“No, really. I know from my time on the stage—” He paused dramatically, daring them to make a rude comment. For some reason, the silence seemed even more insulting. “—that something can sound completely different when lifted off the page by a good actor.”

“If only we had one of those,” said Ruth.

“Well, we have nothing to lose,” said Olivier.

“That’s the spirit,” said Myrna.

But Gamache and Beauvoir knew that wasn’t true. They had the most precious of commodities to lose. Time. It would be five thirty by the time they finished reading Fleming’s play. There would be no time for anything else.

Armand had told them in broad strokes why they were there. They divvied up roles, leaving Gamache and Beauvoir as the audience, then began the read-through.

Some, like Ruth, simply read their lines, while others, like Clara, threw themselves into their roles. Gabri, who’d allowed himself to be talked into the male lead, shot annoyed glances at Clara when it became clear she had a hidden talent.

The other revelation was Monsieur Béliveau, who started off quite stilted but, inspired by Clara’s all-in performance, rose to the occasion and by the second act had everyone in stitches as the comic-relief owner of the hardware store that had everything except what the other characters really wanted. Milk. Every character went into the hardware store looking for milk.

It became a leitmotif of the play.

What was not revealed, however, was the whereabouts of the plans.

When the final word was spoken and silence descended, they looked over at Armand and Jean-Guy, who were leaning forward in their chairs hoping to catch that one vital word or phrase.

But there were no more words. They’d run out of play.

Gamache pulled out his device, which kept accurate time.

It was five twenty-three. Thirty-seven minutes left.

He looked at Brian. “Anything?”

“I’m sorry, nothing struck me.”

“Anyone?” asked Gamache.

They all shook their heads.

Gamache got up and thanked them sincerely.

“There’s something you need to know,” he said. He’d debated telling them about the CBC broadcast, but decided they’d hear it themselves soon enough. “The CBC is about to air a story on Gerald Bull’s gun being found.”

They looked surprised, but not yet shocked.

“What does that mean?” Myrna asked.

“Well, they don’t know where it is,” he said, and saw relief in their faces. “But it’s just a matter of time. Once they find out, then everyone will come here.”

“Everyone?” asked Myrna. “Who’s ‘everyone’? Journalists, of course, but who else?”