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always had some expression on it.
    A blank face was a wall. Put there on purpose, to hide something.
    “Where are you from?” Gamache asked.
    “Ottawa. I go to school there.”
    “What are you taking?”
    “A general degree. Haven’t decided on a career yet.”
    Paul Goulet smiled. It was an easy grin. Gamache hoped this young man was not involved in the death, but he was far from sure.
    Strong young arms and legs had lifted Hill’s body into the tree, tied a rope around his neck, and thrown him off.
    Paul’s tight suit made it clear that he had strong arms and legs.
    “The dead man was going under another name,” Gamache said. “Arthur Ellis.”
    “Why would he do that?”
    “We don’t know. But someone murdered him.”
    “You mean there’s a killer in this village?”
    “There’s a killer in every village. In every home. In every heart,” said Gamache, watching Paul closely. “All anyone needs is the right reason.”
    The young man stared back but didn’t say anything. Finally he got up.
    “If I can help, I will,” he said. “But I can’t see how. Can I go for my bike ride?”
    Gamache nodded. “But don’t go far.”
    Paul climbed onto his bike and with a shove was off down the dirt road.
    After that, Chief Inspector Gamache found the woman who was also staying at the Bed and Breakfast. Her name was Sue Gravel. She was thirty-eight and worked as a secretary in a law firm in Montreal. She’d arrived a few days earlier and was planning to leave the next day.
    No, she knew no one in Three Pines. It struck her as a boring place. Nothing to do.
    “Then why did you come here?” Gamache asked.
    “To relax.”
    Gamache smiled. Only an amazing person could really relax. Sue Gravel did not strike the chief inspector as an amazing person.
    She complained all the way through the interview. The weather was cold and damp. No shopping. No high-speed internet. And her cell phone didn’t work.
    How could you relax here? she demanded.
    Gamache did not suggest that she go for a walk or buy a book and sit by the fire in the bistro. He did not suggest that she sit quietly and get to know herself so she could be all the company she needed.
    Had this woman killed James Hill? Murder would at least have been something to do. But while he liked the idea of arresting her, Gamache resisted.
    He spent the rest of the afternoon interviewing the waiters at the bistro, the clerk at the general store, the young helper at the pastry shop. Then he climbed the slope to the Inn and Spa.
    James Hill had chosen to spend his last days on earth here. Had his killer, too?

Chapter Ten

    There were no young men among the guests at the Inn and Spa. The average age seemed to be ninety-seven. Except Tom Scott. The man who’d found the body. The man who’d lied about having a wife.
    Chief Inspector Gamache sat across from him. Tom picked at a thread coming loose from his sweater.
    “Why did you lie about having a wife?”
    “Oh, that. I was joking.”
    Gamache leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You were not joking.” Each word was said slowly, clearly.
    “There is no wife,” admitted Tom Scott. The words hurried from him, like hostages trappedfor years. “I made her up. Sometimes I give her a name. Kathy. We go to parties and movies and take long walks together. And we visit friends in the country.”
    There was a long, long silence then. Armand Gamache sat still, waiting. The fire in the grate mumbled and popped. Tom Scott had closed his eyes. Gamache knew what he was doing. What all liars did.
    He was looking for a way out. A back door. Another lie. A way to make this better.
    The silence stretched on. Armand Gamache waited.
    “I’m so lonely,” Scott finally whispered. “No one knows. It used to be an ache, a physical pain. Now even that’s gone. And there’s nothing. Nothing. I even tried to pick up that receptionist woman. I didn’t want to do anything. Just talk. I offered her a lift home, but she refused. I was