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“I did,” said Gabri. “I think he said he was in shipping. Or was it shopping?”

There were several long sighs around the table. Most from the Sûreté officers.

“All I know is that he said he was a cousin, and we talked about art. And Peter. He has one of Peter’s works. Here’s the sketch of Jeanette Bouchard.”

Armand took it. With a few confident strokes of a charcoal pencil, Clara had brought this young woman alive. She had short, close-cropped hair, a round face, thin lips, and inquisitive, almost sly eyes. She looked about to ask a question.

“You didn’t like her,” he said as he passed it along to Jean-Guy and Isabelle.

“I didn’t know her.” But as Armand continued to stare at her, she relented. “Okay. I didn’t like her. She was…” Clara searched for the word. “Obsequious. Made my skin crawl.”

“What’s wrong with obsequious?” Gabri whispered to Olivier, who shrugged.

“I wasn’t sure why she came down,” Clara continued. “She claimed to be an artist writing an article on Peter, but she didn’t seem to know much about him.”

“Or you,” said Myrna, always loyal to her friend. “If she really was an artist, she’d know Clara Morrow.”

Clara waved away the compliment, but not too vigorously.

“And she’d sure know your painting of Ruth,” said Myrna.

Clara’s portrait of Ruth as the old, embittered, and forgotten Virgin Mary was justifiably famous and had propelled the obscure artist in the tiny village to the top of the artistic heap. Though that heap was slippery, and often smelly. And very difficult to stay on.

“Didn’t you find her snooping in Peter’s studio,” said Myrna.

“Yes. I’d gone to make tea, and when I returned, there she was. She apologized.”

“Do you know if she went into the crawl space, or the attic?” Armand asked, and was not surprised to see their surprised faces.

“You asked about that before,” said Clara.

“I asked if you’d gone in.”

“True, but you’ve gotta know, Armand, that if I’d found either of them in the crawl space or the attic, I’d have mentioned it.”

Armand smiled. It would be hard to forget that.

“Didn’t you think that cousin had also been in Peter’s studio?” said Myrna.

“Well, I wasn’t sure.” Clara turned to Armand. “I found Brian holding the door handle. I’m not sure if he was just coming out or going in. He had that guilty look, and said he’d gotten lost and was looking for the bathroom.”

Armand twisted in his seat to look at the modest cottage. It would be very hard to get lost in it.

Now why, Armand asked himself, would there be two visits, one on top of another, by strangers suddenly interested in Peter Morrow, a dead Canadian artist who had achieved mediocre success?

“Interesting what Dr. Lagacé said about that plant we found in the cemetery,” said Isabelle. “Have any of you heard of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost?”

“There’s a plant called that?” said Gabri. “I want one.”

“You can’t,” said Jean-Guy. “It’s extinct, or at least Dr. Lagacé thought it was. She was pretty excited.”

“Wait a minute,” said Myrna. “Are you talking about the Chief Botanist at the Montréal Botanical Gardens? She also teaches at McGill’s agricultural college.”

“We are. How do you know her?” said Isabelle.

“She’s famous.” She looked at their blank faces. “Her essay in the RHS Botany for Gardeners on plant origins is genius.”

For a moment, Jean-Guy thought the RHS Botany for Gardeners might be a ship. Like the Botany Bay. But to call a naval vessel Botany for Gardeners seemed unlikely, even for the English.