It was remarkable, thought Gamache, listening to Thomas. If you didn’t speak French you’d swear he was bilingual, so perfect was his accent. But the content lacked a certain je ne sais quoi.

“Three no trump,” said Thomas.

His mother shook her head and tsked gently.

Thomas laughed. “Ah, my mother’s tongue.” Gamache smiled. He liked the man and suspected most people would.

“Did any of your children stay here?” Reine-Marie asked Madame Finney. The Gamaches at least had Annie living in Montreal, but she missed Daniel every day, and wondered how this woman, and so many others, had done it. No wonder they weren’t always comfortable with the Québécois. If they felt they lost their children for the sake of a language. And without thanks. In fact, often just the opposite. There remained a lingering suspicion among the Québécois that the English were simply biding their time, waiting to enslave them again.

“One stayed. My other son.”

“Spot. He and his wife Claire are coming tomorrow,” said Thomas, switching to English. Gamache looked up from his hand, which held nothing of interest anyway, and stared at the man beside him.

Like his sister Julia’s earlier in the evening, Thomas’s tone had been light and breezy when speaking of the missing brother. But something was drifting about beneath.

He felt a slight stirring in the part of his brain he’d come to the Manoir to turn off.

It was Sandra’s turn to bid. Gamache stared across the table at his partner.

Pass, pass, he willed. I have nothing. We’ll be slaughtered.

He knew bridge was both a card game and an exercise in telepathy.

“Spot,” huffed Sandra. “Typical. Comes at the last minute. Does only the minimum, never more. Four no trumps.”

Reine-Marie doubled.

“Sandra,” said Thomas with a laugh barely hiding the rebuke.

“What? Everyone else comes days ago to honor your father, and he shows up at the last minute. Horrible man.”

There was silence. Sandra’s eyes darted from her hand to the plate of chocolates the maître d’ had placed on their table.

Gamache glanced at Madame Finney, but she seemed oblivious of this conversation, though he suspected she missed nothing.

His gaze shifted to Monsieur Finney, sitting on a sofa. Finney’s wild eye roamed the room and his hair stuck out at odd angles so that his head looked like a damaged sputnik, fallen too fast and too hard to earth. For a man being honored he was strangely alone. Finney’s eye came to rest on a huge original Krieghoff painting of a rustic scene hanging over the fireplace. Québécois peasants were loading a cart and at one of the cottages a robust woman was laughing and carrying a basket of food to the men.

It was a warm and inviting scene of family and village life hundreds of years earlier. And Finney seemed to prefer it to his family in the here and now.

Marianna got up and walked over to the group.

Thomas and Sandra pressed their cards to their chests. She picked up a Châtelaine magazine. “According to a survey,” she read, “most Canadians think bananas are the best fruit for chocolate fondue.”

There was silence again.

Marianna imagined her mother choking on the chocolate truffle she’d picked up.

“But that’s ridiculous,” said Sandra, also watching Madame Finney eat. “Strawberries are the best.”

“I’ve always liked pears and chocolate. Unusual, but a great combination, don’t you think?” Thomas asked Reine-Marie, who said nothing.

“So this is where you got to. No one told me.” Julia stepped lightly through the French doors from the garden. “What’re you talking about?”

For some reason she looked at Gamache.

“Pass,” he said. He didn’t really know what they were talking about any more.

“Magilla here thinks bananas are best with melted chocolate.” Thomas nodded to Marianna. This brought much hilarity and the Gamaches exchanged amused but befuddled looks.

“Don’t the monks make blueberries in chocolate?” asked Julia. “I’ll have to get some before we leave.”

For the next few minutes the game was forgotten while they debated fruit and chocolate. Eventually both Julia and Marianna retired to their corners.

“Pass,” Thomas declared, his mind back on the game.

Let it go. Gamache stared across at Sandra and sent the message. Please, pass.

“I redouble.” Sandra glared at Thomas.

What we’ve got here, thought Gamache, is a failure to communicate.