“I just realized it myself,” said Jean-Guy. “The B and B was a boardinghouse when Fleming was here. He set the play there. But what does it mean? We still don’t know where the plans are. Nobody lost anything in the play.”

“True, but every character was in search of something, and they all went to the same place hoping to find it. Remember?”

“Milk,” said Beauvoir. “The hardware store.”

“Which is now the bistro.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Gamache took Olivier and Gabri aside, well aware that Rosenblatt was watching, and no longer caring. It no longer mattered. There was no “longer” left.

It was twenty to six.

“The B and B was a boardinghouse when you moved here, right?”

The two men nodded, attentive, alert, picking up on the urgency.

“And this was a hardware store?”

“Oui,” said Olivier.

“You obviously did major renovations,” said Gamache. “Did you find anything in the walls, the floors?”

Please Lord, please Lord, he thought.

“All sorts of things,” said Gabri. “We took the place down to the studs. The walls were insulated with old newspapers and mummified squirrels.”

“The papers,” said Gamache, speaking clearly, deliberately. “Where are they?”

“We put them in the blanket box over there.” He waved at the pine chest in front of the fireplace. They’d been using it as a coffee table and footstool for years.

“We always meant to read them,” said Gabri, following Gamache over there. “Some are really old.”

Beauvoir arrived and joined them at the blanket box.

“They found papers when they did the renovations,” said Gamache, kneeling in front of the box. “They’re all in here.”

“Let me help.”

They looked up and into the eyes of Professor Rosenblatt.

“Please,” said the elderly scientist.

Gamache and Beauvoir exchanged a quick glance, then Gamache nodded. They emptied the contents of the heavy wooden box onto the area rug. Behind them the fire in the grate mumbled and popped as though sensing something flammable nearby.

Gabri and Olivier joined them on the floor and Professor Rosenblatt sat on the sofa as they divvied up the pile.

“Carefully,” said Gamache. “No panic, look at everything carefully. The plans might appear to be something else. Examine a piece of paper, then set it aside, then take the next—”

But they were already racing through the great mound of papers.

The phone rang and Olivier got up to answer it.

“It’s for you.” He held the receiver out to Jean-Guy.

“Take a message.”

“The message is ‘Fuck you,’” said Olivier, returning to the hunt. “I think you can guess who that was. She wants the two of you to share a Lysol.”

After a minute or so, Gamache looked at Beauvoir. “I think you should go see her.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” said Beauvoir, getting up.

“Who?” asked Rosenblatt, setting aside a copy of the Québec Gazette from 1778.

“Ruth,” said Gabri.

“He’s going to help her clean? Now?”