The Nature of the Beast: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel

“I need you to confirm it.”


Even now, even when worn down and cornered, Gamache could see the elderly scientist twisting, so deep was the instinct and perhaps the training to evade.

“The plans may have been found,” Gamache said quietly.

“Ahh,” said Rosenblatt. The sound slipped out of him, like a long tail on a sigh.

He nodded a few times, carrying on some internal conversation. A debate. An argument. And then he spoke.

“Guillaume Couture designed Project Babylon. I suspect Gerald Bull conceived of the idea, but he needed someone smarter than himself to actually figure out how to do it. So he found Dr. Couture ferreting away in the engineering department of McGill. Couture became Bull’s chief designer and silent partner.”

Now that he’d started, Professor Rosenblatt couldn’t seem to stop talking. It was such a stream of information and confidences that Gamache found himself wary. Not sure if this was the truth, half-truths, or a blockade of lies.

Though it fit with their own conclusions. Perhaps a bit too well.

“Gerald Bull essentially committed suicide when he put himself forward as the sole designer of Project Babylon,” said Rosenblatt. “He was killed to stop him. No one knew about Guillaume Couture.”

“Except you,” said Beauvoir.

“Oh, I didn’t know. Not until much later. All that research on Gerald Bull, it didn’t fit, until I factored in someone else. Someone smarter.”

“Do you think Dr. Couture would have kept the plans?” Beauvoir asked. “After all, they’re what got his boss killed.”

“It was his life’s work,” said Rosenblatt. “Guillaume was a nice man, in many ways a gentle man. But he was unbothered by a conscience. He had no imagination. No, that’s probably unfair. He was myopic. Shortsighted. He only saw the challenge, the scheme. He didn’t look beyond that, to what his plans would actually do.”

“So what does that mean?” Beauvoir demanded. “Would he have kept the plans or not?”

“I think so,” said Rosenblatt. “They were the work of a lifetime. Without doubt the highlight of his career.” He considered for a moment. “You say the woman killed last night was his niece?”

“She lived in his home,” said Gamache.

In the background, the clock on the bistro mantel struck the hour. Midnight.

“And you didn’t find the plans?” Rosenblatt asked.

Gamache shook his head and in the silence the clock continued to sound. One measured stroke after another.

“You think the killer has the designs for Project Babylon,” said Rosenblatt.

“I think it’s possible. We have to assume he found them,” said Gamache.

The clock struck one last time, then stopped.

Michael Rosenblatt looked at it, then back at Gamache.

“The chimes at midnight, Chief Inspector,” he said quietly. “It’s later than we thought.”

Beauvoir saw a look pass between the two men and knew he’d missed some reference. But not the meaning.

They walked the professor back to the B and B and made sure he got up to his room. A light was on under Mary Fraser’s door, and Gamache paused, then tapped.

“What’re you doing?” Beauvoir whispered.

“The CSIS agents need to know that the plans might’ve been found,” Gamache whispered back.

“Just a minute,” came Mary Fraser’s pleasant voice. The door opened and she stood there adjusting an unexpectedly frilly dressing gown. “Oh.”

“You were expecting someone else?” Jean-Guy asked.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you,” she said. She had her glasses on and papers were spread out on the bed. Jean-Guy strained to get a look at them, but she stepped out and closed the door.

“What can I do for you? It must be late.” She peered at her watch. “It’s past midnight.”

It’s later than we thought. Rosenblatt’s words drifted into Beauvoir’s mind.

“The plans might’ve been found,” said Armand.

The bookish woman who lived in a filing cabinet disappeared and a much sharper person stood before them, albeit in a frilly pink dressing gown.

“Come with me,” said the CSIS agent, and led them downstairs and into the farthest corner of the B and B’s living room.

“Should we get Monsieur Delorme?” Gamache asked.

“No need,” she said, taking a seat. “You can tell me and I’ll pass the information on to him.”

Gamache and Beauvoir sat in the two remaining armchairs.

“You might have heard about another murder in the area,” said Gamache. “A woman named Antoinette Lemaitre.”

“Yes, the owner of the B and B told me. He seems to be town crier.”

“Antoinette Lemaitre was Guillaume Couture’s niece.”

Fraser stared at Gamache, the words sliding off her expressionless face to drop into silence. It took effort for an intelligent person to look that vacant, and Gamache suspected she was working very, very hard at that moment.