Page 101 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

Comeau stared at the grave. He’d only seen it and the body at night. He’d played his flashlight over the headstone quickly but paid no attention to it, so shocked and upset was he by his find.

Now, in daylight, he could see the strange plants growing on just that one grave. And while he could see the gravestone, he couldn’t quite make out from that distance what it said.

That’s what he’d really come to see. He’d realized the grave was probably important after all. It wasn’t random.

Why this grave? Whose was it?

He looked around. The Sûreté agent was sitting on a rock, staring into the forest. If Gamache saw that, certainly if Beauvoir saw that, there’d be hell to pay. She should be doing a circuit. He was almost tempted to say something to her. Well, not really.

Watching her closely, he crept closer. Closer. Closer. Until he was right up against the yellow tape around the grave. It was then the agent turned. As Comeau ducked, his sweater caught on the prickly plant.

He just managed to hold it steady while he held his breath and listened for footsteps.

There were none. But he could hear a voice.

The agent was on the phone. To her boss? To Gamache or Beauvoir? Calling for backup? Was he scre—

“I don’t know if I can get away, but get me a ticket anyway … Yeah. Pretty important … No, can’t say, but it’s big.”

A friend? Fuck. How is she a Sûreté agent and I’m a janitor crouching in the weeds?

He lifted his head and, after glancing toward the agent, whose back was still to him, Comeau looked at the headstone. Then he ducked back down.

The forensic team had done its job and had carefully cleaned it off. What had not been visible when he’d briefly shone his flashlight on it a few nights ago was now clear, while, at the same time, unclear.

There was no name.

Comeau tilted his head in bewilderment and disappointment. The only things chiseled into the stone were the image of some flower and a date.

His head bobbed up again and this time he focused on the date.

May 29, 1914.

He wondered if Gamache and the others knew its significance.

Probably not.

Armand sat in the garden, breathing in the scent of freshly mown grass. He closed his eyes and listened to the soft hum of the insects, the rustle of young leaves in the breeze. He dropped his hand and felt Henri at his side. He stroked the fur and heard the long sigh.

Armand wondered whether, if he was quiet enough and patient enough, he might hear the roses opening.

He sat in the sunlight, in the quietude. In the peace. His eyes closed …

After the raid, one day moved swiftly into the next. Chief Inspector Gamache and the team worked with ever-increasing desperation to track down the gang leaders.

At night, when he lay down beside Reine-Marie, he fought against sleep despite his exhaustion. He was afraid. Afraid that he’d be woken up to the news that …

A few anxious days later, Beauvoir appeared at his office door with the head of cybersecurity.

“We have a lead.”

“Tell me.”

Ironically, it was thanks to that video the gang leader had sent to taunt Gamache that they were able to track down where the message had originated.

“Not the actual physical location, patron,” said the head of cybersecurity, who’d barely slept since that early-morning meeting in this office. Since watching the young woman— “But we do have their virtual one.”

“Explain.”