It seemed when speaking English, his accent, combined with the Scottish ear, was producing a sort of white noise of nonsense.

In Dumfries, Constable Stuart tried to be patient. He looked out the window of the police station, at the whitewashed buildings. At the gray stone buildings. At the redbrick Victorian buildings. At the tall clock tower at the far end of the market square. At the people rushing by, the cold rain driving them toward the pubs and shops.

And he tried to be patient.

He tried to figure out what this man was going on about. A colonnade? Why call the police to ask about that? Then he thought he heard something about artists, but that was equally ridiculous. Again, why call the police to discuss art?

He wondered if this man might be off his head, but he sounded calm and rational and even a bit exasperated himself.

Constable Stuart became more alert when he made out the word “homicide,” but when he asked if this man was calling to report one, he got the only clear answer so far.

No.

“Then what, may I ask, are you wanting?”

He heard a long, long sigh down the phone line.

“Mon dieu,” he also heard.

“Did you say ‘Mon dieu’?” he asked. “Do you speak French?”

“Oui,” said Gamache. “Do you?” He asked that in French and was rewarded with a laugh.

“Oh, aye. Je parle français.”

And finally the two men could communicate. In French. Thanks to Constable Stuart’s affair with a Frenchwoman who was now his wife. She’d eventually learned English and he’d learned French.

Gamache explained that he was the former Chief Inspector of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, in Canada, and he needed Constable Stuart’s help. But not with a murder case. This was a private enquiry. Trying to find a missing friend. An artist. He’d been traced to the Dumfries area in the early winter. Gamache gave Constable Stuart the dates when Peter was there. But Gamache didn’t know where he went, what he did, or why Peter was even there. He wondered if there was an artist colony, or something that might draw a painter to the area.

“Well, now, this is a very beautiful part of the world, you know.”

Gamache envied Constable Stuart his accent. In French it became soft and charming, the rolling Scottish burr melding perfectly with the French language.

Who knew?

“So there are famous artists?”

“Not exactly famous.” There was a pause. “No, I cannot say they’re famous. But very good. And any artist would be inspired by the setting.” Constable Stuart looked out the window at the cold, gray day. At the sheets of rain pouring down.

It was beautiful.

“Now, we do have a number of very pretty gardens. Some remarkable, apparently. Would a gardener do?”