And once again, Armand was left to wonder why Professor Rosenblatt was still there instead of at home in front of his fireplace, safe and warm.

*   *   *

Clara and Myrna approached the bench and sat, one on either side of the professor.

“Good morning,” said Clara. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the howling wind. “How did you sleep?”

“I’m afraid I had a little too much to drink last night,” he said. “I came out here for fresh air.”

“Well, there’s lots of that,” said Myrna, trying to keep her scarf off her face. On the other side of the professor, Clara was fighting with her hair.

Rosenblatt offered them some of his stale bread to toss to the chickadees and blue jays and robins.

“Ravenous,” he said. “Now I understand where that expression comes from.”

The bread they threw was caught by the wind and tumbled across the green, chased by the leaves and the birds.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” said Rosenblatt, watching the commotion caused by the bread.

“It’s awful,” said Clara. “But what makes it worse is that no one is telling us anything. We wondered if you could answer some questions.”

“I’ll try.”

“We heard that Antoinette’s death might be linked to Laurent’s,” said Myrna. “Is that true?”

“I think the police suspect that might be true,” he said.

“But how?” Clara asked. “The gun is somehow involved, right?”

“Yes. But I really can’t tell you more. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?” asked Clara.

“You’re friends with Monsieur Gamache, why don’t you ask him?”

Myrna smiled. “Because he won’t tell us.”

“So you’re trying to get me in trouble, ladies?” It was said with amusement and charm, but also without any weakening on his part.

“You know something, don’t you?” said Myrna. “When Isabelle Lacoste told us about Antoinette you said something. A quote. About some rough beast, and Bethlehem.”

“I wish I could take credit, but I was just reading what your friend Ruth had written in her notebook.”

“It’s a quote, right?” said Myrna.

“I believe so,” said Rosenblatt. “Shakespeare probably. Isn’t everything? Or the Bible.”

“It must’ve meant something to you, for you to not just read what Ruth had written, but to say it out loud,” said Clara. “You must’ve agreed.”

Michael Rosenblatt pressed his lips together and lowered his head, either in thought or against the particularly violent gust that hit them.

“I don’t know what’s confidential and what’s public knowledge.” His words were whipped away as soon as they were out of his mouth, but Clara and Myrna were close enough to catch them.

He studied Clara, obviously weighing some decision.