Brian pursed his lips, thinking, then shook his head. “There might’ve been and I just didn’t notice. I don’t think I’m all that observant. I wish I’d been home. I should’ve been home.”

“Whoever did this would’ve just waited until you were gone the next time,” said Armand. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

Gamache didn’t say it, but he believed Antoinette’s life was over as soon as Laurent found the gun and started telling everyone, and when the CSIS agents decided not to tell anyone about her uncle.

“Did anyone ever come asking about Guillaume Couture?” Armand asked.

“Not that I know of. He died before I met her.” Brian looked down at his coffee mug, as though he’d never seen one before. “I don’t know what to do.”

Armand nodded. He understood that with loss came the overwhelming feeling of being lost. Directionless.

“I can’t go home,” said Brian. “Not yet.”

Gamache knew he meant emotionally, but he also wouldn’t be allowed home.

Not surprisingly, Lacoste had called first thing with the news that Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme had an injunction to search Antoinette’s home themselves. Alone. Though Gamache had the feeling the injunction was just for show. He was pretty sure they’d already been there. Already searched. Without benefit or need of legal approval.

“I might go to the theater today,” said Brian. “I think I’d feel close to her there. Better than sitting around the B and B all day. And I don’t really want to talk to anyone, you know?”

“Let me drive you,” said Armand, getting up. “I’m heading in that direction myself.”

At the door they found the clothing.

“Here,” said Armand. “Put on one of the sweaters while I make a phone call.”

He went into the study, closed the door firmly, then called a private number in Ottawa. It was eight thirty. After a brief exchange he hung up.

By noon they should know more about Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme.

Brian was waiting for him at the front door, wearing Armand’s favorite blue cashmere sweater.

“A bit big for you, I’m afraid,” said Gamache, rolling up the sleeves for him.

“Are you going to Knowlton too?” Brian asked.

“No, a few kilometers beyond. I can drop you at the theater then pick you up in a couple of hours, if that’s all right.”

He didn’t say he was going to Highwater. The fewer people who knew, the better.

As they drove away, Gamache saw Professor Rosenblatt sitting on the bench, bundled against the brisk wind and tossing bread to the birds. Autumn leaves, blown off the trees, swirled in a whirlwind about him, mixing with the excited birds and airborne bread so that it looked like nature had gone mad around the elderly physicist.