“True, but Professor Rosenblatt’s niece wasn’t just murdered and the home he once owned ransacked,” said Gamache, taking back the photograph. “Time is running out and your evasions are wasting what little we have left. You seem to be treating this as some sort of game. We know all about Dr. Couture.”

“You know nothing,” she hissed. “You’re mired in guesses, not facts. And don’t you ever presume to lecture me about the importance of what we’re doing. You gave up that right when you ran away to this quaint little village with its café au laits and village fêtes. Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

“Yes, you told me this afternoon. A suspect, maybe even a pedophile because I happen to have cared about a nine-year-old boy.”

Mary Fraser had managed to get under his skin and now the sore erupted.

“No,” she said. “I see a hypocrite. You saw the chance to retire and you took it, knowing no one would blame you. I see a man bloated with croissants and fear, desperate to hide out in this little village, beyond harm and beyond reproach while the rest of us keep fighting. And then you pass judgment on me? You’re a disgrace, monsieur.”

“That’s it—” said Beauvoir.

“Non,” said Gamache, breaking eye contact with Fraser to look at Jean-Guy. “Non,” he said, regaining his own composure.

Then he turned back to Mary Fraser.

“I didn’t come up here to discuss my choices,” he said. “But to warn you that someone killed Antoinette Lemaitre then tore her home apart last night. We think he was looking for the plans to Project Babylon.”

“That’s a big leap,” said Mary Fraser.

“Is it? We have every reason to believe Guillaume Couture designed the Supergun. Not Gerald Bull. Dr. Bull was the salesman, and Dr. Couture was the scientist. That’s why the gun was built here, because Dr. Couture knew the area. Knew the people. And knew no one would come looking for Project Babylon in a Québec forest. It was perfect. Until someone killed Gerald Bull.”

“These are all guesses,” she said.

“You seem resistant to the possibility,” said Gamache. “Why is that? We have a direct line connecting Dr. Couture to Gerald Bull—”

“—you have a grainy old photograph.”

“We have more than that,” he said, but Beauvoir noticed he stopped short of implicating Professor Rosenblatt.

The CSIS agent seemed perfectly composed. Her hands rested in her lap, but the fingers were tightly intertwined, turning the tips white.

“None of this is news to you, is it?” Gamache asked, tumbling to the truth. “You knew all along. Was that the file you were reading this afternoon? The name you were trying to hide from me? It was Guillaume Couture.”

She sat up straighter, as though bracing herself.