Page 91 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

But even if this Morrow was buried in that odd grave, would a treasure from the sinking really be buried with him? And why no name, but just the etching of a sprig of rosemary? And the date, not of his death but of the sinking.

What did it all mean?

They needed to get into that grave.

Once again, Armand cursed the judge who’d denied the exhumation order.

“What happened to Aldous and his uncle?”

“We don’t know. There was a fire in the church where the records were kept.”

“When?”

“I can’t remember exactly. I think it was in the mid-’60s.”

Armand looked up from the page where he’d been jotting notes.

Mid-’60s. About the same time as the oral history project. The same time the last living person who knew about Lost Nation died. But before she could say anything else—

And then there was the murder …

“Brian went to Three Pines, hoping to find out more. Maybe even find that second record book.” The lost ledger that documented what the Receiver kept for himself. “We tried Peter’s parents first, but they’re dead. And his brother is still in prison.”

Armand nodded. He’d helped put him there. All of the brother’s papers had been carefully scrutinized. There was nothing there about some lost treasure. Nothing there about a lost ship or a lost ledger or a lost nation.

“And his sister knows nothing about this,” Charles continued. “We needed an excuse to visit her, so Brian pretended he was looking to buy one of Peter’s paintings. She was all too happy to sell him one. She has them stacked in her basement.”

“So, your last option was Peter himself. But he’s gone too.”

“Yes, but we hoped his wife might’ve kept some of the family papers. People do. They feel an obligation to the dead to keep them. They don’t feel right tossing out stuff that belonged to someone else. And a good thing for us. It’s what our investigators rely on.”

“And did he?”

“Find the ledger? No.” There was a pause. “At least I didn’t think so.” Charles Fillmore spoke slowly. “If that is Brian’s body…”

“Then he might have found it. And hid that fact from you?”

Charles shook his head, not really listening anymore. He was staring into space.

“Why would he do that?” Gamache pressed.

“I don’t know. Maybe he realized it was dangerous and wanted to protect me. But let’s say Aldous and his uncle did steal something from the mail room wreck, what could it possibly say that would lead to murder more than a hundred years later?”

Gamache raised his brows. Did this man really not know that the written word was far more dangerous than any bullet or bomb? Its effects lasted so much longer.

“You’d be surprised how threatening history is to some,” said Armand. “Why do you think governments try to bury it, erase it? Rewrite it?”

“You’re talking about toxic nationalism and unpleasant truths. Reckonings. But I’m talking about an old ledger that might have documented a wrongdoing ages ago. Everyone involved would be long gone. How dangerous could it be?”

“In itself, perhaps not much. But if it pointed to a lost fortune?” said Gamache.

“And if it did?” Charles held Gamache’s stare. “That wouldn’t motivate my brother. We already have a fortune. More than we could ever spend. Brian wasn’t greedy. He wears cast-off clothing, for God’s sake. He’s furnished his home and office with crap he’s found in rummage sales and dumps. No. Money would never be a motivation for him.”

“Then what would be?”

Charles thought. “The payoff for him is always, even when he was a kid, a discovery. Finding something no one else knows about. That’s why he loves research. He can follow a lead for months. He loves the hunt.”

“And the goal didn’t matter?”