Page 175 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

“Oui, patron.” The senior agent held it up. “And the warrant.”

Gamache turned to one of the agents. “Watch the man in my car. Don’t let him leave.”

Then he turned toward the home. It was a stark contrast to his brother’s house.

Armand had seen the report and photographs from the search of Charles Fillmore’s place in Upper Westmount. It was clearly a trophy. A statement more than a home. Charles Fillmore shared many of the qualities of Daisy’s father, and so many insecure people before and since. Charles had bought a huge pile of bricks and mortar, filled with rooms he would never enter and art he could not appreciate. Books bound in calf hide he would never read. A gleaming kitchen he barely entered. The cupboards were empty but for some cereal boxes and out-of-date tins.

Armand stood on Brian Fillmore’s front porch and looked up at the home. This was, he suspected, part of the “Victory Housing” initiative of the Canadian government. Homes built in the Notre-Dame-de-Grâce neighborhood for soldiers returning from the Second World War.

Red brick. One and a half stories. In what was known as a “strawberry box” style.

Modest. Comfortable. They’d been added to, updated. But still retained the feel of a safe harbor after a dreadful storm.

Inside, the search had begun.

Armand strolled around the home. Getting a feel. The place had, of course, been updated. No shag. The log fireplace in the living room was now gas. The kitchen looked like it was from the 1980s. With gloved hands, he opened the cupboards. They were full to bursting with pasta and sauces, with canned goods and spices. With cereals and boxes of cookies. None out of date. This was a kitchen that was used, in a home that was lived in.

He opened the fridge. There was the unmistakable odor of sour milk. A basket on the counter had rotten fruit and a cloud of fruit flies. There were mouse droppings on the floor.

The garbage smelled.

It was obvious Brian Fillmore had expected to return.

In the living room, the fireplace was flanked by oak bookcases filled with well-read volumes on everything from astronomy to carpentry.

There was Ruth’s book I’m F.I.N.E.

Here was the pleasant jumble of the autodidact.

A well-worn leather chair by the fire had a stack of books, including a few cookbooks and one on the Titanic. Armand opened it.

Merry Christmas. Love, Charles.

There was no date.

There were books on gardening. Some he and Reine-Marie had. One on design. One on medicinal herbs. The one on plant origins was by Aimée Lagacé. He opened it, but there was no signature or dedication. He flipped through it, but nothing popped out.

“I’ll be taking these with me,” he told the head of the search team, indicating a few books.

After writing out a receipt, Armand wandered the home, opening drawers at random. Greeting agents. Discussing the search.

From the kitchen, he opened the wobbly metal screen door and stepped into the garden. The first burst of flowers and grass had gone wild, with dandelions and clover taking over. The bees and butterflies were having a riot.

Armand wandered the flower beds, trying to identify the plants. None was Miss Wolcott. Nor was there rosemary, or periwinkle. There was columbine.

Folly.

Then he went back inside and spoke to the lead inspector.

“Nothing yet, patron.”

With regret, Armand gave the order. “Tear it apart.”

“Oui.”

The inspector knew what they were looking for. Daisy Wolcott’s notebook. An old ledger detailing items brought up from a wreck. A letter from a Professor Lafrenière to his son about a recent donation from an eccentric but brilliant Victorian lady.

A shovel.