Irene Finney sat next to her husband and wore a floral sundress. She was plump with soft white hair in a loose bun on her head, and while she didn’t glance up he could see her complexion was tender and white. She looked like a soft, inviting, faded pillow, propped next to a cliff face.

“We’re fine, but merci.”

Gamache had noticed that Finney, alone among his family, always tried to speak a little French to him.

Within the Manoir the temperature dropped again. It was almost cool inside, a relief from the heat of the day. It took a moment for Gamache’s eyes to adjust.

The dark maple door to the dining room was closed and Gamache knocked tentatively, then opening it he stepped into the panelled room. Places were being set for dinner, with crisp white linen, sterling silver, fine bone china and a small arrangement of fresh flowers on each table. It smelled of roses and wood, of polish and herbs, of beauty and order. Sun was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, which looked onto the garden. The windows were closed, to keep the heat out and the cool in. The Manoir Bellechasse wasn’t air conditioned, but the massive logs acted as natural insulation, keeping the heat in during the bitterest of Quebec winters, and the heat out on the most sizzling of summer days. This wasn’t the hottest. Low 8os, Gamache figured. But he was still grateful for the workmanship of the coureurs de bois who raised this place by hand and chose each log with such precision that nothing not invited could ever come in.

“Monsieur Gamache.” Pierre Patenaude came forward smiling and wiping his hands on a cloth. He was a few years younger than Gamache and slimmer. All that running from table to table, thought Gamache. But the maître d’ never seemed to run. He gave everyone his time, as though they were the only ones in the auberge, without seeming to ignore or miss any of the other guests. It was a particular gift of the very best maître d’s, and the Manoir Bellechasse was famous for having only the best.

“What can I do for you?”

Gamache, slightly bashfully, extended his glass. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need some sugar.”

“Oh, dear. I was afraid of that. Seems we’ve run out. I’ve sent one of the garçons to the village to pick up some more. Désolé. But if you wait here, I think I know where the chef hides her emergency supply. Really, this is most unusual.”

What was most unusual, thought Gamache, was seeing the unflappable maître d’ flapped.

“I don’t want to put you out,” Gamache called to Patenaude’s disappearing back.

A moment later the maître d’ returned, a small bone china vessel in his hands.

“Voilà! Success. Of course I had to wrestle Chef Véronique for it.”

“I heard the screams. Merci.”

“Pour vous, monsieur, c’est un plaisir.” Patenaude picked up his rag and a silver rose bowl and continued his polishing while Gamache stirred the precious sugar into his lemonade. Both men stared in companionable silence out of the bank of windows to the garden and the gleaming lake beyond. A canoe drifted lazily by in the still afternoon.

“I checked my instruments a few minutes ago,” said the maître d’. “A storm’s on the way.”

“Vraiment?”

The day was clear and calm, but like every other guest at the gracious old lodge he’d come to believe the maître d’s daily weather reports, gleaned from his home-made weather stations dotted around the property. It was a hobby, the maître d’ had once explained, passed from father to son.

“Some fathers teach their sons to hunt or fish. Mine would bring me into the woods and teach me about the weather,” he’d explained one day while showing Gamache and Reine-Marie the barometric device and the old glass bell jar, with water up the spout. “Now I’m teaching them.” Pierre Patenuade had waved in the direction of the young staff. Gamache hoped they were paying attention.

There was no television at the Bellechasse and even the radio was patchy, so Environment Canada forecasts weren’t available. Just Patenaude and his near mythical ability to foretell the weather. Each morning when they arrived for breakfast the forecast would be tacked outside the dining room door. For a nation addicted to the weather, he gave them their fix.

Now Patenaude looked out into the calm day. Not a leaf stirred.

“Oui. Heat wave coming, then storm. Looks like a big one.”

“Merci.” Gamache raised his lemonade to the maître d’ and returned outside.

He loved summer storms, especially at the Bellechasse. Unlike Montreal, where storms seemed to suddenly break overhead, here he could see them coming. Dark clouds would collect above the mountains at the far end of the lake, then a gray curtain of rain would fall in the distance. It would seem to gather itself, take a breath, and then march like a line of infantry clearly marked on the water. The wind would pick up, catching and furiously shaking the tall trees. Then it would strike. Boom. And as it howled and blew and threw itself at them, he’d be tucked up in the Manoir with Reine-Marie, safe.