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“You can at least eliminate me.”

She did a swab before he left to go back up to Emergency.

Once there, he was surprised to see Robert Mongeau sitting in a wheelchair, beside Ruth. His head was bandaged, and he was pale. Armand’s bloody jacket lay across his lap, and on top of it were the photographs, facedown.

“Robert, what are you doing? You should be in a bed.”

“What are these, Armand?” the minister asked, his voice weak and small, but determined. It was obvious what he was talking about.

Gamache held Robert’s eyes and saw something deeply troubling there.

“You looked at the pictures,” he said.

“They fell out of your jacket. I wouldn’t have looked, had I known.”

Armand’s eyes traveled over to Ruth, and his heart dropped. “You showed them to Ruth?”

“What are these? What’s it of?” Mongeau asked. “Why do you have them? What…? Why…?”

Armand reached out and gently tugged them out of the minister’s hands, picking up his jacket at the same time.

“They’re from a long time ago, Robert.” He looked at Ruth. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I’ve seen worse.”

For some reason, he believed her. Though he could think of only one thing worse than those photographs, and that was the man who’d done it.

“Can you excuse me?” Without waiting for a reply, Armand walked through the swinging Emergency doors. As he did, he stuck the photographs in his slacks pocket.

“What are you—” the doctor asked, but then her eyes traveled to the blood on his shirt, then to his face. “Chief Inspector? Are you all right?”

“I am. The blood belongs to the man Mongeau you just treated.”

“Yes. Head wound.”

“It wasn’t an accident. Can you tell me what the weapon was?”

“I wasn’t sure what had caused it. I asked him, but he didn’t remember. I thought maybe he’d tripped and hit his head.” She’d walked over to her desk. “I picked these out of the wound.”

The doctor handed him a small sterile plastic bag.

Gamache took it. He was shocked and yet not surprised. It felt as though elements were both falling apart and falling into place. Their rightful place.

The bag contained tiny pieces of what looked like brick.

“You released Monsieur Mongeau?” he asked, tucking the bag into his pocket.

“Yes. There’s no skull fracture and I don’t think there’s a concussion. Looks like he turned his head at the last moment, so it became more of a glancing blow. Enough to knock him out and cause a lot of bleeding, but not enough to seriously hurt him.”

She paused and stared at the head of homicide. “Was that the intention? Did someone try to kill that man?”

“You’ll obviously keep this to yourself.”

She nodded. “I gave him a dozen stitches. He’ll need watching, and someone to change the dressing. I also gave him some antibiotics and painkillers.”

Armand returned to the waiting room. “Did you see who did this to you?”

“I’d have told you if I had,” said Robert. He looked drained.