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 a.s.set. 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 ba.n.a.l 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."

"I'm glad you think so." Rosenblatt looked amused, but then his face turned serious. "You think I had something to do with it? I've been sitting here thinking about what would happen if those plans are found. All those lives lost. I think only very old men appreciate what a terrible thing it is to die before your time." He leaned across the table toward Gamache. "It is not something I could ever be part of."

"Unless it was to save even more lives," suggested Gamache.

"Maybe that's what old men are for. To make decisions that no young man can." He was watching Gamache closely. "Or should have to. I'm old enough to be your father. I wish I was. Perhaps you'd trust me then. I have no children of my own."

"But David? Your grandson?"

When Rosenblatt didn't answer, Gamache nodded.

"Fict.i.tious?"

"I find people are less suspicious of grandfathers," Rosenblatt admitted. "So I created David. But I've spoken of him so often, I can almost see him. He's skinny and dark-haired and smells of Ivory soap and bubblegum, which I give him behind his mother's back. Some days he's more real to me than people who actually exist."

Michael Rosenblatt looked down at his hands. "That G.o.dd.a.m.ned gun in the woods is real but my grandson isn't. What a world."

Armand glanced at the clock, ticking. "There's something you should know. I spoke to John Fleming this morning."

It was Rosenblatt's turn to grow very still.

"I know he worked with Gerald Bull," said Gamache. "I know he was here in Three Pines. I know he was in Brussels with Dr. Bull and Guillaume Couture. And I know he killed Gerald Bull. But I also believe it was not his idea."

Gamache once again brought out the old photograph of the three men, the unholy trinity.

"I showed this to you once before. There's Dr. Bull, Dr. Couture, and John Fleming. But someone else was there that day, wasn't there? The person who took this picture and ordered the death of Gerald Bull."

"It wasn't me."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"It doesn't matter what you think. It was long ago. It's done."

"It's not done," Gamache snapped, lowering instead of raising his voice, so that it came out a growl. "What has happened here is a direct consequence of that decision that day. The war wasn't won, it went dormant. And now it's flaring up."

"You must understand-" Rosenblatt began.

"I don't need justifications, I need clear answers. Who was there that day? Who took this picture? Was it you? Who's behind all this?"

"It wasn't me," said Rosenblatt. "I swear. If I had anything to tell you I would. The thought of those plans falling into someone else's hands sickens me."

"John Fleming is coming here," said Gamache, his voice struggling back to normal. He picked up the photograph and got to his feet.

"What?"

"If we don't find the plans by six, he'll be brought here. And all will be revealed. The plans, and everything else."

"You can't," Rosenblatt rasped. "The man's a monster."

"Oui. Man-made. And whose idea was he?"

CHAPTER 39.

They sat on chairs in a semicircle in the Gamache living room. Fortunately the play didn't have a huge cast. A few boarders at the rooming house, the landlady, and the proprietor of the hardware store next door.

"You want us to read this out loud?" asked Monsieur Beliveau, holding the script as though it was written in urine.

"Actually, I like the idea," said Gabri.

"You would," said Clara.

"No, really. I know from my time on the stage-" He paused dramatically, daring them to make a rude comment. For some reason, the silence seemed even more insulting. "-that something can sound completely different when lifted off the page by a good actor."

"If only we had one of those," said Ruth.

"Well, we have nothing to lose," said Olivier.

"That's the spirit," said Myrna.

But Gamache and Beauvoir knew that wasn't true. They had the most precious of commodities to lose. Time. It would be five thirty by the time they finished reading Fleming's play. There would be no time for anything else.

Armand had told them in broad strokes why they were there. They divvied up roles, leaving Gamache and Beauvoir as the audience, then began the read-through.

Some, like Ruth, simply read their lines, while others, like Clara, threw themselves into their roles. Gabri, who'd allowed himself to be talked into the male lead, shot annoyed glances at Clara when it became clear she had a hidden talent.

The other revelation was Monsieur Beliveau, who started off quite stilted but, inspired by Clara's all-in performance, rose to the occasion and by the second act had everyone in st.i.tches as the comic-relief owner of the hardware store that had everything except what the other characters really wanted. Milk. Every character went into the hardware store looking for milk.

It became a leitmotif of the play.

What was not revealed, however, was the whereabouts of the plans.

When the final word was spoken and silence descended, they looked over at Armand and Jean-Guy, who were leaning forward in their chairs hoping to catch that one vital word or phrase.

But there were no more words. They'd run out of play.

Gamache pulled out his device, which kept accurate time.

It was five twenty-three. Thirty-seven minutes left.

He looked at Brian. "Anything?"

"I'm sorry, nothing struck me."

"Anyone?" asked Gamache.

They all shook their heads.

Gamache got up and thanked them sincerely.

"There's something you need to know," he said. He'd debated telling them about the CBC broadcast, but decided they'd hear it themselves soon enough. "The CBC is about to air a story on Gerald Bull's gun being found."

They looked surprised, but not yet shocked.

"What does that mean?" Myrna asked.

"Well, they don't know where it is," he said, and saw relief in their faces. "But it's just a matter of time. Once they find out, then everyone will come here."

"Everyone?" asked Myrna. "Who's 'everyone'? Journalists, of course, but who else?"

"People looking for the plans," said Gamache. "That's why we asked you here, and that's why we need to find them ourselves first. You've just read the play, most of you for the first time. If anything should strike you later, please let us know right away. And, of course, it's vital you tell no one about this. Jean-Guy?"

He invited Beauvoir into the study and closed the door.

Gabri left to go back to the B and B and Olivier headed over to the bistro, which would be busy at this time of day.

Brian helped Reine-Marie clear the coffee mugs while Clara and Myrna put the furniture back, and Ruth did nothing.

"May I borrow her?" Monsieur Beliveau asked with his exaggerated politeness, indicating Ruth.

Ruth got up. "No need to ask them. I don't even know who they are."

"We have a no-returns policy," Clara warned him.

"And she was already broken when we found her," said Myrna, picking up a chair.

Ruth scowled at them and Monsieur Beliveau looked perplexed, then he nodded.

"I know," he finally said. "I think I was there when it happened."

It was Clara and Myrna's turn to be perplexed as the two elderly villagers left.

Gabri stood in the doorway of the small library at the very back of the B and B, staring.

What he saw was so ordinary and yet it was riveting.

Mary Fraser was reading.

That was it. Just sitting there. Looking down at her lap. Not at a book, but at a script. The script.