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“Here’s the photograph,” said Beauvoir. Turning it over he saw, neatly written, The last one. It was the same handwriting as the suicide note.

There was only one item left, sitting all alone at the bottom of the box.

“An agenda,” he said, for the recording. But it was, they all knew, far more than that.

He opened the front cover to reveal the name and year. Then he handed it to Chief Inspector Gamache. “Paul Robinson’s.”

Gamache closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled. He’d thought maybe, but until Jean-Guy had said that, he hadn’t been sure.

“From the year Maria died?” asked Isabelle.

“Non,” said Jean-Guy. “From the year he died.”

Armand sat down, put on his reading glasses, and opened it.

“Debbie Schneider found it when they were going through his things,” said Isabelle.

“Just weeks ago,” said Armand, looking up. “Oui. I think that was the catalyst.”

They’d come around and now hung over his shoulder as he turned to the day Paul Robinson died.

“It’s blank,” said Isabelle. Though disappointed, she knew he was hardly likely to put in a reminder to kill himself.

“I think when Debbie found it, this picture”—Gamache held it up—“was in that page. You can just see where some of the resin from the gloss has come off. We’ll get it analyzed.”

Armand turned the pages. All the ones going forward were blank.

Then he turned back. One page. Two. And there was the entry. The last one.

Letter to Colette. Copy.

And there it was. So matter-of-fact. Not the word “letter,” but the other one.

“Copy,” said Armand, nodding. “You said it, Isabelle. You even did it.” He looked over at the scanner. “You made a copy of the letter. So why wouldn’t he? It’s been bothering me. Everyone describes Paul Robinson as a methodical scientist. Wouldn’t he make a copy of something so important?”

“And he did,” said Isabelle. “So where is it?”

Smiling, Armand turned the book upside down and shook, waiting for the letter to flutter out.

But it did not. Nothing came out.

“Sometimes the magic works,” he said with a sigh.

Jean-Guy smiled, recognizing the quote from Little Big Man.

“Okay,” said Isabelle, “let’s say Debbie found the copy of the suicide letter among his things. Where is it? And how could it matter? She already knew what was in it. She’d read the original when Colette showed it to them. I agree that what started this all off was something they found when going through Paul Robinson’s things, but I don’t think it’s that.” She pointed to the agenda. “That was the ninety-ninth monkey.”

“And the hundredth?” asked Jean-Guy, also taking a seat.

“Was something Abigail found. The letter from Gilbert, demanding payment for torturing her mother. That’s what started all this.”

Gamache removed his reading glasses, the better to study her. “Go on.”

“That letter from Gilbert must’ve been explosive. It changed everything for Abigail, but it also explained everything. Cameron’s experiments led to the deaths of her mother, her sister, and her father.”

Isabelle leaned forward, her arms outstretched on the table, trying to get them to embrace her scenario.

“Abigail is smart. She realizes that it’s a personal tragedy, but also a professional opportunity. Vincent Gilbert, the great humanitarian, was involved in the most shameful event in Canadian medicine. What would he do to hush that up? She was in the middle of a shit storm of controversy. She needed allies. She admits she came to Québec to try to blackmail Gilbert into an endorsement. But suppose it’s more than that?”