Page 67

It was then that he’d read the plaque. Learned their names. Learned they were brothers who’d died on the same day in the infamous slaughter of the Somme.

They’d perished on September 18, 1916. Three among twenty-four thousand Canadians who were killed in that one battle. A number hauntingly imprecise.

He’d gone back the next morning, just before dawn, but it didn’t happen again until the next year, on September 18.

Armand was there. To greet them. Each and every September 18 since.

He thought of that now as he looked at the school photo. Here were two more dead boys. But unlike the stained-glass brothers, there was no fear in these faces. No indication they knew their lives would be limited. Their fates intertwined.

Where little Frederick looked like the class cutup, young Charles looked almost painfully earnest.

It was, Armand knew, often the way. His own best friend growing up, Michel, had been the class clown, clever but a mischief-maker. He loved to get the uber-earnest little Armand into all sorts of trouble.

Sitting in the bistro, between Jean-Guy and Isabelle, Armand smiled and chose not to pull up the memory of what happened later in their lives.

But another memory floated into his mind. Of Frederick Castonguay in the nest of green garbage bags.

“We were wondering how Castonguay knew about the lake. Charles must’ve been the old friend—” Gamache stopped and looked at Isabelle, his eyes widening. “The homeless shelter, The Mission. That’s where they must’ve met up. When Charles was either a resident there or volunteering, and Frederick was on an official visit with Jeanne Caron.”

“I think so,” said Lacoste, not able to hide her excitement. “I’ve asked them to bring up the security tapes, to see if I can find the two together.”

Armand nodded approval. “Bon. Bon.”

“Frederick must’ve introduced him to Jeanne Caron, who saw that, as a biologist, Charles could be helpful,” said Jean-Guy.

“Right,” said Isabelle. “Caron got him to look into her suspicions about some vague plot against the drinking water. References she’d found hidden in Lauzon’s files.”

“And when Charles realized he was in danger, he must’ve told Frederick that if anything happened to him, he should go to the lake. To look there,” said Jean-Guy.

“But for what? Why tell him where to look, but not what for?” asked Gamache.

“Maybe he did. And maybe Frederick found it,” said Lacoste. “And was killed.”

“Which means whoever he was with now has it,” said Jean-Guy.

The sudden excitement had just as suddenly evaporated.

Armand gazed once more into the dancing fire. Thinking. Thinking. Did this make sense? Did it track? And if so, where did it lead?

“We don’t know that whatever Charles left behind was found,” he said. “We need to go back up to the lake. Look again. We have to be sure, one way or another.”

“Do you think it’s the laptop?” asked Isabelle. When Gamache gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, she added, “I’ll head back first thing in the morning.”

“Bon.”

“How did it go with Lauzon?” she asked.

She listened, not interrupting until the end. Only then did she ask, “Do you believe him, patron? About the Prime Minister?”

It was obvious that she did not.

“I think since Lauzon can’t actually murder the Prime Minister, he’s doing the next best thing.”

“Character assassination,” said Jean-Guy. It was his read as well.

“There is one more thing,” said Armand. “You remember when he tripped over that rock—”

“And you caught him, oui,” said Jean-Guy.