Page 89 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

Armand waited, but Fillmore continued to stare at his hands that hung between his knees. He seemed stuck. So, Armand made a decision.

“The tombstone on that grave has no name, but there is a date: May 29, 1914.”

He needn’t have studied Charles Fillmore so closely. His reaction was obvious. He lifted his head, his eyes immediately catching Gamache’s, even as he moved a few inches away from the table, as though the words, the date, had physically assaulted him.

“The sinking.”

“Oui. Now I need the truth. Why that grave? What’s the connection between your family and the fate of the Empress of Ireland?”

“You really think it’s Brian, don’t you? The body.”

“You really want to know what I think?” Gamache placed his arms on the table, his hands holding each other, and leaned forward.

“I think you killed your brother either intentionally or by accident. I think Brian went to Three Pines not to discover a long-lost relative in Clara Morrow, but as an excuse to search for a grave, in a place called Lost Nation. I don’t know why yet, but I will. I think he found it and went there without you, but you followed and killed him and left him there to rot.”

“No. No. What’re you talking about? I’ve never even heard of Lost whatever. And why would I want to kill Brian? I love him. Yes, yes, okay, you’re right. He was in Three Pines. I lied about the visit to Clara Morrow. But he didn’t go there to look for that place, or a cemetery or a grave.”

“Then why did he go?”

There was the slightest of hesitations. “He wanted to find out more about the Morrows. To search the house.”

“Why? What for?”

“A connection.”

“To you?” Gamache’s questions were coming fast now. Not giving the man time to manufacture more lies.

“No. We mocked up a family tree, to show Clara Morrow that we might be relatives. It was a lie. An excuse to visit. Brian even bought one of her works, and got her gallery owner to vouch for him, so that it’d look legit.”

Gamache was completely focused, trying to make sense of this. Trying to see what was real and where the lies lay. Because, like most deceptions, there would also be an element of truth.

“What were you looking for? Connection to whom?”

“Not who, what. To the sinking. And we found it. Morrow. Morrow. That was the missing link.”

Armand was about to protest that Charles was contradicting himself. He’d only just said there was no connection between them and Clara. That they’d mocked it up.

But then he saw his mistake.

Clara was not a Morrow. That was her married name.

“Do you mean Peter Morrow? Clara’s late husband?”

Charles nodded. “Brian had spent years researching Aldous Clybourne’s family tree. Both the genealogy and the loss of the Empress came together in that one person. Aldous Clybourne became his great obsession. And then one day he found something strange.”

It was Armand’s turn to be pulled into a narrative. Even as he recognized what was happening and tried to pull back, it was too late. He was immersed.

“Aldous Clybourne’s mother was a Morrow. It was her maiden name.”

A Morrow. Disparate elements were beginning to come together. Still, there were many Morrows in this world. It did not mean—

“But that wasn’t the strange part. Listen to this.” Charles’s eyes were bright, all sorrow, all caution gone, caught up as he was in the story. “Her brother, Aldous’s uncle, was the Receiver of Wrecks.”

He said it triumphantly and looked at Gamache as though that should mean something.

“The what?”

“Receiver of Wrecks. It’s a federal government post. Still exists. The Receiver is responsible for the salvage of shipwrecks in Canadian waters.” Charles leaned closer to Gamache so that they looked like two conspirators. “The Receiver of Wrecks decides who gets the salvage commission, and what gets brought up first.”