Cruelest Month

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.’

‘What?’

‘I get the feeling she’s trying so hard. Like a rock climber, you know? But not a very good one. Just clinging on for dear life and trying not to show how scared she is.’

‘Clinging on to what?’

‘To Gilles. She only started writing poetry when they got together. I think she wants to be part of his world. The creative world.’

‘What world does she belong in?’

‘I think she belongs in the rational world. With facts and figures. She’s wonderful at running the store. Turned it around for him. But she won’t hear a compliment about that. She only wants to hear that she’s a great poet.’

‘It’s interesting she’d choose poetry when one of the greatest poets in Canada is a neighbor,’ said Gamache, watching as Ruth walked down the steps of her veranda. She paused, turned back, bent down, then straightened up.

‘I married one of the greatest artists in Canada,’ said Clara.

‘Do you see yourself in Odile?’ he asked, astonished.

Clara was silent.

‘Clara, I’ve seen your work.’ He stopped and looked at her directly and for an instant the snake retreated, her heart expanded, her head cleared, as she looked into his deep brown eyes. ‘It’s brilliant. Passionate, exposed. Full of hope, belief, doubt. And fear.’

‘I’ve got plenty of that for sale. Want some?’

‘I’m rather flush right now myself, thank you. But you know what?’ He smiled. ‘All will be as it should, if we just do our best.’

Ruth was standing on her front lawn, staring down. As they approached they saw the two baby birds.

‘Morning.’ Clara waved. Ruth looked up and grunted.

‘How’re the babies?’ Clara asked then she saw. Little Rosa was squawking around preening and parading herself. Lilium was standing still, staring ahead. She looked afraid, like that tiny bird in the old Hadley house. Gamache wondered whether maybe she’d been born with a caul.

‘They’re perfect,’ snapped Ruth, daring them to contradict her.

‘We’re having people over for dinner. Want to come?’

‘I was planning to anyway. I’m out of Scotch. You be there?’ she asked Gamache, who nodded.

‘Good. You’re like a Greek tragedy. I can take notes and write a poem. Your life will have meaning after all.’

‘You have relieved me, madame,’ said Gamache and gave her a small bow.

‘There’s someone else I’d like you to invite,’ he said as they resumed their walk. ‘Jeanne Chauvet.’

Clara kept walking, staring straight ahead.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘She scares me. I don’t like her.’

It was one of the few times Gamache had ever heard Clara say that. Above him the old Hadley house seemed to grow.

   THIRTY-FOUR

Agent Isabelle Lacoste was tired of hanging around the lab. The report on the fingerprints was ready, she was assured. They just couldn’t find it.

She’d already been off to interview François Favreau, Madeleine’s husband. He was gorgeous. Like a GQ model in midlife. Tall and handsome and bright. Bright enough to give her straight answers to her questions.

‘I heard about her death, of course. But we hadn’t been in touch for a while and I didn’t really want to bother Hazel.’

‘Not even with sympathy?’

François moved his coffee cup a half-inch to the left. She noticed that his cuticles were ragged. Worry always finds its way to the surface.

‘I just hate that sort of thing. I never know what to say. Here, look at this.’ He took some papers from a nearby desk and handed them to her. On them he’d scrawled, I’m so sorry for your loss, it must leave a big –

Hazel, I wish –

Madeleine was such a lovely person, it must have been –

On and on, for three pages. Half-finished sentences, half-baked sentiments.

‘Why don’t you just tell her how you feel?’

He stared at her with a look she knew. It was the same one her husband used. Annoyance. It was obviously so easy for her to feel and to express it. And impossible for him.

‘What went through your mind when you heard she was murdered?’ Lacoste had learned that when people couldn’t talk of feelings they could at least talk about their thoughts, and often the two collided. And colluded.