“I saw it in some papers last night, over at the Gamache place.”

“You’re not the one who…?”

“Told everyone?” she asked, joining him. “Of course not. We promised each other we wouldn’t. Besides, we didn’t know anything. Not really.”

Monsieur Béliveau looked at her, and she dropped her eyes to the white plastic table.

“We knew enough, Ruth. More than enough.”

“Well, why would I say anything now, after all these years?”

“To take the focus off Monsieur Lepage.” Clément paused before speaking again. “To protect him.”

“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

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.

“We have no idea,” said Beauvoir. “We were just talking about it. We’re as shocked as you. Fortunately, no one’s talking about Dr. Bull. Just the gun.”

“‘Just’ the gun?” asked Delorme. “Isn’t that enough?”

“It could be worse,” said Professor Rosenblatt.

The scientist had arrived in the dining room wearing gray flannels, a tweed jacket and bow tie. He looked around at the tables set for breakfast, with crisp white linen, sterling silver, and fine bone china. The fireplace lit with a modest fire.

The walls were thick and the windows mullioned and Rosenblatt had the impression if he waited long enough the stagecoach would come by.

But he wouldn’t take it. This was far more interesting than any other place he could possibly think of.

“I won’t join you,” said Professor Rosenblatt, as though he’d been invited. “You have things to talk about.”