“Why would I do that? I don’t even like the man.”

“You don’t have to like him to protect him. Do you think he did it?” Monsieur Béliveau asked.

“Do I think Al Lepage killed his own son?” asked Ruth. “It would be a terrible thing. But terrible things happen, don’t they, Clément?”

“Oui.”

Monsieur Béliveau was quiet for a moment, looking out the kitchen door to the rectangle of freshly turned earth in her backyard. She followed his gaze.

“The Fleming play,” Ruth said. “She Sat Down and Wept. A reference to the psalm, of course.”

“Babylon,” he said. “You buried it?”

“I tried to, but Armand came and asked for it.”

“You gave it to him?” It was as close as she’d seen the grocer come to anger.

“I had no choice. He knew I had it.”

Clément Béliveau nodded, his eyes drawn back to the dark hole in the bright green grass. A dead thing among the living.

“Does he know?”

Ruth shook her head. “And I won’t tell him. I’ll keep my word.”

Though words, Ruth knew, were what had gotten them into trouble in the first place.

“Project Babylon,” said Monsieur Béliveau under his breath. “And now it is now. And the dark thing is here.”

Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

Jean-Guy arrived in the dining room of the B and B to find Isabelle Lacoste sitting alone at a large table by the fireplace, rereading the printouts on Gerald Bull that Madame Gamache had found and Gamache had given them the night before.

Gabri had laid, and lit, the fire. An autumn fog had descended, rolling down the cold mountains to pool in the valley. It would burn off in an hour or so, but for now the cheerful little fire was welcome.

“Salut,” said Beauvoir, sitting down. “Did you hear? Someone leaked the news about the gun.”

He took a warm crumpet from the basket on the table and watched as the butter melted into the holes. Then he smeared it with marmalade. His uncle, a devout Québécois separatist, had introduced him to the pleasures of crumpets and marmalade, apparently unaware he was consorting with, and consuming, the enemy.

But allegiances, Jean-Guy knew, lived in the head, not the stomach. He took a huge bite and nodded when Gabri offered to bring a café au lait.

“I did hear,” said Lacoste.

“Makes the investigation into Laurent’s murder easier,” said Jean-Guy. “We can now talk about what he found. But I know two people who’re going to be mighty pissed. Speak of the devil.”

Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme appeared at the door of the dining room and looked around.

Isabelle Lacoste waved them over.

“Would you like to join us?” she said.

“News of Gerald Bull’s Supergun is all over the village,” said Sean Delorme without preamble. “How did that happen?”

He glared at them.