hearing this, Beauvoir broke away from the digging to step over to the judge. Now he too looked around.

“That’s true.”

“And it’s made from a different material. Everything else is stone. Yours is concrete.” It’ll wear down over time. It’s already started.”

Dr. Harris touched Beauvoir’s arm. “We’re five feet down. Nothing.”

“Keep going.”

“You know—”

“We have to be sure.”

Armand was trying to get some sleep on the overnight flight to Lyon. He was in the middle seat, at the very back of the Air Canada plane, near the toilets. The last seat on the flight. Still, he was grateful he got it.

Once they landed, he’d drive to Aix-les-Bains. But until then, he wanted to catch up on sleep. He had a long day ahead.

If the gendarmerie weren’t enthusiastic about finding Miss Wolcott’s old estate, and possibly what happened to Jeanette Bouchard, he’d do it himself.

He was woken up partway across the Atlantic by a “ding.” A message had come in from Jean-Guy.

Grave empty.

He sighed. It was disappointing, but not a surprise. Whoever had killed Brian Fillmore must have taken it. Whatever “it” was.

They might never know.

Though, thanks to Reine-Marie, the cassette tape was in the hands of the restorers at Sûreté headquarters. It was possible Flossy Fuller had known something. Something that might even have gotten her, and young Solange Péladeau, killed.

Are you asleep? he wrote Reine-Marie. Easy flight. As he wrote, the person next to him dropped his head onto his shoulder and began gently snoring. I’ll let you know when we land. I love you.

He’d just settled in again when the person in front put their seat all the way back and was effectively sleeping on his lap.

Armand looked at his watch. Five more hours.

Beauvoir and Lacoste stood on the road and watched the vehicles drive away. Then they returned to the bistro.

Olivier was just closing up.

“Here’s the key. Lock up and put it under the mat.”

“Isn’t that a bit obvious?”

“That’s the point. We lock for the sake of insurance, but if anyone wants to go in for a drink or whatever, they’re welcome.”

“Even?” Beauvoir jerked his head toward Ruth’s rundown little cottage.

“Especially,” said Gabri, coming out of the kitchen. “I’ve put the kettle on if you want tea. I can’t imagine what you did was the happiest of activities.”

“Merci, patron,” said Isabelle.

The two Sûreté officers sat on the sofa, their feet up on the hassock, staring into the dying embers of the fire. Mugs of tea warmed their hands and a plate of chewy ginger cookies sat between them on the sofa.