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And now there was just silence.

“She wanted to see England. I should’ve gone.”

Armand let the moment rest before he continued. “What was your job?”

Monsieur Godin looked up and smiled. “I was a plumber. Like my father.”

Armand met his smile with one of his own. “I wish my son or daughter had married a plumber. I think my wife wishes she had too. We live in an old house, and in the winter, on particularly cold days and nights, we need to leave a few of the taps dripping so the water doesn’t freeze and burst the pipes. Happened our first winter there. Flooded the basement. What a mess.”

Godin nodded. “I bet. Was your home built before there was much indoor plumbing?”

“Must’ve been. It’s fieldstone. Looks like it was built in the early 1800s, but we don’t really know.”

“When plumbing was finally put in, it was often installed next to the outer walls, so there’d be something to support the metal pipes. But that means they freeze when it’s really cold. And drafts get in between the stones when the mortar gets old and loose.”

“What can be done about it?” Armand asked.

“Well, you have to move the pipes. Expensive job. They’d all have to be replaced. We use PVC now. Easier to manipulate and they don’t crack and burst.”

“But that would mean breaking into the walls, right? And then repairing and repainting them.”

“For sure. Like I said, big job. Expensive.”

“Did you do the repairs too, or someone else?”

“You’d need to get someone in to put in new drywall, then a plasterer, but I used to do that too if it was a small job. Not hard. I could recommend someone.”

“Merci.”

It was what Billy had said when showing him how the items got into the attic. Someone with skills had repaired and repainted the ceiling. Someone like Monsieur Godin.

The Gamaches had replaced all the wiring and plumbing before they’d moved into the home. He did not need it fixed, nor did he need to know how it was done.

But he did need to know if Patricia Godin’s husband could remove a section of the bookstore ceiling and then repair it.

“You know, someone did come by,” said Monsieur Godin, “but it was a month before Patricia died. He was interested in old documents. Asked if we had any. Said it was the latest thing. All the antiques in old barns and homes had been picked over, and now people were interested in paper stuff. He was looking for old books and maps and deeds and photographs.”

And letters? thought Gamache, though he remained quiet.

“Asked us to get in touch, if we found any.”

“Did you meet him?” asked Gamache.

“Yes. He seemed nice. Though I can’t see there’d be much of a market in old deeds.”

“Can you remember his name?” It seemed a long shot and, indeed, it was. Godin shook his head.

“Can you describe him?” Gamache almost made the mistake he always warned his agents against. Leading the witness, guiding them to an answer.

He was tempted to describe Sam Arsenault, young, auburn hair, slender, and ask if that fit the man who visited. Instead, he remained quiet while Godin thought.

“I’m sorry, I’m not good at that sort of thing.”

“But it was a man?”

“Yes.”

“Young? Old?”