“What do you mean?” Gamache asked.

“People do,” explained the young steward. He was small, lithe. With a thick Spanish accent. “Especially the quiet ones. He was quiet. Stuck to himself.”

They continued on their way along the corridor, and then, to their surprise, down two flights of stairs.

“Most passengers are excited to be under way. They talk to each other. Get to know each other. There isn’t a lot to do so they start hanging out together. Your guy didn’t. He was different.”

“Do you think he was considering jumping?” asked Gamache.

“Naw. He was okay. Just different.”

That word, over and over. Peter Morrow, who’d struggled to conform all his life, was different after all.

“Where did he get off?” Jean-Guy asked.

“Can’t remember.”

They’d arrived at the Admiral’s Suite. The steward opened the door, his hand resting, palm up.

Beauvoir ignored him, but Gamache gave him a twenty.

“Twenty, patron? Really?” Beauvoir asked, his voice low.

“Who do you think’ll be handing out places in the lifeboat?”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” said Gamache.

They stepped inside. Almost. The three of them could barely get in standing up, and it wasn’t clear how they’d all manage to lie down.

“This’s the Admiral’s Suite? There must be a mistake,” said Chartrand, trying to turn around without getting engaged to either man.

“There must’ve been a mutiny,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache raised his brows. This did look more like the brig. And smelled like a latrine. They were indeed in the bowels of the ship.

The Loup de Mer lurched, and left the dock.

“Bon voyage,” said the steward as he shut the door.

Out of the slimy porthole the men saw the land recede.

*   *   *

Myrna turned off the taps and swished the water, making sure it was the right temperature. The aroma of lavender, from the bubble bath, filled the mahogany bathroom.

Candles were lit, and their steward had brought two strong cappuccinos and a basket of warm croissants and jams.

Armand had called to tell them that their steward had definitely recognized Peter. Clara was relieved and felt she could finally relax.

She tore the tip off a flaky croissant and sat back on the sofa in their cabin.

They were under way.

Across the suite, in the bathroom, Clara saw Myrna sink deeper into the copper tub, the bubbles forming foaming mountains and valleys over her body.

“I see your ship has finally come in,” said Clara, as Myrna hummed “What Shall We Do with a Drunken Sailor?”

“I’m a born mariner,” she said.

While Myrna bathed, Clara took a sip of cappuccino and gazed through the large window, watching the thick old forests and bays slip by as the Loup de Mer headed east.

*   *   *