Yvette Nichol began wandering around the kitchen. She couldn’t stand the talking any more. On and on the woman went. At first Hazel had sat with her at the Formica table but eventually she got up to check the cookies and put the cool ones into a cookie tin.

‘For Madame Bremmer.’ As though Nichol cared. While Hazel talked and worked Nichol wandered the room, looking at the cookbooks, the collection of blue and white dishes. She moved to the photo-laden fridge, covered with pictures, mainly of two women. Hazel and another. Madeleine, Nichol decided, though the smiling, attractive woman and the shrieking thing in the morgue looked not at all alike. Picture after picture. In front of the Christmas tree, at a lake, cross-country skiing, gardening in the summer, hiking. In each one Madeleine Favreau was smiling.

Yvette Nichol knew something then, something she knew no one else would see. Madeleine Favreau was a fake, a fiction, an act. Because Nichol knew no one could possibly be that happy.

She stared at one showing a birthday celebration. Hazel Smyth was fixated on something outside the frame and wearing a funny baby blue hat with sparklers; Madeleine Favreau was in profile, listening, her head resting on one hand. She was looking at Hazel with unmasked adoration. A fat young woman sat beside Madeleine, stuffing cake into her face.

Nichol’s cell phone vibrated and thrusting the photograph into her pocket she walked into the stuffed living room, kicking a sofa leg as she went.

‘Merde. Oui, allô?’

‘Did you just swear at me?’

‘No.’ She reacted rapidly, habitually, to the rebuke.

‘Can you talk?’

‘A little. We’re at a suspect’s house.’

‘How’s the investigation going?’

‘Slowly. You know Gamache. He plods along.’

‘But you’re back with him now. That’s good. Don’t lose track of him. There’s too much at stake.’

Nichol hated these calls, hated herself for answering the phone. Hated even more the excitement she felt when the phone rang. And then the inevitable letdown. Treated like a child yet again. There was no way she could admit she was really with Beauvoir. She was supposed to be with the Chief Inspector then at the last minute the two had gone into the tiny office off the Incident Room and when they’d come out Beauvoir had stridden to the door calling for her to join him.

And so she found herself alone in the oppressive living room. It felt like the homes of so many aunts and uncles, stuffed with belongings. From the Old Country, they’d said, but who could smuggle a matching living room/dining room set out of Romania or Poland or Czechoslovakia? Where would you hide the plush pink carpets and heavy curtains and garish pictures as you stole across the border? But somehow their infinitesimal homes were crammed full of things that had become family heirlooms. Chairs and tables and sofas were scattered about like litter, dropped on the floor as another person might drop a Kleenex. Each time Nichol visited her aunts and uncles more heirlooms had appeared until there seemed little room for people. And perhaps that was the point.

She had the same impression here. Things. Too many things. But one thing caught her eye. A yearbook, sitting on the sofa. Open.

A shriek tore through the stillness of the room. Lacoste froze. Beside her Chief Inspector Gamache turned to face whatever caused it.

‘Sorry.’ Lemieux stood sheepishly at the door with a length of yellow tape in his hand, after ripping it from the wood. ‘I’ll try to do it more quietly.’

Isabelle Lacoste shook her head and could feel her heart subsiding to its normal beat.

‘Has the room changed?’ Gamache asked her.

Lacoste looked around. ‘Looks the same to me, patron.’

‘Someone broke in. I can’t imagine they came into this place without a purpose. But what was it?’

Armand Gamache looked slowly around the room, now familiar though far from comfortable. Was anything missing? Why would someone break the police tape to get in? To take something? Or to replace something?

Was there another reason?

The only thing obviously different about the room was the bird. Had it been killed on purpose? Was this a ritual sacrifice? But why a little bird? Weren’t sacrifices larger? Cattle or dogs or cats? He realized he was just making that up. He actually had no idea about sacrifices. The whole thing seemed macabre.

He knelt down, his feet crunching the coarse salt on the carpet as he tilted his head to get a better look at the bird.

‘Should I bag it?’ Lacoste asked.

‘Eventually, yes. Do you have any thoughts?’

Gamache knew Lacoste had been there that morning not to check on the scene, but to do her own private ritual.