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“Yes.”

“You need to stop reading accounts of the sinking.”

“Yes.”

But it was too late. It was wedged into his brain as firmly as he’d been wedged into that porthole.

Both knew that there was no way to predict how any of them would react in a crisis. It was one thing in a raid, where they were armed and trained. But a train derailment? A ship sinking, a plane crash. Would they help others, knowing it meant certain death, a horrible death, for themselves?

Would they save themselves?

Would they …

Later that day, just as Armand was approaching Aix-les-Bains, Madame Justice Morin woke up in Montréal and rolled over in bed, to find her husband still asleep beside her. A smile on his face.

Over breakfast, when asked, he explained about the cemetery.

“But you hate them,” she said, spreading marmalade on her toast. “You’re scared to death of them. Were you festooned in Saint Joseph medals?”

“I did light a few candles—”

“A conflagration.” But it was said kindly.

Then he told her about Three Pines. “We’ve been looking for a place to retire to. Maybe we should look there.”

Oddly, he could not find it again.

CHAPTER 48

Armand’s first stop was going to be the Hôtel de Ville, the city hall.

But then he thought better of it and made for the Aix-les-Bains historical society, where he introduced himself and met with the head archivist.

“No, no one from the gendarmerie has been in asking questions. What’s this about, Chief Inspector? You say you’re with the Sûreté du Québec. You didn’t come all this way just to speak to me.”

“Well, to get information. I need to find an estate that belonged to an Englishwoman back in the late 1800s and into the early 1900s. An amateur botanist. Her name was Daisy Wolcott.”

He’d of course hoped that name would mean something. That the archivist would have not just heard of Miss Wolcott but have an entire dossier on the extraordinary Victorian.

But instead, he was met with a blank, though friendly, stare. “Désolée. I don’t know her.”

“Can you ask your colleagues if anyone else has shown interest?”

“Certainly, and you’re welcome to look through our archives. There’s a reason, of course, you’re interested in Miss Wilmott—”

“Wolcott.”

“Personal or professional?”

“Professional. A person of interest in one of my investigations has also come here. I believe she was looking for the Wolcott estate. Jeanette Bouchard.”

Once again, he looked hopeful, and once again, she looked blank.

“I feel I’m letting you down, Chief Inspector. Now, we do have a horticultural society. Maybe they know Madame Wolcott. When it comes to plants, a botanist would always be the first port of call. My friend runs it. I’ll ask him to meet with you, if you like.”

It was a twenty-minute drive from Aix-les-Bains to the Université Savoie Mont Blanc, where the head of the horticultural society worked as a professor of botany.

Once again, Armand introduced himself. This time, he met with more success.