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“Corrections Canada.”

“The prison system?” said Gamache.

“As part of art therapy, I guess. They wanted inmates to copy some masterpieces. Kenojuak Ashevak. Group of Seven. A few Morrows. Clara, not Peter, of course.”

Of course, thought Gamache, and felt a pang of pain for the man. No memento mori for Peter Morrow.

“Why would they need advice from your college?” he asked. “Surely that’s easily done with existing technology.”

“For those smaller works, yes, but they were interested in larger canvases too, so that the inmates would have to work in teams. Learn to work together,” said Maryse.

Gamache looked at Dr. Louissaint. Two or three artists …

He knew that choirs had been formed in penitentiaries for that same purpose. To literally create harmony. Teams of inmates had also been trained to work with puppies to become guide dogs.

Was it possible this was painted by inmates, as part of art therapy? But that raised a whole lot of other questions. Not just how it got into the attic, but how it got out of a prison.

And why didn’t the inmates just copy the original, which would have been the assignment, but put their own spin on the masterpiece? Why these particular modern touches?

“Alors, it is puzzling,” said Dr. Louissaint. “A joke perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“Will you let me know what the markings say, if anything? Maybe they’re just random.”

“Could be.”

But he doubted it. And he knew she did too.

After seeing them off, he pulled a chair over in front of the painting. And stared. Trying to enter it. Trying to enter the mind of the person who’d conceived it.

Was there, perhaps like the original, something dangerous here?

Ten minutes later Armand’s phone rang. It was Jean-Guy.

“You found something?”

“A ticket to an art show. For The Paston Treasure. In the UK.”

“When?”

“Three years ago. Monsieur Godin swears he’s never seen it before and that his wife wasn’t at the show.”

True, thought Armand, remembering Godin saying they never traveled.

“Send me a picture of the ticket.”

Armand heard a sound behind him and turned to see Robert Mongeau, the minister, at the door. He had his hands pulsing in front of him as if to say he did not want to interrupt.

Gamache waved him in.

There was a ding as Jean-Guy’s photograph arrived.

“There’s something else,” said Beauvoir. “It was used as a bookmark. Get this. It was in one of Ruth’s poetry books.”

Gamache felt the hair on the nape of his neck go up.

“Godin doesn’t recognize the book either and seemed surprised. They never read poetry. I’ve had forensics go over the book. No prints.”