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“Merci. My senior inspectors will make arrangements with you. Unfortunately, I won’t be there. I’ll be on my way to France.” He looked at his watch. “I just have time to catch my flight.”

That evening, on his way to the tiny village of Three Pines to meet the coroner and go to the cemetery, the judge stopped at his church.

There he lit a candle and prayed for forgiveness from whoever was in that grave.

As he was leaving, he hesitated, then walked over to the altar to Saint Joseph.

Among the many things that Saint Joseph taught was that courage was not always in grand gestures, but in the steadfast commitment to love, and to protect those entrusted to their care.

As the dead, Judge Morin knew, were entrusted to him.

The fact he was terrified of graveyards was an irony not lost on him.

He lit a candle to Saint Joseph. For courage. In case it failed him. As he suspected it might. Before leaving, he lit another.

CHAPTER 46

“What can I get you?” Gabri asked the newcomer.

It was ten past eight in the evening, and Judge Morin had joined Inspectors Beauvoir and Lacoste in the bistro in this tiny village. They were waiting for the coroner to arrive.

He had hoped, as he saw the sun set, that it would be too late, too dark, to proceed and they could do the exhumation in the morning. But apparently not.

He didn’t think he was hungry. His stomach had been in knots all the way down. But now, as he settled into the armchair in front of the cheery fieldstone fireplace, in the beamed and pleasant room, he discovered he was indeed famished.

The bistro was imbued with the scent of baking. Of coffee. And woodsmoke. The aromas of comfort.

If happy memories had a scent, this would be it.

He closed his eyes, inhaled, and visited his parents and grandparents, beloved and long dead and buried. Who were now part of the very earth of Québec.

Then Inspector Lacoste’s voice startled him back to the bistro.

“She’s here.” Sure enough, a car followed by the coroner’s van was making its way down du Moulin.

“Already?” said Judge Morin.

He got to his feet and followed them out. It was time.

They stood in a semicircle inside the crime scene tape and stared at the ground, lit by industrial lights lugged through the forest.

Judge Morin had his elbows tucked into his sides against a chill no one else felt. His hands were thrust deep in his jacket pockets, where he could feel his little traveling Bible and rosary.

The forensic team had carefully removed the spiky plants from the grave and placed them to the side.

“Miss Wolcott’s Ghost?” said Judge Morin. “Chief Inspector Gamache told me the story.”

“We’re trying to figure out how it got here, and why,” said Inspector Lacoste. Though her voice was distracted. Her focus was on the work of the team as it carefully excavated the grave.

“May I?” The judge indicated the tombstone.

“Yes. Forensics has already been over it,” said Beauvoir.

Morin bent down. “Strange about the plant, rosemary. And, of course, the date.” He reached out and picked away at the engraving. “It’s only just survived. Another few years and it would be gone completely. Whoever made this didn’t expect it to have to last this long.”

Judge Morin struggled to his feet, with Lacoste’s help, and wandered away from the dig.

Despite his fear of cemeteries, this one felt strangely peaceful. Then he returned to the now open grave.