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“Actually, let me,” said Isabelle. “Since the two are connected.”

Jean-Guy was about to protest, then caught her eye and knew she was just trying to protect him. From himself.

“The fact is,” said Gamache, “there’s no proof that there was anything criminal about the recovery of items from the Empress of Ireland. We don’t know for sure that the murder of Brian Fillmore has anything at all to do with the sinking of the ship. With the Receiver of Wrecks. With Peter Morrow’s family.”

And if it did, how in the world could those disparate elements combine to create a corpse many years later?

Though they all knew that the seeds of many tragedies were often sown decades earlier. Falling on unexpectedly fertile ground.

Armand’s eyes were drawn to Miss Wolcott’s Ghost, risen from the dead and now living in their peaceful garden.

CHAPTER 38

Gaston Comeau stood in the forest behind the Gamache home.

He hadn’t realized it was Gamache’s home until he heard the familiar voices. He was on his way back from the Lost Nation cemetery, sneaking through the woods, when he’d heard them talking.

He stopped to listen.

Henri had shifted positions and was now on his back, his neck stretched out, his long nose pointing into the woods. His ears rested on the grass, like long silken slides.

He’d grown tired of waiting for Stephen, or for someone to drop something on the ground, and was now snoring.

Fred was curled at Isabelle’s feet. Gracie alone was staring into the woods.

“Another question is why that herb rosemary keeps coming up,” said Isabelle.

Armand took a bite of the soft cheese. It melted in his mouth, leaving a fruity, honeyed flavor. He reached for another. He had no idea how hungry he was.

“Rosemary,” he repeated, his hand holding the knife stopped in mid-gesture.

“What is it, patron?” Isabelle asked.

“Something about rosemary.”

“Well, yes,” said Jean-Guy. “We’re just talking about it.”

“Something else, wiseass.” Armand smiled as he said it.

“Makes a nice change from ‘numbnuts,’” said Isabelle with a laugh, while, unseen behind them, Comeau’s heart ached.

How he longed to sit there with them. In that fourth chair. Dipping sweet pears into sweeter honey and joining in the laughter. The jokes only they understood.

But that would never happen now. He’d been banished to the woods, to the wilderness.

“Help me, patron,” he’d said, his voice weak, wobbly, as the muzzle of the gun pressed into his temple.

His hands were cold, numb. His cheeks were growing numb too. His whole body was shutting down.

“Again,” growled the madman in his ear. “Louder.”

“Patron, help.”

“Yes, help him, patron.”

Why isn’t he coming out? My God, he’s going to let me die.

In stark detail, Comeau could see the room in front of him. Everyone in the restaurant was on the ground. The shooting had stopped as soon as Comeau appeared, the gunman’s arm around his throat. Using him as a shield.