‘That’s what I’m going to ask you to do,’ said Gamache, motioning to Lemieux to take notes. Peter led them into the cozy living room and threw a birch log on the fire, the flames grabbing and crackling and leaping as the bark burst into flames. Gamache noticed again the honey pine wide-plank flooring, the mullioned windows looking out onto the village green, the piano and the bookcase, crammed with books and covering one wall. A sofa faced the open hearth and two easy chairs bracketed it. The hassocks in front of the seats were covered with old newspapers and magazines and books, splayed open. The only thing different about the familiar room for Gamache was the huge and exuberantly decorated Christmas tree, giving off a sweet aroma. Clara followed with a tray of tea and biscuits and all four sat round the warm hearth. Outside the sun was setting, and clouds were gathering on the dim horizon.

‘Where would you like to start?’

‘This morning, please. I understand there was a community breakfast?’

‘In the Royal Canadian Legion, on rue Larry in Williamsburg. Peter and I got there early to help set up. It’s a fundraiser for the hospital.’

‘We got there at about seven this morning,’ Peter picked up the story, ‘and were joined by a few other volunteers. Myrna Landers, Émilie Longpré, Bea Mayer and Kaye Thompson. We have it down pat by now. Put out the tables and chairs, Clara and I do that, while the others get the coffee going and organize the food.’

‘The truth is, by Boxing Day morning most people aren’t actually all that hungry. They pay ten dollars and get an all-you-can-eat breakfast,’ said Clara. ‘Peter and I do the cooking while Em and Kaye serve up. Kaye’s about two hundred years old and still manages to help but now she finds something she can do sitting down.’

‘Like bossing everyone around,’ said Peter.

‘She never bosses you. That’s my job,’ said Clara. ‘It’s voluntary.’

‘Very civic minded.’ Peter smiled with a long-suffering look.

‘What did the others do?’ Gamache asked. Lemieux was surprised by the question. He’d run out of notebook soon if they kept going into such detail over something that was hours away from the murder. He tried to write smaller.

‘Who’s left?’ Peter turned to Clara. ‘Myrna Landers and Bea Mayer.’

‘Bee?’ Lemieux asked.

‘Her name’s Beatrice, but everyone calls her Bea.’ Peter spelled Beatrice for Lemieux.

‘Actually, everyone calls her Mother,’ said Clara.

‘Why?’ asked Gamache.

‘See if you can figure it out,’ said Clara. Lemieux looked at the chief to see if he was annoyed by her flippant and familiar tone, but he was smiling.

‘What did Myrna and Bea do at the breakfast?’ Gamache asked.

‘They cleaned up between sittings and served coffee and tea,’ said Peter.