The Hangman by Louise Penny Page B

thing about Armand Gamache was his deep brown eyes.
    They were kind.
    “Who is he?” Gamache looked at the man lying between them.
    “That’s why I called you over, Chief,” said Beauvoir. “We don’t know. We’ve been through his pockets, and there wasn’t a wallet. Not even papers.”
    “Nothing? Not even a suicide note?”
    Beauvoir shook his head. That was the real mystery. They’d find out who this man was easily enough, but the real question was, why didn’t he write a note? Not everyone who committed suicide left a note, but not leaving one was rare. Most people wanted to explain. It was the last natural act of a person about to do something very unnatural.
    “So far, nothing.”
    Gamache stood. The others joined him.
    “What can you tell us, doctor?”
    “I can tell you that he’s in his late forties or early fifties. His hands are soft. He’s an office worker, I’d say. His nails are trimmed. We didn’t find anything under them.”
    “Nothing?” Gamache asked.
    She shook her head.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes.” Dr. Harris looked at Gamache. He rarely questioned her so closely. “Why?”
    “I was just wondering.”
    “I’ll have more for you later.” She signalled the paramedics to take away the body and turned to follow them.
    “May I join you?” Chief Inspector Gamache fell into step beside her. “Inspector Beauvoir will continue the work at the scene. I want to check the Inn and Spa.”
    “And the fact that the place is warm and you might find hot coffee there has nothing to do with it?”
    “Nothing at all, doctor. I’m shocked at your suggestion.” But he smiled a little as they followed the path out of the woods.
    “Ever climb a tree, doctor?” he asked after a minute.
    She grinned. “Of course I have. What Canadian child hasn’t?”
    “So have I,” he said. “But that man hasn’t. Not recently.”
    Chief Inspector Gamache nodded toward the body being carried just ahead of them.
    “How do you know?” Dr. Harris asked.
    “Think about it.”
    Under their feet, twigs snapped and dead maple leaves swished. The forest smelled of moss and pine.
    Dr. Harris thought about climbing trees. Reaching for the branches. Worrying one would break and she’d fall. But that was part of the fun. Anything could happen.
    And then she stopped, amazed that she’d missed it.
    She looked down at her hands, then up into the chief’s thoughtful eyes.
    “His hands,” she said. “They were clean. No dirt. No tree bark. He didn’t climb that tree himself.”
    “No,” said Gamache sadly. “He was helped up it and helped off it. He was murdered.”

Chapter Three

    Chief Inspector Gamache stood outside the Inn and Spa. It used to be a large private home, but it had been turned into a small hotel. The wide porch felt welcoming, and he could smell the smoke from a wood fire inside. The cold had chilled him, and he longed for warmth.
    Pushing open the large wooden door, Gamache walked over to the front desk. A woman in her early forties looked up and smiled.
    It was Dominique Gilbert, one of the owners of the Inn and Spa.
    “Hello, Chief Inspector.” She shook hands with the large man. “Come for a massage? Or perhaps a pedicure?”
    “Sadly, no.” He returned her smile. He liked Mrs. Gilbert. He’d met her on earlier cases in this part of Quebec. “I’m afraid my visit is much more serious in nature.”
    He watched as her smile faded and a look of worry crossed her face.
    “What do you mean?”
    “There’s been a murder.”
    “Oh, no. Who?”
    “I’m not sure. That’s why I’m here. He might be one of your guests.”
    “Really? What’s his name?”
    “I don’t know. I have a picture of him.” The chief inspector studied Dominique Gilbert. She was a sensible woman. A former Montrealer who had moved to the country to open the Inn and Spa. It was a great success, but anything Dominique Gilbert did would likely succeed.
    Dominique nodded, knowing what it meant to look at the