“I’m doing well, merci. You?” Monsieur Finney asked. His eyes spun swiftly over the large man who towered over him. Scanning him. “You’re looking well.”

But before Gamache could answer, a pleasant singsong voice came down the hallway.

“Bert, who is it?”

“It’s Peter’s friend. Armand Gamache.” Monsieur Finney stepped back to allow Armand into the Montréal home belonging to Peter Morrow’s mother and stepfather.

“Oh, how nice.”

Bert Finney turned to their guest. “Irene will be happy to see you.”

He smiled, the sort of grin that wide-eyed children imagined beneath their beds at night.

But the real nightmare was yet to come.

When Gamache had been so gravely injured, he’d received among thousands of cards a beautiful one signed by Irene and Bert Finney. Grateful for the card, the Chief Inspector nevertheless understood that courtesy should not be mistaken for genuine kindness. One was nurture, a polite upbringing. The other was nature.

One of these two was courteous. The other kind. And Gamache had a pretty good idea which was which.

He followed Finney down the hall and into a light-filled living room. The furniture was a mix of British antiques and fine Québec pine. The Chief, a great admirer of both the early Québécois and the furniture they made, tried not to stare.

A comfortable sofa was slipcovered in a cheerful but muted pattern, and on the walls he saw works by some of the most prominent Canadian artists. Jean Paul Lemieux, A. Y. Jackson, Clarence Gagnon.

But not a single Peter Morrow. Nor was there a work by Clara.

“Bonjour.”

The Chief walked across the room to the chair by the window and the elderly woman who sat there. Irene Finney. Peter’s mother.

Her silken white hair was done in a loose bun, so that it framed her face. Her eyes were of the clearest blue. Her skin was pink and tender and scored with wrinkles. She wore a loose dress on her plump body and a kindly expression on her face.

“Monsieur Gamache.” Her voice was welcoming. She held up one hand and he took it, bowing slightly over it.

“Fully recovered, I see,” she said. “You’ve gained weight.”

“Good food and exercise,” said Gamache.

“Well, good food anyway,” she said.

Gamache smiled. “We’re living in Three Pines now.”

“Ahh, well, that explains it.”

The Chief stopped himself from asking what it explained. That was the first step into the cave. And he had no desire to enter this woman’s lair any further than he already had.

“What can I get you?” asked Monsieur Finney. “A coffee? A lemonade perhaps?”

“Nothing, thank you. I’m afraid this isn’t a social call. I’ve come…”

He paused. He could hardly say “on business” since this was no longer his business, nor was it really his personal affair. The elderly couple looked at him. Or Madame Finney looked while her husband pointed his nose in Gamache’s direction.

The Chief could see the beginning of concern on Monsieur Finney’s face, so he plunged ahead.