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“Unexpectedly, yes. I’m sorry, but have I broken any laws?” He took back his identification and saw that, to their regret, he hadn’t.

“You’re not armed.”

“No.”

“Best if you check in with the local police, as a courtesy.”

“Yes, of course.” He had no plans to do that since his trip was purely exploratory and would not need any contact with the local constabulary.

“Can you direct me to the car rentals?”

The drive of just over an hour gave him more time to think.

Daisy Wolcott had gone to Canada after all. To Québec. To Montréal. And left a trunk behind. It was not a stretch to think in that trunk was her life’s work, which the then elderly woman had hauled halfway around the world. Her goal was to take it to a professor who’d give it the respect she felt it deserved.

A professor of botany at Macdonald Campus.

Jean-Guy and Isabelle were on their way there to confirm that and see if they could find out what became of her donation and, if possible, what the documents contained. And also, to find out what Brian Fillmore wanted in exchange for his sudden and sizable donation.

It was, it must be, a quid pro quo.

But what did he believe was still in the Macdonald archives that was worth a donation of almost a million dollars? Had something been left behind by the unfortunate professor whose papers were considered far more valuable than his body?

And what was Jeanette Bouchard’s role in all this? Why had she disappeared?

It was late in the day by the time Armand turned down the long, long overgrown drive that led to Wolcott House, the estate where Daisy’s newly wealthy father had settled his family. The home where she’d been raised by a distant father and a disappointed mother.

Where a housemaid had watched over the awkward child and introduced her to the wonders of the natural world.

Where Daisy Wolcott had planted her extraordinary garden. Then left it to explore far and wide, much farther and far wider than any of her male contemporaries. And while they might have returned with many of the same plant species, what she came back with was knowledge. An understanding of the power of those exotic plants gained by sitting still. And listening. And perhaps, sometimes, by walking.

He got out of the car, and in the soft light of late afternoon, he contemplated what he saw.

A wreck. A long-abandoned pile. Had it ever been gracious and welcoming? Armand doubted it. And time had not added to its charm.

The home was huge, with turrets and wings. And crumbling chimney stacks that would scare away even Mary Poppins.

This was a mansion built to impress, though it almost certainly had had the opposite effect. Where the old families, the landed gentry, never talked about money, this place screamed wealth. It was garish. Ostentatious.

And derelict.

A wave of sadness washed over Armand. He tried to imagine a curious and sensitive little girl raised here. What a miracle that she’d discovered a passion. And, apparently, been very good at it. In another time, Daisy Wolcott would probably hold a named chair at Cambridge, running the department of plant sciences. Perhaps even, probably even, given a knighthood, becoming Dame Daisy Wolcott, Esq. For her contributions to botany.

But instead, she was born into this derelict family. At a censorious time.

“Oh, Madame Wolcott,” he whispered. “I wish I’d known you.” He smiled as his imagination conjured an evening in the bistro with Miss Daisy and Ruth Zardo.

A sign by the front door had fallen over and been half swallowed by bushes. Indeed, in perhaps poetic justice, the entire building was overrun. Trees, bushes, flowers, and weeds had invaded and taken possession of the once grand home.

Armand yanked the sign out of the prickly bush, scratching his hands in the process. In large, now faded print, it warned that the building was unsafe.

He sent off a text to Reine-Marie, then another to Jean-Guy and Isabelle, telling them where he was. Best if someone knew. In case.

The thick oak door had already been partially opened. He slipped through and looked around.

Isabelle read the Chief’s text, then another came in. This one from Gabri.

“Merde,” she whispered, and showed Jean-Guy.