“Not complete misdirection,” said Beauvoir. “Laurent wasn’t killed because he was Laurent, he was killed because he found the weapon, and Antoinette was killed because her uncle designed it. The gun is at the center of everything that’s happened.”

“True, but the focus has become finding the plans, and we’ve taken our eyes off the murderer. He’s in here somewhere.” She tapped the dossier on her desk. “Mary Fraser said we don’t understand her world, and she’s right. This is the world we understand. This is what I should’ve been doing all along. I need to go back over the basics. The interviews, the forensics. Who knows, we might end up at the same place.”

“B’ezrat hashem,” he said, and left while Lacoste opened the dossier and began reading.

There was more than one path to the truth.

*   *   *

Armand went to the bookstore first. There he found Ruth, Myrna and Clara and invited them over to his place. He was vague and they were curious. It was a perfect fit.

Next he went to the bistro, where he found Brian having a beer with Gabri. It was now just past four. Gamache hesitated a moment, then invited them both. Brian might be a suspect, but he was also their greatest asset. He knew the play inside out and backward.

“Bring Olivier,” said Armand over his shoulder, as he hurried to the bistro door.

He was about to leave when he noticed Professor Rosenblatt in a corner, gesturing to him.

“What’s happening?” he asked when Gamache arrived at his table. Lowering his voice, he said, “Is it something to do with the CBC story?”

Gamache could have kicked himself. He’d been so intent on who to invite he hadn’t properly scanned the room for who not to. Rosenblatt was certainly a retired professor. Their background check bore that out. But Gamache was far from convinced he wasn’t more than that. Just as Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme were almost certainly file clerks. And much more.

“Can I help?” asked the elderly professor.

“Non, merci. I think we have it covered.”

Rosenblatt examined him, then looked around the bistro at the people chatting over drinks.

“They have no idea what’s coming their way once word of the gun gets out.”

“None of us can tell the future,” said Gamache. It was an intentionally banal response. He just wanted to get away and wasn’t interested in wasting precious time on some esoteric conversation.

“Oh, I think some can, don’t you?”

Something in his tone made Gamache refocus and give the scientist his attention. “What do you mean?”

“I mean some can predict the future because they create it,” said Rosenblatt. “Oh, not the good things. We can’t make someone love us, or even like us. But we can make someone hate us. We can’t guarantee we’ll be hired for a job, but we can make sure we’re fired.” He put down his apple cider and stared at Gamache. “We can’t be sure we’ll win a war, but we can lose one.”

Gamache was very still, examining the scientist. Then he sat down.

“So many people make the mistake of thinking wars are fought with weapons,” said Rosenblatt, almost to himself. “But they’re really fought with ideas. The side with the most ideas, the best ideas, wins.”

“Then why kill the person with those ideas?” asked Gamache. “I take it we’re talking about Gerald Bull. Someone thought he was the genius and had him shot in the head.”

“You know the answer to that. To stop anyone else from getting him. Having him on our side might not guarantee we’d win a war, but giving him to an enemy just about guarantees we’d lose it.”

“And when it became apparent you got it wrong?” asked Gamache.

“Me?”

“A manner of speech, monsieur. I meant nothing by it.”

“Of course.”

“When it was clear the wrong person was killed?” asked Gamache. “That Gerald Bull wasn’t the ideas man at all, but just a fake front?”

“Ah, then there’s a problem. A big one. A very big one. That would need to be taken care of.”

“Are you saying what I think you are?” said Gamache. It was the closest Michael Rosenblatt had come to admitting involvement in the death of Gerald Bull. And more.

“I’m saying nothing. I’m an old man, who can’t even dress himself.” He looked down at his disheveled clothing.

“You are not your clothes, monsieur,” said Gamache. “They’re a costume. Perhaps even a disguise.”