Page 149 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

Armand wasn’t sure what he was looking for, just that he suspected if Brian Fillmore was that interested in Daisy Wolcott, he too would have come here. On a sort of pilgrimage, if nothing else. It seemed unlikely that any trace of Miss Wolcott would be left after all this time.

And it seemed possible Jeanette Bouchard would have followed Fillmore here, since she’d dogged his trail for months.

Perhaps it was Brian or Jeanette who’d yanked the huge door off its hinges.

Armand carefully climbed the stairs, their treads covered in threadbare, moth-eaten carpet. Halfway up he paused.

Was it musky earth he was smelling? Or humidity and mold? Maybe wood rot. Natural decay.

Perhaps a squirrel had died in one of the rooms, or a rat in the walls.

But when he ran out of options, his mind reluctantly accepted the most likely answer.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Of course he recognized it. He’d almost certainly known what it was from that first step in, that first breath, but hadn’t wanted to admit it.

Where was it coming from?

As he stepped onto the first landing, Armand heard the familiar crack of wood. Worse, he felt it. Underfoot. As his shoe broke through a rotten floorboard, he just managed to grab the banister before the rest of him toppled forward through the hole.

Yanking his leg out and muttering, he looked down. Now the stench was obvious. As was its location.

It was drifting up from the basement.

It took Armand some time to carefully navigate his way down. Knowing all the while what he would find. And almost certain who he would find.

And sure enough, there she was.

The body was that of a woman, though badly decomposed. Animals had been at her too.

Timber beams were splayed on top of her.

Armand knelt and sighed. So young. He wanted to brush the hair from her face and lift the beams off her. But did neither. He found himself saying a prayer, repeating words he’d had to say far too often over men and women who were far too young.

And then a long-forgotten hymn, recently heard again, surfaced.

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me,” he sang softly. “Let me hide myself in thee.”

Not hiding. Jeanette Bouchard hadn’t been hiding.

There was nothing he could do for her now, and probably never could.

He looked up. There was a hole in the ceiling above her. And another one farther up. And another. It looked like she’d fallen through the floor three flights up. And come crashing down, hitting and breaking through floorboards as she fell. Until she could fall no farther. She was almost certainly dead by this final impact. Armand hoped so. To be pinned there, without hope of help, would be horrific.

He was sorely tempted to try to go through her pockets, to confirm her identity. There was a knapsack partly under her. He could probably open it. But he’d have to move the beams and the body.

He resisted. That was a job for the local police.

Standing up, he placed the call and was told a car would be there as soon as possible.

“Please wait there for them and disturb nothing. I’ll need your name, sir.”

“Armand Gamache.”

“Can you spell that?”

He did, then decided he might as well go all the way. “I’m also a police officer.”

“With which force?” The voice was, understandably, surprised.