“Never married. This is the interesting part. She’s self-made. Has her own company. She’s an architect. Got a huge break right out of school. For her thesis she designed a small, energy-efficient low-cost home. Not one of those ugly concrete blocks, but something pretty cool. A place low-income people needn’t be ashamed to live in. She made a fortune from it.”

Beauvoir snorted. Trust a Morrow to make money from the poor.

“She goes all over the world,” continued Lacoste. “Speaks French, Italian, Spanish and Chinese. She makes massive amounts of money. Her last tax form shows her income last year at well over two million dollars. And that’s just what she declares.”

“Wait a minute,” said Beauvoir, almost choking on an éclair. “You’re saying that woman all wrapped in scarves who drifts around and is late for everything is a self-made millionaire?”

“More successful than even her father,” Lacoste nodded. She was secretly pleased. It gave her pleasure to think this most marginalized of Morrows was actually the most successful.

“Do we know who the kid’s father is?” Beauvoir asked.

Lacoste shook her head. “Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe it was a virgin birth.”

She liked screwing with Beauvoir’s head.

“I think I can guarantee you that’s not true,” said Beauvoir, but a look at Gamache removed his smirk. “Now, you’re not telling me you believe it, Chief? I’m not going to be the one putting that in the official report. Suspects, Thomas, Peter, Marianna, oh yes and the Second Coming.”

“You believe in the first, don’t you? Why not the second?” asked Agent Lacoste.

“Come on,” he sputtered. “Do you really want me to believe the Second Coming is a child named Bean?”

“A bean is a seed,” said Gamache. “It’s an old allegory for faith. I have a feeling Bean is a very special child. Nothing is impossible with Bean.”

“Except to tell if it’s a boy or a girl,” said Beauvoir, miffed.

“Does it matter?” asked Gamache.

“It matters in that all secrets in a murder investigation matter.”

Gamache nodded slowly. “That’s true. Often after a day or so it’s obvious who’s genuine and who isn’t. In this case it’s getting muddier and muddier. Thomas told us about a plant in the desert. If it showed itself for what it really was predators would eat it. So it learned to disguise itself, to hide its true nature. The Morrows are the same. Somehow, somewhere along the line they learned to hide who they really are, what they really think and feel. Nothing is as it seems with them.”

“Except Peter and Clara,” said Agent Lacoste. “I presume they’re not suspects.”

Gamache looked at her thoughtfully.

“Do you remember that first case in Three Pines? The murder of Miss Jane Neal?”

They nodded. It was where they first met the Morrows.

“After we’d made an arrest I was still uncomfortable.”

“You think we arrested the wrong person?” asked Beauvoir, aghast.

“No, we got the murderer, there’s no doubt. But I also knew there was someone else in Three Pines I felt was capable of murder. Someone who needed watching.”

“Clara,” said Lacoste. Emotional, temperamental, passionate. So much can go wrong with a personality like that.

“No, Peter. Closed off, complex, so placid and relaxed on the surface but God only knows what’s happening underneath.”

“Well, I at least have some good news,” said Beauvoir. “I know who wrote these.” He held up the crumpled notes from Julia’s grate. “Elliot.”

“The waiter?” asked Lacoste, amazed.

Beauvoir nodded and showed them the samples of Elliot’s writing next to the notes. Gamache put on his half-moon reading glasses and bent over. Then he sat up.

“Well done.”

“Should I speak to him?”

Gamache thought about it for a moment then shook his head. “No, I’d like to put a few more things together first, but this is interesting.”

“There’s more,” said Beauvoir. “He’s not only from Vancouver, but he lived in the same neighborhood as Julia and David Martin. His parents might have known them.”

“Find out,” said Gamache, rising and heading for the door to pick up his wife.

Elliot Byrne seemed to have breached the boundary set out by Madame Dubois. Had young Elliot conquered lonely and defenseless Julia Martin? What had he wanted? An older lover? Attention? Perhaps he’d wanted to finally and absolutely infuriate his boss, the maître d’.