The Long Way Home(21)

Across from her, Myrna listened, absorbing the information, in case Clara missed some vital pieces.

“When Peter left here he went to Montréal for a few days, then flew to Paris,” said Jean-Guy. “Then he moved on to Florence, then Venice.”

Clara nodded to show she was following him. So far, so good.

“From Venice, Peter flew to Scotland,” said Beauvoir.

Clara stopped nodding. “Scotland?”

“Why would Peter go to Scotland?” Myrna asked.

“We hoped you could tell us,” Gamache said to Clara.

“Scotland,” Clara repeated softly to herself and stared into the fire. Then she shook her head. “Where in Scotland?”

“It’s easier to see on a map. Let me show you.” Gamache rocked out of the deep sofa and returned a minute later with an atlas. He splayed it open on the coffee table and found the page.

“He flew into Glasgow.”

Armand pointed.

They leaned in.

“From there Peter took a bus.” He traced a line from Glasgow south. South. Along a winding road. Past towns named Bellshill, Lesmahagow, Moffat.

And then he stopped.

Clara leaned closer to the map.

“Dumfries?” she asked.

Her brows were drawn together, trying to either read the word or make sense of it, or both. Finally she sat back and looked at Gamache, who was watching her.

“Are you sure?” asked Clara.

“Pretty sure,” said Beauvoir.

There was a pause.

“Is it possible it wasn’t Peter? That someone stole his credit card?” Clara asked. “And his passport?”

She met Armand’s eyes. Not looking away from what that question implied. No living man would lose his documents, or have them stolen, without reporting it. If they were taken, it was from a dead man.

“It’s possible,” Gamache admitted. “But unlikely. They’d have to have his codes and look exactly like him. Security and Customs agents look closely at passport photos now.”

“But it’s still a possibility?” Clara asked.

“Remote. We have agents looking into it,” Beauvoir admitted. “We’re going on the most likely scenario that it was actually Peter.”

“But how likely is it that Peter left Venice for Dumfries?” asked Myrna.

“I agree,” conceded Gamache. “It’s odd. Unless Peter had a particular interest in Scotland.”

“Not that he ever mentioned,” said Clara. “Though he does like Scotch.”

Myrna smiled. “Maybe it’s that simple. Paris for great wine, Florence for Campari, and Venice for…”

She paused, stumped.

“The Bellini,” said Reine-Marie. “We had one in Harry’s Bar, where it was invented. Remember, Armand?”

“We sat at the bar at quaiside watching the vaporetti go by,” he said. “It was named after the color of a robe in a Bellini painting. Pink.”

“Pink?” Jean-Guy mouthed to Gamache.

“Are you suggesting Peter’s drinking his way across Europe?” asked Clara. “The Ruth Zardo Grand Tour.”

“Don’t look at me,” said Gamache. “It’s not my theory.”

“Then what is your theory?” Clara asked.

His smile faded, and he took a deep breath. “I don’t have one. It’s too early. But I do know one thing, Clara. As strange as all this seems, there’s a reason Peter went to these places. We just have to work it out.”

Clara leaned forward again, staring at the dot on the map. “Is he still there?”

Beauvoir shook his head. “He went to Toronto—”

“He’s in Toronto?” Clara interrupted. “Why didn’t you tell me this to begin with?” But on seeing their expressions, she stopped. “What is it?”

“He didn’t stay there,” said Gamache. “Peter flew from Toronto to Quebec City in April.”

“Even better,” said Clara. “He’s on his way home.”

“Quebec City,” Gamache repeated. “Not Montréal. If he was coming back here he’d have gone to Montréal, non?”

Clara glared, hating him for a moment. For not allowing her her delusions, even briefly.

“Maybe he just wanted to see Quebec City,” she said. “Maybe he wanted to paint it, while he waited.” Her words, rapid-fire and insistent, faltered. “While he waited,” she repeated, “to come home.”

But he hadn’t.

“He took three thousand dollars out of his bank account,” Jean-Guy said, forging ahead. Then he stopped and looked at Gamache.

“That’s the last we found of him,” said Armand. “That was April.”

Clara grew very still. Myrna put her large hand over Clara’s, and it felt icy.

“He might still be there,” said Clara.

“Oui,” said Gamache. “Absolutely.”

“Where was he staying?”

“We don’t know. But it’s early days yet. You’re right, he might still be in Quebec City, or he might have taken that money and gone elsewhere. Isabelle Lacoste is using the resources of the S?reté to find him. Jean-Guy is looking. I’m looking. But it might take time.”