Page 54 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

“Of what?” Gamache asked.

“Of hacking. You never know what can be done these days. We want to have something that can’t be changed or faked.”

Gamache understood. It was ironic that the latest leap forward in technology had also provoked a step back. Into old-school writing, accounting, photography. Music. Even communication.

Many people, many organizations, were going back to doing things the way their parents and grandparents had. By hand. Before the internet.

The world seemed to be living in a perpetual and broad state of “in case.” Waiting for the “worse-case scenario” to arrive.

Monsieur Provost reached for the receipt, but Beauvoir stopped him. “Who has handled this?”

“Well, I have. My assistant has.”

“Monsieur Fillmore?”

“Yes, I think so. He signed it, and I guess he probably touched it when he did.”

“Merci.” Beauvoir used gloves to place the receipt in an evidence bag, noting the date as he did. “February 24, this year.” Just before Fillmore visited Clara in Three Pines. “Can you describe him?”

“Oddly enough, even though it was a while ago, I can. He was in his late forties. Average height and weight. Nothing really to distinguish him, except he had a sort of presence.”

He looked at the Chief Inspector and realized the same could be said of him, though his was even more pronounced. A natural authority. People would notice when he was in a room. Not because he was loud, no, almost the opposite. He had a remarkable calm that was far more compelling than those who demanded attention.

Brian Fillmore also had a quiet authority. A calm confidence. And there was something else.

“He was happy. You could tell. Lots of rich people, strangely enough, aren’t. But he didn’t seem like other wealthy clients. And there was one other reason he was memorable. Something more tangible.”

That would be nice, thought Jean-Guy. “Calm,” “confident,” and “happy” were not useful descriptions on a missing person report.

“Not to sound superficial, but it was what he was wearing.”

The Sûreté officers resisted glancing at each other. Instead, they waited for what they knew would come next.

“His clothes weren’t just old, they were vintage. He had on a tweed jacket in a very old-fashioned cut. And slacks that looked felted. The sort made pre-war. Pre– Great War, I mean. I know because I curated a show of old photographs last year. It included some mannequins with the vintage clothing.” He began to walk away from them. “Here, look. We still have some photographs.”

They followed him to a file cabinet where he pulled out slender drawers filled with photographs. It took him a moment to find the right file.

“There. His clothes were almost exactly like these.”

He held out a sepia picture of a shooting party, dated 1903. The women were in long skirts, the men in tweeds. They held shotguns while beaters held braces of dead birds.

“I’m pretty sure what he wore was original and not a copy. The material was heavy, the sort made in Scotland, by hand.”

“Did he have an accent?”

“We spoke French, and he had an English Canadian accent. Not heavy, but there.”

“Any idea what he did for a living?”

“No. I didn’t ask. He was interested in works by Clara and Peter Morrow. He mentioned something about being a distant cousin or something, and that he hoped to be in touch. I told him I have some Clara Morrows, but none of Peter’s.”

“And that was it? Did he ask for her contact information?”

“He did, but I didn’t give it to him. Not right away, anyway. I checked with her first. She sensibly wanted proof. Monsieur Fillmore sent me the family tree, which I forwarded to her. Did he get in touch?”

“He did.”

Faced with this terse reply, Monsieur Provost filled in the blanks. “I know you’re with homicide. Has something happened to him?”