Jean-Guy and Armand leaned on the railing of the Loup de Mer. The ship was pointed directly into the waves, and both men stared over the side, almost hypnotized by the rhythm. The ship’s bow rose and fell, cutting the waves, sending light spray into their faces.

It was both refreshing and lulling.

Had Gamache been humming an old Québécois lullaby, Jean-Guy knew he’d have dropped off to sleep right there and then.

C’est un grand mystère

Depuis trois nuit que le loup, hurle la nouvelle

Just remembering the tune, Jean-Guy felt his eyelids beginning to droop. Then fluttering open. Heavier, heavier. C’est un grand mystère. It’s a big mystery. The voice of his mother sang to him. About the wilderness. The wolves and foxes. About being afraid. And being saved. Being safe.

His head slowly lowered, then jerked up as he came to.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” said Gamache. “There must be a cafeteria.”

They’d let Marcel Chartrand use the toilet first. When they were paying for the room, the clerk had assured them it was an en suite.

It was not. Unless “en suite” in maritime terms meant sharing a tiny, grimy water closet at the end of the dark corridor.

“If we have the Admiral’s cabin, can you imagine how bad the Captain’s must be?” said Jean-Guy.

“When I called to tell them about Peter, I asked how they were. They didn’t complain.”

“Amazing,” said Jean-Guy. “I sure would, if I were them.”

“If you were them?” Gamache asked.

They found the cafeteria, but it had just closed.

“Désolé,” said the steward. “You can get coffee over there.”

He pointed to a coin-operated machine.

“I don’t have any change,” said Gamache, feeling in his pockets. “Do you?”

Beauvoir, increasingly frantic, turned his pockets inside out.

“Merde.”

They stared at the machine.

*   *   *

“That was wonderful,” said Myrna, leaning back in her chair at their mahogany dining table.

Their breakfast of bacon and eggs, with the unexpected treat of a small fillet of smoked trout, was finished, and now they sipped their coffee and nibbled on the fruit.

“If our cabin’s this good,” said Clara, getting up to run her own bath, “can you imagine how great the men’s must be? The Admiral’s Suite. Wow.”

Myrna changed from the fluffy bathrobe the ship provided into clean clothes and heard Clara moan as she slid into the tub.

“I’m heading out,” said Myrna, pausing in the doorway to the bathroom. “Are you safe in there? You won’t fall asleep, will you?”

“Drown and miss the rest of this voyage?” asked Clara. “No way. They’re going to have to call the cops to get me off this ship. Where’re you going?”

“To see the cops.”

Myrna found their cabin down a surprisingly dingy hallway.