‘I’d love the sausages, mon beau Philippe, but I’m afraid at my age they’re a bit much. Does Monsieur Pagé still provide your back bacon?’

‘Mais oui, home cured, Madame Longpré. The best in Quebec.’

‘Merveilleux. Such luxury.’ She leaned across the table to Gamache, genuinely enjoying herself. ‘I’ll take a poached egg, s’il vous plaît, on a piece of Sarah’s baguette and some of your perfect bacon.’

‘And a croissant?’ Philippe looked at her playfully. They could smell the croissants baking in the shop next door, the connecting door open and eloquent.

‘Perhaps just one.’

‘Monsieur?’

Gamache ordered and within minutes he had a plate of sausages and French toast. A jug of local maple syrup was at his elbow and a basket of croissants steamed between them, accompanied by jars of homemade jams. The two ate and talked and sipped their coffees in front of the lively and warm fire.

‘So what did you think of CC?’ he asked.

‘She struck me as a very lonely woman. I felt sorry for her.’

‘Others have described her as selfish, petty, hurtful and frankly a little stupid. Not someone you’d choose to be with.’

‘They’re right, of course. She was desperately unhappy and took it out on others. People do, don’t they? They can’t stand it when others are happy.’

‘Yet you invited her to your home.’

This was the question he’d wanted to ask since she’d mentioned it on their walk. But he’d needed to be able to watch her face.

‘I’ve been desperately unhappy in my life.’ Her voice was quiet. ‘Have you, Chief Inspector?’

It wasn’t a response he could have predicted. He nodded.

‘I thought so. I think people who have had that experience and survived have a responsibility to help others. We can’t let someone drown where we were saved.’

Now the room was very still and Gamache realized he was holding his breath.

‘I understand, madame, and I agree,’ he said finally. Gently he asked, ‘Could you tell me about your sadness?’

She met his eyes. Then she reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a ball of white Kleenex, and something else. On the table between them she placed a small black and white photograph, cracked and dusty from the tissues. She caressed it clean with one practiced finger.

‘This is Gus, my husband, and my son David.’

A tall man had his arm across the shoulder of a lanky young man, a boy really. He looked to be a teenager, with long shaggy hair and a coat with wide lapels. His tie was also wide, as was the car behind them.