“How can this be?” Beauvoir asked, his brows drawn together. “Am I reading it right?”

Gamache had gone over the report two or three times himself. Quickly the first time, scanning the familiar form down to the pertinent line. And there he stopped, as though hitting a wall.

Then he went back and read more carefully. But the conclusion never changed.

The powdery substance in the container wasn’t a pharmaceutical. It was natural. But not the prettiest side of nature.

Asbestos.

The two men lifted their eyes from the screen and stared at each other.

“What does it mean?” asked Jean-Guy.

Gamache got to his feet. “See what you can find out about asbestos.”

“Right.”

Beauvoir excelled at finding facts. Tracking them down, analyzing them, putting them in their place. Not like an automaton, but a skilled and thoughtful investigator.

Gamache left Beauvoir on the laptop in the lounge and went to the communications office of the ship, where they printed out copies of the report. Then he went on deck and found Clara and Myrna on a bench, talking.

“Am I disturbing you?” he asked.

“No, but you look a little disturbed,” said Myrna, and patted the seat next to her.

He took it, and told them the latest findings.

“Asbestos?” said Clara. “Could it be natural? I mean, isn’t asbestos mined in Québec?”

“Oui. There’s a whole town called Asbestos,” Gamache confirmed. “Built around mining it. But that’s a long way off. This asbestos was found inside mailing tubes, like the one Peter’s canvases came in.”

“How’d it get there?” Clara asked.

“Where would you even get asbestos these days?” asked Myrna. “I thought it was all removed and destroyed decades ago.”

“It was,” said Gamache. “There was asbestos removed from the art college the year after you graduated, Clara.”

“I remember hearing about it,” she said.

“It was happening all over,” said Myrna. “I was working in a hospital and they found it in the walls. Used for insulation. No one thought it was dangerous, of course. At the time. And when they found out it was, they had to remove it. Big mess.”

“Big mess,” said Gamache.

“But how’d it get buried in some field in Charlevoix?” asked Clara.

“In a mailing tube,” said Myrna.

The three of them stared at the coastline, and the gulls dipping and floating on the air currents. Their movements growing increasingly erratic as the currents grew increasingly unstable. The gulls themselves seemed surprised, and cried out, as they were tossed about.

Gamache watched this, then looked into the sky. It was dull and gray. Not bright, but neither was it threatening.

“Excuse-moi,” he said.

He went inside and called the college. The principal confirmed that work was done, according to Canadian law and code, back in the 1980s.

“Could someone take some of that asbestos?” Gamache asked.