Page 71 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

“One of them did,” said Clara.

“Or both,” said Reine-Marie.

Myrna, a retired psychologist, considered. “I doubt they could even admit to themselves, never mind a public inquiry, that they’d made a mistake. That they were responsible for the terrible loss of life. Can you imagine…”

They stared into space, considering that cold, dark night and the men, women, children flailing in the cold, dark waters.

The women stood on the bridge of the Empress of Ireland, gripping the railing as it tilted and began to roll, as more and more passengers and crew slid into the water.

They clung to the bridge and watched in horror.

And said to themselves, This is not my fault.

Before returning to the Incident Room, Isabelle texted the others.

The exhumation order is denied.

CHAPTER 27

Gamache clicked his phone off just as the office door opened.

He quickly rearranged his face to a neutral expression. Hiding his surprise and annoyance.

Isabelle’s message had thrown him. He’d fully expected to get, had counted on getting, the exhumation order.

As though that wasn’t enough, there was Beauvoir’s text.

Comeau claimed the body might be that of a woman, Jeanette Bouchard, the artist who, as it turned out, worked as an investigator at Réunion.

“Chief Inspector.” The man who came forward, hand out, was a boyish forty-eight-year-old.

“Monsieur Fillmore.”

Clean-shaven, his dark hair thinning and greying, Charles wore designer jeans, a comfortable cardigan sweater over a T-shirt, in studied casualness. His smile held, quite naturally, a touch of wariness.

“Come in. How can I help you?”

“My colleague Jean-Guy Beauvoir called you yesterday, but you didn’t return the call.”

“He’s a Sûreté officer? Had I known, I absolutely would have called back. I’m sorry. I get so many inquiries, all from people who want a favor, it seems. Please apologize to him.”

He smiled again. This was, Gamache felt, an easy person to like.

He followed Fillmore into his office. “I just have a few questions, sir, to do with one of our investigations.”

Charles Fillmore’s eyes were alive with interest, and absolutely no sign of duplicity.

“Coffee?”

“Non, merci.”

Fillmore waved his guest to a black leather sofa. Mid-century, Gamache knew. Mies van der Rohe. Not a reproduction. An original. It was not the most comfortable piece of furniture Armand had sat on.

On the walls were works by mostly Québec artists. Riopelle, Pellan, Lemieux, Molinari. A magnificent Yves Gaucher, one of Gamache’s favorite painters. But—

“I’d heard you have a Clara Morrow.”

Fillmore looked surprised. “Not me. That’s in my brother’s office. You know her?”