The Drowned Man by David Whellams

sliding door out to the patio. Tom smiled even more broadly as he moved towards the drink cart. The patio was well equipped for backyard dining, including an eight-foot-long grill and a round glass table that was set for three. Neil Brayden wouldn’t be joining them for dinner.
    â€œLet’s have a drink first,” Tom said.
    â€œYour department,” Nicola sing-songed.
    â€œGin, scotch? Or perhaps a rum Collins?” the husband said. He turned to the trolley, which contained every tool of mixology needed for any drink in the
Bartender’s Guide
. Peter looked for what he really wanted, and pointed to a plastic cooler by the cart.
    â€œI don’t want to be impertinent,” he said with deference, “but is there beer in there?”
    Tom Hilfgott brightened. “Yes, there is beer in the bucket. Nicola didn’t think you’d want any but I packed a few in the cooler anyway.” He opened it and pulled out two brown bottles of something called St-Ambroise. “I’ll join you.”
    He uncapped the bottles and handed him one conspiratorially.
    It was plain to Peter that they weren’t “having BBQ .” The term had special meaning in the U.S., and Peter had indulged in plenty of it when he was assigned to Quantico in the mid-nineties. In Virginia and points south, “having BBQ ” meant ribs and pulled pork and murderous hot sauce. It was a competitive sport, full of raucous boasting and overstatement. This occasion would be more restrained, the middle-class version called “having
a
barbeque.”
    Tom began to lay out his tools, like a surgeon or a three-card monte dealer setting up his trick. Nicola, after asking if Peter wouldn’t rather have white wine, poured herself a glass. Tom took off his cardigan and revealed his barbeque apron, which proclaimed: “Someone is killing the great chefs of Europe. That’s why I’m cooking.”
    â€œThat’s our cue, Inspector,” Nicola said. “Let’s snatch a talk inside, shall we? Tom, call us when the steaks and shrimp are ready.”
    Nicola led the way through the patio door. Tom caught Peter’s eye and mouthed “Rare?” Peter gave him a thumbs-up. He wondered if Brayden might be monitoring all this from somewhere near the house. He followed Nicola to a small but lavishly decorated library across the corridor from the vast dining room. The room had no windows but a round central skylight hovered over them in a cupola ceiling. The walls were panelled entirely in dark wood and a Tree of Life Kashan rug covered most of the oak floor. She ushered Peter to a wing-back chair and took a seat opposite him. To one side, a small round table held two pads of lined foolscap, two manila file folders, and a half dozen books.
    â€œWelcome to Montreal, Chief Inspector. Where shall we begin?”
    â€œIt would be best if you started at the beginning. The documents?” Peter said.
    Nicola immediately slipped into diplomatic mode, laying elbows to wrists on the arms of her chair in a pose that conceded nothing. Her smile remained full but enigmatic. But Peter, watching her, found that he could read her mind. She was disappointed in him. She was thinking,
Why should I recount the full story to an octogenarian policeman who is only in town for the purpose of retrieving a dead body?
    He barged ahead, quite aware of what mattered most to her in this scenario. “Tell me about the Booth Letters.” He knew from her three-page report that she labelled them this way.
    â€œThey are authentic, I assure you,” she said, her voice rising. “I have seen all three. Leander Greenwell showed them to me on two occasions, and I subsequently undertook my own research.”
    Peter softened his tone to draw her out. “I’m intrigued. How did you do that?”
    â€œTom and I did the researching.”
    â€œYour husband?”
    â€œOh, yes. Tom is assistant regimental