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“And in the case of the Empress of Ireland?”

“For some reason”—though by his tone, it was clear he suspected the “reason”—“her manifest was incomplete. Or at least vague. It listed the passengers and crew and cargo, but it wasn’t as detailed as most. What she carried in her hold was simply listed as ‘general cargo.’ Now, we know that two hundred fifty-two silver ingots were on board and recovered. A very precise number in a manifest that was curiously vague.”

“And the rest?”

Charles Fillmore’s eyes lit up. “Exactly, Chief Inspector. What else was down there, and why did it, days after the sinking, suddenly became a priority? Now, Brian might not have thought any more of it. It was not unheard of for a manifest to be vague. And there would naturally be efforts to bring up the cargo. The fact the Empress sat in fairly shallow waters meant it could eventually be salvaged. That wasn’t what grabbed Brian’s interest and changed everything.”

In his quick study of the tragedy, Armand had discovered that, unlike the Titanic, the Empress was only 130 feet down. As Charles said, fairly shallow water. Accessible to skilled divers.

“In his research,” Charles continued, excited to tell his story, “Brian found something curious in the report on the salvage operation. Get this. Morrow ordered the search for bodies halted, and instead, the divers were ordered to bring up the mail.”

At that, Charles Fillmore sat back and lifted his hands, as though he’d produced a rabbit from a hat. Or a hole.

And in some ways, he had.

Armand felt that tingling sensation that happened when a pivot point had been reached. When something unexpected but telling was said.

“The mail? Not even the cargo?”

“No, the mail.”

Aldous Clybourne oversaw the mail room. He must have told his uncle, his mother’s brother, what was in there. Something even more precious than the bodies. Even more valuable than the ingots.

“Surely the families protested.”

“They did, but it was argued that the bodies were deep in the ship, and too dangerous for the divers to get to. In fact, one diver died trying. Don’t forget, at the time, they only had those clunky round metal helmets attached to their suits, and lead boots. They looked like robots.”

“So, there was some truth to what was said. The bodies of the passengers and crew trapped in cabins would be far too dangerous to bring up.”

“Except I can’t think the mail room had an outside cabin, can you? It must’ve been even deeper in the wreck. Even more treacherous to access. The divers must’ve walked right past bodies to get to it.”

“What were they looking for?”

Charles raised his hands again, this time less in triumph than resignation. “There’s the question, Chief Inspector. That’s what Brian wanted to find out. What was in the mail that was so important, so valuable, that the Receiver of Wrecks made it a priority?”

“But it must have been in the official report. Morrow would have kept careful records of everything recovered from the wreck. They’d be scrutinized. Especially given this was such a public tragedy. There’d be an inquiry. Anything brought up from the Empress would need to be carefully itemized.”

“And it was.” Charles dropped his voice and Gamache leaned closer to hear. “There was nothing. Just letters. Gifts. Parcels for family. All the mail was sealed in waterproof bags. That was part of Aldous Clybourne’s job. All were protected so that, should anything happen, nothing would be ruined. The mail room contents were described in newspaper reports at the time as being especially eerie. Messages from the dead.”

More ghosts, thought Armand, as he sat back. “If there was nothing there, why are we talking about this?”

“Because Brian didn’t believe it. He thought Morrow was crooked. Not unusual at the time. No matter what ship went down, there’d be money to be made. How easy for the Receiver of Wrecks to also be the Receiver of Bribes. At best, Morrow would insist on a cut from whatever salvage company he gave the contract to. At worst—”

“He’d keep the best for himself and falsify the records.” Like crooked accountants for crooked businesses, thought Gamache. Two sets of books. It’s what the Sûreté’s forensic accountant Inspector Eidinger spent her life investigating. And finding.

“The Morrows went from being a working-class family, on the cusp of middle class, to filthy rich in one great leap. One generation,” said Charles. “That generation. Brian discovered all this. When he did their family tree, he found, dangling from the very last branch, Peter Morrow. In a village called Three Pines.”

That the Morrows were rich was no surprise to Armand. He’d met the mother and the rest of the family. There was definitely rot in that tree. Peter was the exception. The sensitive artist who did not fit in. He was like a graft from a far healthier, more interesting tree. Though Peter himself had issues that would eventually lead to his own death.

To his mother’s disapproval and even horror, Peter had married another artist and disappeared into the tiny village to live and work in relative and disappointing obscurity.

But now Armand began to wonder why Peter moved to Three Pines. He’d been told once it was because his best friend Ben lived there. But was there another reason?

Was it a place he’d heard about from his relatives? Was the house one that had belonged to the family? Or maybe, maybe, the Morrows had once been among the damned of Lost Nation.

Was a branch buried in that cemetery? Was that what Brian Fillmore had been searching for? A long-lost Morrow? The Receiver of Wrecks in his final resting place. Received into the ground hundreds of miles from the ocean. Earth to earth. And with him, whatever had been brought up from the doomed ship?

Was that possible?