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“Yes, as head of the Anglican Church Women. But Gabri hinted he was done with that. Claude was recommended by a guest at the B&B actually. He needed a job and I needed a caretaker.”

Claude was slender, wiry really. For a man who spent a lot of time outside, his skin was surprisingly sallow. He wore dark glasses and a baseball cap low over his face.

At the top of the stairs leading to the chapel, Armand paused. From there he had a good view of the village. Patrons were sitting on the terrasse outside the bistro enjoying lunch or a drink this early June afternoon.

Any mess from the party the night before had been cleared away. The only evidence was the trampled grass on the village green. But it would soon spring back.

Armand had suggested a stroll to walk off the large meal, but the minister had needed to return to the church to do some work and clean up after the service.

“Clean up?” asked Armand. “What exactly do you do in your services?”

“The usual. Sacrifice a chicken. Dance naked. Sure you don’t want to come?”

Armand laughed. He could see why Robert and Sylvie had fit in so quickly and so well.

He had an ulterior motive in inviting Mongeau for a walk. It was to see if the minister wanted to talk privately. About anything, but specifically Sylvie’s health. Not her condition. That wasn’t his business. He wanted to hear about Mongeau’s condition. How he was doing. How he was feeling.

Armand knew that severe illness could be very isolating.

But he didn’t get a chance. As they’d entered the peaceful little chapel, Robert had asked him about Fiona and Sam.

“I noticed the way that young man was looking at you,” said the minister. “And how you were looking at him. Do you want to talk about that?”

Armand, while a little surprised by the question, found no reason not to answer. There’d been the public court case, the reports in the media. Granted, it was more than ten years ago now, but it was a case not easily forgotten. Everyone in Three Pines was aware of it.

So he found himself in the quiet little church telling the minister about the murder of Clotilde Arsenault. When he’d finished, Robert seemed at a loss for words.

“Then,” he managed, “how…” He moved his hands, trying to form the thought into words.

“How, if she’s a murderer, did she come to stay with us?” Armand helped him out.

The minister nodded.

“After a few years, Fiona came up for parole, one day a month. I’d been visiting her in prison, making sure she was all right. Reine-Marie and I agreed to supervise her. The parole board eventually extended that to one weekend a month.”

Fiona spent those weekends in Three Pines with the Gamaches.

“But why…?” Again the poor minister struggled. “How—?”

Armand took pity on him again. “—could I trust her? I was the arresting officer.”

At that, Mongeau’s eyes widened. “Really? But you don’t do that for everyone you arrest.”

Gamache smiled. “God, no. This was a special case. It’s all in the public record, so I’m not telling you anything you can’t find by looking it up.”

What the public record didn’t show were his doubts. He suspected Fiona might’ve been the one to administer the blow. To actually kill her mother. But he was far from sure it had been her idea.

In his heart, Armand believed Fiona was not responsible, could not be held responsible. She’d been abused by every adult in her life, and then abused again by the court.

He’d wanted to do something to try to make it up, and Reine-Marie had agreed.

Armand and Robert sat in the light through the stained-glass window. It had been commissioned and created at the end of the Great War by a mother who’d lost all three of her children. The window in the chapel showed the three brothers, two of whom were in profile, marching forward into battle. Afraid but determined.

One, the youngest, was staring straight out at the congregation. At generations of congregations. Not in blame or anger, not in fear or even sadness. But in forgiveness. He forgave them. As though, thought Armand, such a thing were possible.

But now the boys had been turned into light. And warmth.

Below the window was a plaque listing all the young men and women from the region who’d been killed in wars. And the simple words below the names.