Page 165 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

“Jesus.” Jean-Guy looked through the Incident Room window, across the green, to the Gamaches’ home. He couldn’t see the latest arrival, planted there by the botanist, but he knew it was there. Growing.

“Is that why everyone wanted to find her notes?” asked Isabelle.

“And the seed,” said Armand. “They’d need both. It might not be true. It’s just a theory, but one we should consider. Your turn.” He sounded tired.

They reported more fully on the trip to Macdonald Campus.

“We looked into those two professors—”

“Russell and Lafrenière,” said Jean-Guy.

“Russell was a blank. He had no children, and the only thing his distant relatives knew was that he’d gone down in some ship. No notes of his exist. But the Lafrenière family was more promising. His granddaughter has kept his letters. Among them was one he wrote to his son about a British friend, an eccentric lady botanist, who’d discovered something remarkable. If true.”

Armand roused. “And? Did he say what?”

“If he did, the granddaughter can’t remember, and she no longer has the letter,” said Isabelle. “Fillmore got there first. She gave it to him.”

There was a slight moan of frustration down the line. Or possibly a stifled yawn.

“We seem to be one step behind everyone,” said Jean-Guy.

“But catching up, mon ami,” said Armand. “I see the warrants have come through for the Fillmores’ houses and computers.”

“Yes. We’re executing them tomorrow,” said Isabelle.

“Can you wait for Brian Fillmore’s home until I get back?”

“We’ll do the rest and save that for you,” said Isabelle. There was still more than enough to do before the Chief got back.

There was another pause.

“Go on,” said Armand, sensing bad news.

“Jean-Guy has something to tell you.”

A muffled word that sounded to Armand like “merde” reached him.

“We heard from the lab,” said Jean-Guy. “They don’t think the cassette can be repaired.”

Merde indeed, thought Armand. Still, he wasn’t sure what Flossy Fuller, back in 1967, could have told them that would throw light on the murder of Brian Fillmore fifty years later.

Though Armand knew that most murders began long before the actual act.

“Tell them to keep trying. We’ll be back midafternoon tomorrow.”

“We,” thought Isabelle. Now Gamache and Comeau are “we.” This could not be good.

CHAPTER 56

Neither man had gotten much sleep the night before, so once in the air, Armand was happy to settle in and try to nap on the seven-hour flight from London to Montréal.

The hum of the engines was soothing and familiar. Most people had pulled the shades down and were also dozing.

Sitting in the middle seat, Gaston Comeau glanced over at Gamache. The Chief’s eyes were closed. His head lolling slightly with the movement of the plane. Apparently asleep.

Then Comeau closed his own eyes …

The gun was pressed to his temple.