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Charles sat down heavily, without once taking his eyes off Gamache.
“I’ve applied for a warrant to search your brother’s home and computers,” Gamache said. “What will I find?”
Charles was shaking his head, as though trying to clear it. “Nothing criminal, I know that.”
“Anything to do with Daisy Wolcott?”
“With what? What are you talking about?”
“Miss Wolcott’s Ghost?”
“Have you lost your mind? What does a ghost have to do with Brian’s death?”
“One of your investigators has gone to Aix-les-Bains in France. Do you know why?”
“You’re talking about that Jeanette person. No. I’ve told you. I’m not on that side of the business.”
“But you know what’s in Aix-les-Bains.”
“A ghost? No. I don’t know.”
“What was your brother looking for?”
On confirmation of his brother’s death, Charles Fillmore seemed to have collapsed. All resistance gone.
“Okay, he did talk to me about it. I was the only one who’d listen to his obsessions. If not carpentry, it was butterflies. If not what really killed Marcus Aurelius, then it was perspective in Renaissance painting. Brian loved to learn. But he always came back to the Empress of Ireland and why the Receiver of Wrecks brought up the mail instead of the victims. He was convinced Thomas Morrow had a second ledger documenting every bribe he took and everything he stole, including from the Empress of Ireland.”
Charles looked around his office. His shoulders fell, and by the time his gaze returned to Gamache, he was a changed man. A diminished man. A lost man.
“Did he find it?” Gamache asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“That’s why he went to Three Pines and Clara Morrow.”
Charles nodded. “Yes. It wasn’t Clara he was interested in, but Peter. The great-grandson.”
“I’ve also applied for, and will get, a warrant to search your home. I’ve assigned an agent to watch you. Be careful.”
Even as he said it, Gamache wasn’t sure if the warning was because this Fillmore was a suspect or a possible victim.
When he left, Armand checked his watch. Still time.
A few minutes later, he arrived in the judge’s antechamber and was brusquely told to take a seat. Which he did.
CHAPTER 45
Chief Inspector Gamache sat amid the surprised lawyers and their glum clients. At least one of whom his team had recently interviewed in a murder investigation.
As he waited his turn with the judge, Armand put on his reading glasses, sat back, crossed his legs, and went through the updates on his phone.
The police in France were no closer to finding Jeanette Bouchard. Judging by the messages, they did not seem to be trying very hard.
Armand stared at the reproduction of a Miró painting above the head of the man about to be charged with murder. The man, thinking Gamache was staring at him, slunk down in his chair.
After composing a polite reply to the French gendarmerie, Gamache added, We also need to know if something has happened to Madame Jeanette Bouchard. We sent you a photograph of her. I will have her DNA sent to you to be tested against any unidentified remains.
In France, the police equivalent of “Jane Doe” was “Madame X,” but Gamache could never bring himself to write that, feeling it was too melodramatic.
