Page 116 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

“Christ,” snapped Gamache. He was up and making for the door when Beauvoir shouted, “Fuck. He’s seen Comeau! They’ve clocked us—”

Beauvoir knocked the table over in his headlong rush to intercept the gang leader before—

“Down!” Gamache was out of the office. He lunged for the server, one of his younger agents, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him to the ground just as the shooting began.

Plainclothes agents dragged customers to the floor and pulled out weapons.

It all happened in a split second. Gun in hand, Gamache looked around and found Comeau cowering in a corner.

He left him there.

That was his second mistake. But really, how could he have known?

“No McDonald on the passenger list,” said Isabelle. “A few professors, but it doesn’t say what of.”

She was a little perplexed. She knew Stephen Horowitz well. Though elderly, his mind was clearer than most, as was his memory.

But could he have gotten it wrong? His memory muddled? He’d told the Chief that a McGill professor by the name of McDonald was ferrying secret documents to Britain in the dark days leading to the outbreak of the Great War. Documents that, presumably, the Germans didn’t want falling into British hands.

Could the Empress have been sunk deliberately?

It all sounded ridiculous, far-fetched. And, even if true, while tragic, it also seemed frankly irrelevant. Why would anyone care now? Beyond setting an historic record straight, there would be no other impact, surely.

And there was no McDonald on the manifest.

And yet, and yet, there was a connection between the sinking and the murder of Brian Fillmore. And that connection seemed to run right through the mail room, and the Morrow family.

And therefore Three Pines.

She reached for her phone. “Bonjour, Monsieur—”

“Salut, Isabelle.” Stephen Horowitz had already recognized her voice. “When are you going to start calling me Stephen?”

She laughed. “When my mother’s voice stops telling me to respect my elders.”

“Using my given name isn’t disrespect. Not if I ask you, which I have done. Repeatedly. What do you call Armand?”

“Same as Madame Gamache: Your Highness.”

Stephen laughed. “At least you don’t call him what Ruth does.”

Clouseau.

“I’m guessing this is about Armand’s visit. How can I help?”

“We can’t find a McDonald on the passenger list. You said there was some connection between a McGill prof of that name and the sinking of the Empress of Ireland. We’re struggling to see how that can be true.”

Stephen laughed. “As I told Armand, the McGill board decided it was at best an exaggeration, at worst a fantasy. After the Great War, it seemed everyone claimed to be a spy for the Empire. Very romantic and near impossible to disprove. Much like after the Second World War, almost every Frenchman had been part of the Resistance. Look, I’ll do some more digging.”

“Merci, Monsieur Horowitz.” She hung up before he could protest. It was becoming their little joke.

“Nothing from Aix-les-Bains,” Jean-Guy reported. “But it’s the middle of the night there.”

They both looked out the window of the Old Train Station.

“He’s still standing there,” said Jean-Guy. “Did you really have to have a go at him like that?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to warn him, not hurt him.”