Page 183 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

“It must have felt like a very long drive down,” said Lacoste. “Praying all the way that we hadn’t already dug up the plant and found the book.”

“That second ledger, Morrow’s record of his illegal activities, which we found last night, is being tested right now for DNA and fingerprints and soil comparisons with the grave,” said Gamache. “But we needed more. We needed proof you were the one who’d buried it. You just gave us the evidence we needed to connect you to the murder.”

“It wasn’t me.” Dr. Lagacé’s voice was high with panic. “I could never, would never hurt someone. Look, I admit I knew more than I told you. But the first time I saw that cemetery was when you took me there.”

She took a few deep breaths, gathering her thoughts.

“Okay, look. Brian Fillmore called me in. He needed expert advice. He came to the Botanical Gardens and I happened to be working that day. He asked what I knew of an amateur botanist named Daisy Wolcott. I’d heard the name but couldn’t quite recall anything specific. He told me he was following a tenuous trail that led from the Empress of Ireland sinking to the Receiver of Wrecks. And some documents he’d stolen from the sunken ship. It all seemed far-fetched, but also fascinating. He hired me right then and there to research Daisy Wolcott. He thought it was her documents that had been stolen, and that they must be very valuable. But he didn’t know how or why. That’s where I was supposed to come in.”

Her eyes kept darting over to Beauvoir, now on the phone.

“I honestly thought it was both easy money and ludicrous. Who really cared? It was a hundred years ago. But he did. The thing is, I really didn’t know much about investigating people. Plants, yes, but not people. So, I needed to hire someone else. Someone trained to do it.”

Her shrewd eyes moved from Gamache to Lacoste and back again, trying to judge how this was being received. Behind them, deeper in the Incident Room, Armand could hear Jean-Guy on the phone, but he kept his focus on Lagacé.

“Who did you hire?” asked Lacoste, knowing the answer but needing her to say it.

“I didn’t know where to go. The only thing I could think of was one of Réunion’s own people. I pretended to be a client and was introduced to a Jeanette Bouchard. When I told her what I really wanted, to hire her for a private investigation involving her boss, she refused. But when I sweetened the pot, she eventually agreed. Everyone has their price.”

“Did Brian Fillmore know about her involvement?” asked Gamache.

“No. She was clear about that. The only way she’d help was if I kept it from him, which was fine with me.”

“Was Charles Fillmore involved?” asked Lacoste.

“No. He supported his brother in his strange passions but didn’t share them. I suspect his support was less brotherly love and more to keep Brian busy and out of the day-to-day workings of the business.”

“Go on,” said Gamache. “You were telling us about Jeanette Bouchard.”

“Right.” Lagacé closed her eyes, in an effort to organize her thoughts. “A few months ago, I stopped hearing from Brian Fillmore, and then Jeanette went silent. At first, I thought he’d found out about her, and maybe they were cutting me out, but then she came to me. All upset.”

She looked down at the table and fell silent.

They waited. Beauvoir had stood up and caught Gamache’s eye. Armand nodded but indicated he shouldn’t interrupt. They were at a crucial stage in this interview.

“What was upsetting her?” Isabelle asked, her voice encouraging.

“It took a while to get it out of her, but finally she said that she’d followed Fillmore to a place called Three Pines.” She smiled. “Here. Then, later, to Lost Nation. She watched him dig up a grave. When she saw he’d found something, she said she lost her mind. All she could think of was that it was valuable and she needed the money. After he replaced the dirt, she came out of the woods and…” She looked at them, struggling to go on. “She killed him.”

Finally Chief Inspector Gamache nodded. “I see. Did she say how?”

“With the shovel.”

“And what did she do with it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did Fillmore find in the grave?” asked Lacoste.

“That ledger, the one you have. Morrow’s record of all his dirty dealings.”

“Nothing else?”

“No. Just that. It was worthless.”

Except to Brian Fillmore, thought Armand, remembering that worn chair by the fire and the stack of eclectic books. A man who just wanted to know.

“She’d killed him for no reason,” said Lagacé, shaking her head. “Poor her. Poor him.”