“It was his life’s work,” said Rosenblatt. “Guillaume was a nice man, in many ways a gentle man. But he was unbothered by a conscience. He had no imagination. No, that’s probably unfair. He was myopic. Shortsighted. He only saw the challenge, the scheme. He didn’t look beyond that, to what his plans would actually do.”

“So what does that mean?” Beauvoir demanded. “Would he have kept the plans or not?”

“I think so,” said Rosenblatt. “They were the work of a lifetime. Without doubt the highlight of his career.” He considered for a moment. “You say the woman killed last night was his niece?”

“She lived in his home,” said Gamache.

In the background, the clock on the bistro mantel struck the hour. Midnight.

“And you didn’t find the plans?” Rosenblatt asked.

Gamache shook his head and in the silence the clock continued to sound. One measured stroke after another.

“You think the killer has the designs for Project Babylon,” said Rosenblatt.

“I think it’s possible. We have to assume he found them,” said Gamache.

The clock struck one last time, then stopped.

Michael Rosenblatt looked at it, then back at Gamache.

“The chimes at midnight, Chief Inspector,” he said quietly. “It’s later than we thought.”

Beauvoir saw a look pass between the two men and knew he’d missed some reference. But not the meaning.

They walked the professor back to the B and B and made sure he got up to his room. A light was on under Mary Fraser’s door, and Gamache paused, then tapped.

“What’re you doing?” Beauvoir whispered.

“The CSIS agents need to know that the plans might’ve been found,” Gamache whispered back.

“Just a minute,” came Mary Fraser’s pleasant voice. The door opened and she stood there adjusting an unexpectedly frilly dressing gown. “Oh.”

“You were expecting someone else?” Jean-Guy asked.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you,” she said. She had her glasses on and papers were spread out on the bed. Jean-Guy strained to get a look at them, but she stepped out and closed the door.

“What can I do for you? It must be late.” She peered at her watch. “It’s past midnight.”

It’s later than we thought. Rosenblatt’s words drifted into Beauvoir’s mind.

“The plans might’ve been found,” said Armand.

The bookish woman who lived in a filing cabinet disappeared and a much sharper person stood before them, albeit in a frilly pink dressing gown.

“Come with me,” said the CSIS agent, and led them downstairs and into the farthest corner of the B and B’s living room.

“Should we get Monsieur Delorme?” Gamache asked.

“No need,” she said, taking a seat. “You can tell me and I’ll pass the information on to him.”

Gamache and Beauvoir sat in the two remaining armchairs.

“You might have heard about another murder in the area,” said Gamache. “A woman named Antoinette Lemaitre.”

“Yes, the owner of the B and B told me. He seems to be town crier.”

“Antoinette Lemaitre was Guillaume Couture’s niece.”

Fraser stared at Gamache, the words sliding off her expressionless face to drop into silence. It took effort for an intelligent person to look that vacant, and Gamache suspected she was working very, very hard at that moment.

“Whose niece?” she asked.

“Please, madame,” said Gamache. “We have no time for this. You know as well as I do that Guillaume Couture worked with Gerald Bull at HARP, and almost certainly on the Supergun.”

Once again he took the photograph out of his pocket. Unfolding it, he handed it to her. Her brows rose very slightly, creating tiny crevices in her forehead.

“You cannot possibly be an expert on Gerald Bull and not know that,” said Gamache.

Mary Fraser folded the picture in half and offered it back.

“Dr. Bull had many colleagues. Including, might I remind you, Professor Rosenblatt.”

“True, but Professor Rosenblatt’s niece wasn’t just murdered and the home he once owned ransacked,” said Gamache, taking back the photograph. “Time is running out and your evasions are wasting what little we have left. You seem to be treating this as some sort of game. We know all about Dr. Couture.”

“You know nothing,” she hissed. “You’re mired in guesses, not facts. And don’t you ever presume to lecture me about the importance of what we’re doing. You gave up that right when you ran away to this quaint little village with its café au laits and village fêtes. Do you know what I see when I look at you?”