Armand got up and stood by the fireplace, his back to her, looking at the flames. Then he turned around.
“You’re right, of course. John Fleming is in his early seventies now. Far too young to be Gerald Bull. That was foolish of me. My imagination run wild again.”
He ran his large hands through his hair and smiled an apology.
“Still, I’d like to know more about that play. How it came into the possession of Antoinette’s uncle, for instance.”
“Does it matter? Antoinette said he probably picked it up at a flea market. People collect strange things. Maybe he collected the macabre. Items associated with crimes or criminals.”
“But neither Brian nor Antoinette mentioned a collection,” said Armand. “Why would an engineer who showed no interest at all in the theater buy any script, never mind one by the most brutal killer in the country?”
Reine-Marie stared at him. It was, she had to admit, an interesting question.
He took a deep breath and shook his head, then smiled at her. “You have a lot of patience, ma belle.”
“Not as much as you might think.”
He smiled again. “Nor should you. You’ve put up with all this for far too long. It’s supposed to be over.”
He kissed her and walked to the door, inviting Henri along.
“I think I’ll get some fresh air. Clear my head.”
“It has gotten a little crowded in there. Why don’t I meet you at the bistro for tea in, say, twenty minutes?”
“Parfait. By then the eviction notices will have been served.”
CHAPTER 16
It was getting dark by the time the Gamaches returned home from the bistro. They found Ruth in the living room sipping Scotch from a measuring cup and eating leftover casserole while Rosa nibbled on a wild rice salad.
Reine-Marie sat down next to the poet while Armand went into the kitchen to wash up and prepare dinner.
“We’ve been waiting for you.”
Gamache leapt, startled, then grabbed his chest.
“Jesus,” he gasped. “You scared me half to death.”
“Something’s very wrong, patron,” said Isabelle Lacoste, getting up from her chair, “when seeing Ruth is normal and we’re the ones who frighten you.”
He laughed, recovering, though he’d been genuinely alarmed.
“I thought we locked the door,” he said.
“Ruth walks through walls,” said Jean-Guy. “You should know that by now.”
“What did you want to see me about?” Gamache dried his hands on a dish towel and turned to face them.
“The forensics are back,” said Isabelle, getting herself a beer and taking her seat again. “They found one set of fresh prints on the missile launcher. Laurent’s. But there were also smudges. Our killer touched it, but wore gloves.”
“What did you find on Laurent’s stick and cassette tape?” asked Gamache.
“All sorts on the stick, including yours. But on the cassette we only found three sets. Laurent’s own, of course, as well as his parents’. You were right. The cassette must’ve belonged to the Lepages.”
“Doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” said Armand, joining them at the long pine table.
“No,” Beauvoir agreed. “But it could mean everything. It could mean that the cassette dropped from the murderer’s pocket in the struggle, or as he picked the boy up. If not, then how did it get there?”
Armand nodded. It made sense, of course. It might not be a smoking gun, but it was a pointing finger. Right at Al Lepage. With some surprise Armand realized he felt protective of Al Lepage. Perhaps because he liked the man and felt Laurent’s father was suffering enough without the added weight of suspicion.
But suspicion was inevitable and often turned out to be true. People were almost always killed by someone they knew, and knew well, which compounded the tragedy and was probably why, Gamache thought, so many murder victims did not look frightened. They looked surprised. While Gamache liked Al Lepage, and sympathized with him, he’d arrested enough grieving family members for murder to know that Laurent’s father was a legitimate suspect.
And he wasn’t the only one who thought so. While he and Reine-Marie were at the bistro they’d heard the conversations, the rumors. Suspicion was settling on Laurent’s father.
“We’ve interviewed the Lepages once,” said Jean-Guy. “And searched the house. But we’ll go out again tomorrow.”
Gamache nodded. He understood that Beauvoir and Lacoste did not need to report to him, and they weren’t. They were simply informing him. It was a courtesy, not a requirement.
“I saw you taking some people into the woods.”
“Yes. Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme,” said Lacoste. “CSIS. Low-level functionaries.”
“File clerks,” said Jean-Guy, opening the fridge and taking out a ginger ale.
“But they know a great deal about Gerald Bull,” said Lacoste.
She told him what they’d told her about the arms dealer.
“They also know our Professor Rosenblatt,” said Jean-Guy. “And he knows them. There’s not a lot of love lost.”
“Why not?” asked Armand.
“He thinks they’re hiding something,” said Jean-Guy. “He suspects the Canadian government might’ve been more involved with Gerald Bull than they’re willing to admit.”
“His work or his murder?” asked Gamache.
“I’m not sure,” said Beauvoir. “But he did say Fraser and Delorme might not have been as surprised about the Supergun as they appeared. He doesn’t trust them.”
“And they don’t trust him,” said Lacoste. “They think it’s odd that the retired professor is so obsessed with a long-dead arms dealer. And so do I.”
“What do you make of the CSIS people?” Gamache asked.
“They seem straightforward enough,” she said. “A little out of their depth perhaps.”
“What is it?” asked Gamache. “You’re smiling.”
“They remind me of my parents,” said Lacoste. “Bickering and a little baffled. They’re sort of endearing. But they’re also not fools. They’re very good at what they do, it’s just that what they do is filing, correlating. Not fieldwork.”
“So why were they sent?”
“Probably because they know more than anyone else about Gerald Bull and his work,” said Beauvoir.
“Did you call them in?” he asked Lacoste, who shook her head.
“They just showed up. I think General Langelier at CFB Valcartier must’ve called someone at CSIS. He said he’d try to find us someone who could help. But I don’t think anyone really believed that what we found was Project Babylon. I think if they did believe it they’d have also sent some higher-ranking intelligence agents. I expect some to arrive any moment now.”
She gazed out the window at the quiet village.
“They want to keep the existence of the Supergun secret, which might suit their purposes—”
“But it makes investigating Laurent’s murder almost impossible,” said Jean-Guy. “But I guess we have no choice.”
“Mmmm,” said Gamache. “There’s something I think you should see.”
He got up and returned a minute later with the papers he and Reine-Marie had left in the living room. Had Ruth read them? Had she learned about Gerald Bull and Project Babylon? And realized that was what was hidden in the woods?