“I think we’ll go to the bistro, patron,” said Beauvoir. “See what people are talking about.”

“You know what they’re talking about, numbnuts,” snapped Ruth. “Al Lepage.”

“And are you helping spread the rumors, Ruth?” Armand asked.

She glared at him, then shook her head and went back to her drink.

“Should she be…?” Beauvoir tipped his hand up to his mouth.

“It’s tea,” said Armand as they walked to the front door. “We put it in the Glenfiddich bottle.”

“And she doesn’t know?” asked Lacoste.

“If she does, she doesn’t say,” said Gamache. “Thank you for coming over and keeping me informed.”

“Always, patron,” said Lacoste. “Why don’t you join us for breakfast at the B and B? We’ll see if our little social experiment of throwing the professor and the CSIS agents together has produced anything.”

“Like an explosion?” he asked, and agreed to meet them for breakfast.

*   *   *

“Oh, dear.”

Mary Fraser sat straight up in bed the next morning and stared at the softly closing door. The footsteps retreated down the corridor of the B and B and she heard a tap next door.

The owner, Gabri, was bringing up morning coffee. And news.

And now Mary felt like bringing up too.

“It’s all over the village,” he’d said as he put the cup of strong, rich coffee on the bedside table and fluffed up her pillows. “About the gun. Crème?”

“What gun?” Mary Fraser had asked, hauling herself upright and pulling the warm duvet over her flannel nightgown, for modesty.

The large, friendly man had walked to the door and now he turned and gave her an astute look. Then a quick and forgiving smile.

“You know which gun. The one in the woods. The one you’re here to see.”

“Oh. That one.” She could think of nothing more intelligent to say.

“Yes, that one. They’re calling it a Supergun.”

“Who’re ‘they’?” she asked.

“Oh, you know. ‘Them.’”

He left to deliver the morning coffee and spread the word. The word being “Supergun.”

“Oh, dear,” she whispered. And then amended that to “Merde.”

*   *   *

“Merci,” said Sean Delorme, coming out of the bathroom, razor in hand, foam on his face, to thank the innkeeper for the coffee. And the news.

Once the door had swung shut, he sank down on the side of the bed and stared at the closed door. Then out the window, where fresh air was blowing in from the mist-covered forest and across the village green. Below, he saw villagers stopping to talk. Hands were waving, gesturing. He could almost hear them.

Huge, one was saying, spreading his arms wide.

The other nodded. And pointed. Into the woods.

Despite the fresh, slightly pine-scented air, the CSIS agent smelt a foul odor.

“Fuck, fuck, shit.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “Oh, dear.”

*   *   *

“Well.”

Michael Rosenblatt sat in bed and sipped coffee and watched the commotion on the village green.