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“True. And neither would we be breaking the law, if there’s no body. But I’ve chosen to respect your beliefs and ask, once again, for an exhumation order. Please.”

The two men stared at each other.

Gamache could see the judge’s mind working.

He’s trying. He wants to give it to me. Please, please.

Unfortunately, he needed more than just that one order.

“We also want to dig up another site in the cemetery. This one has a tiny stone but no name or date. We found a small bouquet of rosemary on it.” He stood up and showed the judge the photo Lacoste had taken.

“But this must be a child’s grave, perhaps a fetus.”

“We think so too,” admitted Gamache, knowing full well he was making it worse. Digging, as it were, his own grave. But might as well continue. He sat down again and told the judge about Jeanette Bouchard.

“I’d like a search warrant issued for her home and her computer. And permission to take DNA to send to the French police for identification. She’s a person of interest in this murder investigation.” He explained why. “I believe she’s involved in some way.”

“Have we moved from ‘suspicion’ to ‘belief’? Is one better than the other?”

“You tell me, Your Honor. Do you believe in God, or do you suspect there is one?”

The judge smiled, sat back, and rocked slowly in his chair. Then he began to shake his head.

Seeing this and knowing he was on the verge of denying at least one, if not all, the requests, Gamache’s mind raced. There must be something, anything, he could say to convince this man. And then he had it.

“You asked what we think is buried in the grave. The Empress sank two months before the outbreak of the Great War. My godfather, Stephen Horowitz—”

“Horowitz is your godfather? Remarkable man. Scares the pants off me.”

Armand laughed. “He is formidable, even now. He told me there were rumors that the Empress was carrying munitions bound for England.”

That brought the conversation to a halt as the judge absorbed this news.

“And you think that’s what Morrow and Clybourne buried there?”

“With the intention of selling it to the mob, yes, I think it’s a possibility.”

This time the judge didn’t tease him about the difference between a “possibility,” a “belief,” and a “suspicion.”

The fact he was overstating the danger did not bother Gamache at all. He knew the judge could not ignore the possibility, suspicion, or belief that weapons were buried there for anyone to find.

“Wouldn’t Fillmore’s accomplice have dug it all up already?” Judge Morin repeated.

“Again, there’s only one way to know. If it is still there, we need to get it into safe hands before someone else finds it.”

The judge came to a decision. “I’ll give you the search warrant for Jeanette Bouchard.”

“Merci.” Gamache waited for more.

“I will not allow you to dig up the small grave.” That came as no surprise. Armand had really just thrown that in to give the judge something to deny him.

But. But. What he needed, and what the judge knew he’d really come in person to plead for, was the exhumation order for the other.

Instead of speaking, the judge tipped forward in his chair, wrote something out longhand, and slid it across the desk to Gamache.

“Here you go, Chief Inspector. But I need to be there when it’s executed.”

It was the exhumation order.