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Gamache was silent. Silent. Staring at Charles Fillmore. It stretched on. The moments got longer and longer. Had time been elastic, it would have threatened to snap. And slap Fillmore in the face.

Gamache sat there as though he had all the time in the world.

“I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

More silence.

“What’s this about, Chief Inspector? You mentioned a body. Whose body? What’s happened?”

“Where’s your brother?”

“I told you. I don’t know.”

Gamache leaned forward. If the body was that of Jeanette Bouchard, then the murderer could very well be her boss. A man who had disappeared.

“Come on, Monsieur Fillmore. Am I supposed to believe the founder and CEO of a company worth hundreds of millions, who has shareholders to answer to, would just disappear without contacting you? Or any way to contact him?”

“You’ve been reading the conspiracy sites. Brian’s probably relaxing by some watering hole. He’s earned the right. Building this company has been a monumental act of will. The IPO was the payoff. When he has something specific to say, he comes back. Otherwise, he trusts me to run the company.”

“And he doesn’t have a phone? An email address? Text?”

“He’s wary of the internet. He uses it for business, but never for his personal life. My brother isn’t really of this time, Chief Inspector.”

“What do you mean?”

“It might sound strange, but when he began researching the Empress, Brian became fascinated not just by the ship, but by that whole era. He immersed himself in it. There was an explosion of discovery in the late 1800s, early 1900s. Feats of engineering. Of science. Medicine. Transportation was revolutionized. Cars, planes. It was a time of huge innovation that sat comfortably beside tradition. All very exciting—”

“Unless you happen to be a coal miner or scullery maid,” said Gamache.

“True. Still, Brian loves it.” There was a pause and Charles looked down at his hands. “People think he’s eccentric, and I think that’s true. But it’s a harmless conceit.”

“What is?”

Charles heaved a sigh. “Look, the more he researched the sinking, the more immersed he became. Little by little, it moved from an interest to a hobby to an obsession. He even started wearing clothes from that era.”

“Where did he get them?”

“Vintage shops in London. He’d scour them.”

“Do you have their names?”

“I think I can find at least a couple of receipts. Is it important?”

“If you don’t mind.”

While Charles went to his desk, Gamache looked out the window. Considering.

The person on the grave was wearing vintage clothing. From England or Scotland. Men’s clothing.

And yet Comeau had said the body was that of a woman. Women did, of course, wear what would be considered men’s clothing, though not often full suits.

Daisy Wolcott did, later in life. Maybe Jeanette Bouchard did too.

There was something else curious about clothing. Miss Wolcott’s. What was it? Oh, yes. What the botanist had said. How she’d hidden the strange seeds in the folds of her clothes …

“Chief Inspector?”

Gamache’s thoughts were brought back from Edwardian gardens to this converted warehouse in Montréal.