There was going to be h.e.l.l to pay.

Ruth Zardo heard the soft knock on the back door.

She was in the kitchen. The coffee was perked on the old stove and she had the toast and jam out.

The knock did not startle her. She'd been expecting it. Rosa, however, looked up from her feed with some surprise. Though ducks often looked surprised.

Ruth opened the kitchen door, nodded and stepped back.

"You heard, Clement?" she asked.

"Oui," said Monsieur Beliveau. "Worse than we feared."

"It's called Project Babylon, of course. What else would it be called?"

"How do you know that?" the old grocer asked the old poet as he sat at her kitchen table. "No one else is saying that."

"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 Beliveau 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." Clement 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 Beliveau 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, Clement?"

"Oui."

Monsieur Beliveau 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."

Clement Beliveau nodded, his eyes drawn back to the dark hole in the bright green gra.s.s. 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 Beliveau 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 b.u.t.ter melted into the holes. Then he smeared it with marmalade. His uncle, a devout Quebecois 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 cafe 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 p.i.s.sed. 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."

"Like the news," said Jean-Guy.

"Yes." Rosenblatt shook his head. "That's a shame."

But he didn't look at all upset.

"Please," said Lacoste, smiling at the professor and indicating a chair. "The more the merrier."

"Merrier" did not describe the gathering, no matter how many there were.

Professor Rosenblatt took a seat and looked at the unhappy faces of the CSIS agents. "Now, what were we talking about?" He put a white linen napkin on his lap and looked around at them. "Ah yes, the leak."

Now there's a s.h.i.t-disturber, thought Beauvoir with some admiration. What seemed interesting was the amount of s.h.i.t this professor emeritus was able to disturb.

Beauvoir shifted his gaze to the CSIS agents, whose faces were now masks of cool civility.

And why were they so disturbed?

"Did you do it?" Mary Fraser asked. Her hair was still damp from the shower and she wore a gray sweater and black skirt, and pearls, in what looked like an effort to dress things up, but only managed to make her look even more dowdy.

"A moment ago you were accusing that young man." Rosenblatt indicated Beauvoir. "And now me? Who else are you going to blame? Him?"

He looked at Gabri, making his way across the wide-plank floor with the cafe au laits. The innkeeper wore an ap.r.o.n with gingham frills, which drove Olivier nuts.

"It's fun," Gabri had said to his partner. "It makes me happy."

"It makes you gay."

"Yes. Otherwise no one would ever know."

Gabri arrived at their table, distributed the coffees and stood poised for their breakfast orders.

Professor Rosenblatt asked him for a few more minutes to consider the menu. Lacoste and Beauvoir said they'd wait a little longer as well, but the CSIS agents ordered, obviously anxious to finish as quickly as possible.

"There're only so many people who could've leaked the information about the Supergun," said Delorme once Gabri had left. "And most of them are sitting at this table."

He looked around and Beauvoir was struck by how very hard the man was trying to be threatening, and how very unsuccessful it was. He just seemed petulant.

"Whoever did it will face the full weight of the law," said Mary Fraser.

She managed to be somewhat more threatening, though perhaps not in the way she intended. It was as though they'd disappointed a favorite aunt.

Jean-Guy wondered if they'd be recalled to Ottawa and some real agents sent down. He hoped not. He quite liked these two.

"Bonjour," said Armand Gamache, walking over to the table and taking off his jacket. "Bit of fog this morning. The fire's nice."

He held out his large hands, momentarily, toward the hearth.

"Patron," said Gabri, coming in from the kitchen. "I thought I heard you. Cafe?"

"S'il vous plat," said Gamache, and looked at the people already at the table.

Beauvoir and Lacoste had gotten to their feet to greet him. He smiled at them, then shook the elderly scientist's hand.

"Professor," he said with a smile.

Gamache turned to the other two.

"May I introduce you?" said Lacoste. "Mary Fraser and Sean Delorme are down from Ottawa. They're with CSIS. This is Armand Gamache."

Delorme had risen and took Gamache's hand, while Mary Fraser remained seated, staring at the newcomer.

Trying, thought Jean-Guy, to place him. He knew that look. Here was a familiar face, a familiar name. But in an unfamiliar setting.

And then she had it. "Of course. Gamache. Of the Srete."

It sounded much like Renfrew, of the Mounties.

"Late of the Srete," he said, taking the empty chair beside her. "My former colleagues are being kind to include me. My wife and I have retired to the village."

Beauvoir marveled at Gamache's ability to make himself sound insignificant. But he could also see the wheels turning in Mary Fraser's mind. For a moment she looked less matronly and far shrewder. And then it was gone.

"It must be upsetting to have all this commotion just when you thought you'd left it behind," said Mary Fraser.

"Well, I can pop in and out of the case. It's different when it's not your responsibility."

Gabri came out with eggs Benedict for Sean Delorme, and for Mary Fraser, crpes stuffed with apple confit and drizzled with syrup. On the side were thick strips of maple-smoked bacon.

"A very good choice," said Armand, leaning toward her conspiratorially.

Mary Fraser all but blushed, and then to cover her reaction she pointed to the papers by Lacoste's hand.

"Are those about Project Babylon?"

"A little. Mostly they're about Gerald Bull." Lacoste held them up. "Redacted, so most of the information on Project Babylon has been removed."

"Where did you get them?" asked Rosenblatt, taking a sheet and scanning it.

"Archives."