‘Why give her ephedra in the middle of a dinner party? If the murderer needed a séance why not do it Friday night?’
It was a question that hounded Gamache. Why wait until Sunday? Why not kill her Friday night?
‘Maybe he tried,’ he said. ‘Did anything odd happen that Friday night?’
‘More odd than contacting dead people? Not that I remember.’
‘Who did Madeleine have dinner with?’
‘Hazel, I guess. No, wait, Madeleine didn’t go home for dinner. She stayed here.’
‘Had dinner at the bistro?’
‘No, with Monsieur Béliveau.’ She looked over at his home, a large rambling clapboard house facing the green. ‘I like him. Most people do.’
‘Most, but not all?’
‘Don’t you let anything pass?’ she laughed.
‘When I miss things or let them pass they gather in a heap then rise up and take a life. So, I try not to.’ He smiled.
‘I guess not. The only person I’ve ever seen actually cut Monsieur Béliveau was Gilles Sandon. But then Gilles’s quite a character. Do you know him?’
‘He works in the woods, doesn’t he?’
‘Makes amazing furniture, but I think there’s a reason he works with trees and not people.’
‘How does Monsieur Béliveau feel about him?’
‘Oh, I don’t think he even notices the slights. He’s such a gentle man and kind. He only went to the séance to keep Mad company, you know. I could tell he didn’t like it at all. Probably because of his dead wife.’
‘Afraid she’d come back?’
‘Maybe,’ Clara laughed. ‘They were very close.’
‘Do you think he expected her to show up?’
‘Ginette, his dead wife? None of us expected anything. Not that first night at the bistro, anyway. It was a lark. But still, I think it upset him. He didn’t sleep well that night, he said.’
‘The next séance was different,’ said Gamache.
‘We were crazy to go there.’ She had her back to the old Hadley house, but she could feel it staring at her.
Gamache turned, feeling a chill born from the inside and growing to meet the cold damp air on his skin. It was the menace on the hill, poised, waiting for the right moment to swoop down on them. But no, Gamache thought. The old Hadley house wouldn’t swoop. It would creep. Slowly. Almost unnoticed until you woke up one morning swallowed by its despair and sorrow.
‘As we were walking up the hill that night,’ said Clara, ‘something kind of strange happened. We started off all bunched up, talking, but as we got closer we stopped talking and drifted apart. I think that house creates isolation. I was almost the last. Madeleine was walking behind me.’
‘Monsieur Béliveau wasn’t with her?’
‘No, strange that. He was talking with Hazel and Sophie. He hadn’t seen Sophie in a while. I think they must be friends because Sophie made sure to sit next to him at dinner. As I walked I passed Odile standing on the road. Then I heard Odile and Madeleine talking behind me.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘Not unheard of, but I didn’t think they had much in common. I can’t remember exactly what was said, but I have the impression Odile was sucking up. Telling Mad how lovely she was and popular. Something like that, but the funny thing is it seemed to upset Madeleine. I’m afraid I tried to hear more but couldn’t.’
‘What do you think of Odile?’
Clara laughed then stopped herself. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t very nice. But every time I think of Odile I think of her poetry. I can’t imagine why she writes it. Do you think she thinks it’s good?’
‘It must be difficult to know,’ said Gamache, and Clara felt fear snake around her heart and into her head again. Fear that she was as delusional as Odile. Suppose Fortin shows up and laughs? He’d seen a few of her works but maybe he was drunk or not in his right mind. Maybe he’d seen Peter’s and thought they were Clara’s. That must be it. There’s no way the great Denis Fortin could really like her work. And what work? That wretched half-finished accusation in her studio?
‘Have Odile and Gilles been together long?’ asked Gamache.
‘A few years. They’ve known each other forever but only got together after his divorce.’
Clara was silent, thinking.
‘What is it?’ asked Gamache.
‘I was thinking of Odile. It must be difficult.’
