“Why would anyone?” asked Gamache. “Money, almost certainly. Enough to start his own bar. To keep it running. To paint and travel. And all he had to do was deliver art supplies once or twice a year. And take the finished paintings back to Toronto.”

“And he could pretend he didn’t even know they were infected,” said Peter. “What did Massey do with the finished paintings?”

“He must have destroyed them,” said Gamache. “All except one. Myrna and Reine-Marie saw it, in Massey’s studio. Massey claimed it for his own, and they didn’t question it, but they did say it was far, far better than the rest.”

“Why’d he keep it?” Peter asked.

“I’ve been wondering that myself,” said Gamache. “Why would Massey keep one of Norman’s small masterpieces? As a trophy? Killers sometimes do.”

“I think it might be simpler than that,” said Peter. “For all his faults, Professor Massey loved art. Knew art. I think that painting by Professor Norman must’ve been so great even he couldn’t destroy it.”

Peter sighed, a deep exhale. And Gamache knew what he was thinking about. The masterpiece in his own life. The one he’d destroyed. Not Clara’s painting, but her love.

*   *   *

“I’ve come too far, and waited too long.” Clara got to her feet. “I’m going.”

Myrna stood in front of her in the diner, blocking her route out.

Clara stared at her.

“I have to know,” Clara whispered, so that only Myrna could hear. “Please. Let me go.”

Myrna stepped toward Clara, who stood her ground.

And then she stepped aside.

And let her go.

*   *   *

“Clara waited for you,” said Gamache quietly. “That night of your anniversary.”

Peter opened his mouth but the words were stuck at the lump in his throat.

“I wrote,” he said at last. “To say I wasn’t going to make it, but that I’d be home as soon as I could. I gave it to that young pilot.”

“She never got the letter.”

“Oh, my God. That shithead must’ve lost it. She must think I don’t care. Oh no. Oh, Christ. She must hate me.”

Peter stood up and started for the door. “I have to go. I have to get home. I have to speak to her, to tell her. The plane’ll be here soon. I have to be on it.”

Gamache put out his hand and gripped Peter’s arm.

Peter tried to jerk free. “Let me go. I have to go.”

“She’s here,” said Gamache. “She came to find you.”

Chapter 40

FORTY

“Clara’s here?” Peter demanded. “Where?”

“She’s with Myrna at the diner,” said Gamache.

“I’m going,” he said.

“No, you need to stay here until Beauvoir returns and we know where we stand. I’m sorry, Peter, but the priority has to be to arrest Vachon for murder. Time enough to see Clara after that.”