Page 24 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

There was a running joke in the Sûreté that someone on Gamache’s team was a serial killer, murdering random people in the Three Pines area. Just for the bistro food.

The smart money was on Jean-Guy Beauvoir. Not a bad guess, thought Isabelle as she watched him devour a ham, apple, and melted Brie croissant.

As they ate, they went over reports, beginning with Isabelle.

“I looked up the tailor who made the clothes our man was wearing. Get this. The shop was bombed in the Second World War, and the tailor and his family were killed.”

“But someone else must have taken over the label, non?” said Jean-Guy.

“That’s the curious thing. The Savile Row Bespoke Association has an archive. No new suit has been made using that label since the day the tailor was killed.”

“Are you saying that the suit our man is wearing is more than eighty years old?” said Gamache, staring at Isabelle, his hand stopping in the middle of spreading fresh churned butter on his slice of baguette.

“So it seems. I’ve asked forensics to send a sample of the material to the association, to get their analysis. Our own technicians are dating the fabric.”

“Is it possible,” Jean-Guy asked, “that his clothes were put on postmortem?”

“I guess it’s possible, but we all know how difficult it is to undress a dead body, never mind dress one. Why would anyone do that?”

Maybe easier than dressing wiggly children, thought Jean-Guy, but said nothing.

“Why wear a suit that’s eighty years old or more?” asked Gamache.

All three just stared at each other. None of those scenarios made sense.

“Though we don’t even know if it was murder,” said Jean-Guy.

It was then that the coroner called and confirmed it.

“What is that?” Isabelle asked when the coroner drew back the white sheet.

The three senior homicide officers leaned toward the screen. The agents working at their desks paused and looked over, sensing something had just happened.

A few got up and walked over to see.

CHAPTER 11

Dr. Harris held her iPad over the body and enlarged the image.

On the screen now was a close-up of the man’s lower chest and abdomen.

“Are those bugs?” asked Lacoste. They were used to seeing insects on dead bodies. Their appearance, and point in the insect’s life cycle, helped the coroner establish how long the person had been dead.

But no. Not bugs. But similar, with their small brown, cylindrical bodies and what looked like hooks, or claws or sharp teeth, protruding from one end.

As the coroner zoomed in, they could see it now. There, imbedded in the rotting flesh, were seeds sprouting between his ribs. Their young roots curling around his spine like tendrils.

Jean-Guy, who’d just watched Alien, wished he hadn’t had quite so much of Olivier’s avocado soup.

The Chief’s face was grim as he stared. His mind working. It was not unusual to have vegetation mixed in with an old corpse. But this was different.

“He wasn’t naked when we found him,” said Gamache. “Which means those didn’t come from the ground beneath him.”

“Exactly,” said Dr. Harris. “This isn’t from the cemetery. The seeds came in with him. They must have been in his clothes. Forensics has his clothes and will let you know.”

“Can we see one of the seeds?” Gamache asked, putting on his glasses and leaning even closer to the screen.

“I picked one out to show you.” Harris held up a petri dish. “As you can see, it hasn’t germinated yet.”