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“Taking? You mean stealing?” This was getting better and better.

When Peter laughed, his quite serious face always lit up. “Yes. Stealing. Up until then, our family were mostly carpenters and bricklayers. Laborers. But the mater would never admit that.”

Part of Clara pitied Peter’s mother, that profound insecurity. But it was a very small part.

“How do you know all this?” she’d asked her husband.

“It’s in his ledger.”

“What?” said Isabelle. “There’s a ledger?”

“Ha, I’d forgotten until just now,” said Clara.

“Did Peter have it?”

“If he did, he didn’t show it to me. But then, I didn’t ask to see it.”

“So, it might be in your house?”

“It’s not a big place, as you know. I can’t imagine where it is, if I haven’t seen it. But I guess your people will find it if it’s there.”

“You said Thomas Morrow was killed. What did you mean?”

“All I know is that there was a fire. Peter’s mother refused to talk about it, except to somehow imply it was heroic. He was saving lives or something. No, wait. The mob. That’s it. Thomas Morrow was defending Canada’s wartime interests, crucial shipments to England, against the mob, and they killed him. Bullshit, of course.”

“Did she say where this murder happened?”

“No. But there was someone with him who also died.”

“Do you know who?”

“If I did once, I’ve forgotten.”

Armand was on his way back across the green to the Incident Room when his phone vibrated with an incoming call.

He had a small surprise when he saw the ID. The Receiver of Wrecks was trying to reach him.

He’d been so immersed in thinking of Thomas Morrow as the Receiver of Wrecks, it seemed for an instant that a man long dead was on the line.

“Bonjour, Chief Inspector. You called me?”

“Oui. Thank you for getting back.” Armand sat on the bench, grateful for the cool comfort of the shade thrown by the three huge pines. “I wonder if you can tell me anything about one of your predecessors. A Thomas Morrow, he was—”

Gamache was interrupted by laughter. Though it was not exactly lighthearted.

“Oh, I know who he was, Monsieur Gamache.”

“Why the laugh?”

“Nervous laughter, I’m afraid. At least you’re not writing a book about him.” He paused. “Are you?”

“Non. But I am investigating a crime that might date back to his time in office. Why so nervous when I mentioned his name?”

“He tarred the entire profession for many years. He was a crook. Morrow took bribes. Payola. In exchange for very lucrative contracts. He also took a cut of whatever was salvaged.”

“Including the Empress of Ireland?”

There was silence for a beat. “You know about that?”