Page 48 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

How interesting that the older Miss Wolcott learned to respect the Indigenous peoples. Isabelle wondered if she hadn’t, too late, realized who had left all those drawings for her to discover.

The maid. Who had seen her. Heard her. For whom the lost little girl was the favorite child.

“So how did the plant end up here?” Jean-Guy asked.

Dr. Lagacé, her eyes watching the Sûreté officers closely, lifted her hands. “Not a clue. No one has seen Miss Wolcott’s Ghost in, well, at least a century. No one was really looking for it, to be truthful.” She paused, holding the Chief Inspector’s gaze.

“Have you ever heard of the Doomsday Vault?” she asked.

Gamache raised his brows.

“No. What is it?”

“It’s in Norway, deep in the permafrost. It’s where we’ve begun collecting seeds.”

Now Armand felt the hairs on his arms rise. “In case of some catastrophe,” he said.

“C’est ça. It’s a botanical Noah’s Ark, and, in my opinion, not a moment too soon. The deluge has begun. Botanists from around the world are working together, coordinating the collection, contributing to the vault. It is all very orderly despite our growing anxiety, our desire to rush, panic even, as we see the sheer stupidity of governments.”

She sat back and rolled her shoulders to release the tension. “As the seeds have been collected, another list has been made. Of the plants that have disappeared. It was then that horticulturalists in the UK came across the story of Miss Wolcott and realized whatever that plant was, it too was gone.”

“But she got it from somewhere else, didn’t she?” said Jean-Guy. “It could still exist in its native land.”

He had no idea why he cared about a scruffy old plant. But then he had no idea why he cared so much for a scruffy old poet.

“We’ve looked. The theory is she found it on one of her expeditions, clinging to life in an area of strip mining, or deforestation, and took perhaps the last seeds back with her.”

“To save them,” said Armand.

“But it was killed,” said Isabelle. “Burned.”

Armand was looking at the botanist. Finally understanding her excitement in that cemetery when she realized what she was looking at.

He now shared her delight. In this age of extinction, it was exciting beyond words to discover they’d been wrong about at least one species.

And yet. And yet the question remained. What was Miss Wolcott’s Ghost doing not just on the grave in the middle of a Québec forest, but actually rising out of the body of a man long dead? Probably, the coroner thought, he’d brought it with him, in his vintage clothes.

“And the rest of her collection? Her notes,” asked Jean-Guy. “It was auctioned off. Do we know where it went?”

“No. Voilà,” said Dr. Lagacé. “That’s all I know. If I find out more, I’ll call.”

As the screen went blank, Gamache turned to Lacoste. “You were going to check with forensic accounting about Réunion. We need to know more about it, if only to discount that Brian Fillmore and find Clara’s.”

“Inspector Eidinger is looking into it. She’ll have a report soon.”

Agent Ferdinand approached the conference table. “I have more information, patron, on the accident.”

The agent’s voice startled those around the table. So immersed were they in the story of Miss Wolcott that they’d forgotten he was there.

Jean-Guy almost asked, “What accident?” But then remembered. That accident.

Ferdinand grabbed a seat and read from his notes. “What the newspaper reports don’t say, and neither did the first Sûreté report, is what they found inside. Not just the bodies, but among the personal effects was a tape machine. It was destroyed in the fire, of course. Inside it was a tape, melted. But they could see it had run out.”

“Miss Fuller finished her story,” said Isabelle, her face grave.

“I don’t know about that,” said the young agent. “It was labeled Ohio.”

“Are you sure?” said Gamache.