‘Eleanor of Aquitaine and her husband King Henry,’ said Ruth. Gamache turned to her, surprised. ‘What? It’s a great film. Katharine Hepburn and Peter O’Toole. All the action takes place at Christmas, if I remember well. Strange, isn’t it. Here we are at Christmas too.’

There were many strange things about this case, thought Gamache.

The opening credits started, the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion roared, the powerful Gothic music filled their quaint little living room and grotesque images of gargoyles leered on the screen. Already the film reeked of power and decay.

And dread.

The Lion in Winter began.

Agent Nichol’s car skidded round the snowy corner, barely making the turn off the main road onto the tiny secondary road that led to Three Pines. Gamache hadn’t invited her to stay at the B. & B. with them, but she would anyway, even if she had to pay her own way. While in Montreal, after interviewing the headmistress of Crie’s snooty private school, Agent Nichol had driven home to pick up a suitcase, stopping briefly to have a bite with her relatives gathered in the tiny, fastidious house.

Her father always seemed nervous on these occasions and had instructed his daughters never to mention the family history in Czechoslovakia. Growing up in the immaculate little home in east end Montreal Nichol had seen a parade of distant relatives and friends of friends come to live with them, though it was less a parade than a cortege. They trudged through the door, all in black with stone stern faces, speaking words she couldn’t understand and sucking all the attention the world had to offer. They demanded and yelled and wailed and complained. They came from Poland and Lithuania and Hungary and young Yvette listened to them and came to believe each person must have their own language. Hovering near the doorway in the tiny, crowded, chaotic living room, a room that had once been so pleasant and calm, young Yvette struggled to understand what was being said. At first the newcomers would speak kindly to her, then when she didn’t react they’d speak more loudly, until finally they screamed at her in the universal language that said she was lazy and stupid and disrespectful. Her mother, once so gentle and kindly, had become impatient too, and yelled at her. In a language she did understand. Little Yvette Nikolev had become the foreigner. All her life she’d stand just on the outside. Longing to belong, but knowing she didn’t, when even her mother sided with others.

It was then she began to worry. If her home was this baffling and overwhelming, what was waiting outside? Suppose she couldn’t make herself understood? Suppose something happened, but she couldn’t follow the instructions? Suppose she needed something? Who would give it to her? And so Yvette Nichol had learned to take.

‘So, you’re back with Gamache,’ her father had said.