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“Actually”—Jérôme gave a short laugh—“I don’t, but I can look it up. I’m sure I can work it out.”

“You know,” said Olivier after Armand had hung up, “it’s strange that each of us recognizes something in that room. Gabri and I recognized the elephant. Clara the painting.”

“I recognized the music,” said Robert.

“And Ruth knew Tiro,” said Myrna.

“The hidden room’s in your loft,” Clara said to Myrna.

“I knew the grimoire,” said Reine-Marie. “It’s as though each of the elements is meant for specific people.”

“Except you,” said Ruth, looking at Armand.

Though Gamache was far from sure that was true. There was the sheet music. Had that been put there for him? But it was far from specific. It might have been meant for the minister.

No, if there was something in that painting just for him, he hadn’t yet found it. Like Jérôme, he could see the forest, but not the one specific tree.

Armand picked up Agent Choquet and drove her and Reine-Marie to Trudeau International Airport in Montréal for their overnight flight to London.

Once there he took Amelia aside. “You know why you’re going?”

“Oui, patron. To protect Madame Gamache. I won’t let anything happen to her. I promise.” He turned away, but she stopped him. “I know what happened.”

“Pardon?”

“To your parents.” She held his eyes. “I will not let anything happen to your wife.”

He stared at her for a moment. “Merci, Amelia. And look after yourself.”

After embracing Reine-Marie and whispering, “Je t’aime,” he watched them through the sliding doors, then drove back to Three Pines. Thinking. Thinking, all the way.

Before Gamache had left for the airport, Beauvoir had taken him aside to tell him the good news.

“God knows what this hot mess is about,” he said, gesturing toward the giant painting, “and how it might relate to the murder of Madame Godin, but it looks like we can at least stop worrying about Sam.”

He told Armand about his conversation. About the grandchildren reference. About the meaning of the photographs. And the gestures.

“And you believed him?” asked Armand. It wasn’t an accusation. He was genuinely curious. And he realized he really, deeply, profoundly wanted to believe it too.

He glanced at the painting. If his suspicions were right, they had more than enough trouble on their hands without fighting on a second front.

“I do.” It was clear the Chief was just asking, it wasn’t a criticism, and yet Jean-Guy felt a sharp thrust. Sam’s comment about him needing Gamache’s approval for something as trivial as a meal had niggled. “But I’m not so sure about Fiona.”

There. A small thrust back. The insinuation that while Beauvoir had been right about Sam, Gamache was wrong about his sister.

But Armand just nodded. “Merci.” He heaved a sigh, and Jean-Guy, seeing this, felt ashamed of himself.

“What can I do, patron, while you’re at the airport?”

“Can you learn shorthand, please? Both types, Gregg and Pitman?”

“Can do. Now, what’s shorthand again?”

Jean-Guy was relieved to see Armand smile.

“Actually, can you call the SHU?”

Beauvoir’s smile disappeared. “I will.”