“I find people are less suspicious of grandfathers,” Rosenblatt admitted. “So I created David. But I’ve spoken of him so often, I can almost see him. He’s skinny and dark-haired and smells of Ivory soap and bubblegum, which I give him behind his mother’s back. Some days he’s more real to me than people who actually exist.”

Michael Rosenblatt looked down at his hands. “That goddamned gun in the woods is real but my grandson isn’t. What a world.”

Armand glanced at the clock, ticking. “There’s something you should know. I spoke to John Fleming this morning.”

It was Rosenblatt’s turn to grow very still.

“I know he worked with Gerald Bull,” said Gamache. “I know he was here in Three Pines. I know he was in Brussels with Dr. Bull and Guillaume Couture. And I know he killed Gerald Bull. But I also believe it was not his idea.”

Gamache once again brought out the old photograph of the three men, the unholy trinity.

“I showed this to you once before. There’s Dr. Bull, Dr. Couture, and John Fleming. But someone else was there that day, wasn’t there? The person who took this picture and ordered the death of Gerald Bull.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“It doesn’t matter what you think. It was long ago. It’s done.”

“It’s not done,” Gamache snapped, lowering instead of raising his voice, so that it came out a growl. “What has happened here is a direct consequence of that decision that day. The war wasn’t won, it went dormant. And now it’s flaring up.”

“You must understand—” Rosenblatt began.

“I don’t need justifications, I need clear answers. Who was there that day? Who took this picture? Was it you? Who’s behind all this?”

“It wasn’t me,” said Rosenblatt. “I swear. If I had anything to tell you I would. The thought of those plans falling into someone else’s hands sickens me.”

“John Fleming is coming here,” said Gamache, his voice struggling back to normal. He picked up the photograph and got to his feet.

“What?”

“If we don’t find the plans by six, he’ll be brought here. And all will be revealed. The plans, and everything else.”

“You can’t,” Rosenblatt rasped. “The man’s a monster.”

“Oui. Man-made. And whose idea was he?”

Chapter 39

CHAPTER 39

They sat on chairs in a semicircle in the Gamache living room. Fortunately the play didn’t have a huge cast. A few boarders at the rooming house, the landlady, and the proprietor of the hardware store next door.

“You want us to read this out loud?” asked Monsieur Béliveau, holding the script as though it was written in urine.

“Actually, I like the idea,” said Gabri.

“You would,” said Clara.