Still Life (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #1) - Louise Penny Page 0,78

Gamache found himself standing next to Ruth.

‘It was one of Jane’s favorite songs,’ said Ruth. ‘She was always singing it.’

‘You were humming it that day in the woods,’ Gamache said to Clara.

‘Wards off bears. Didn’t Jane learn it in school?’ Clara asked Ruth.

Olivier jumped in. ‘She told me she learned it for school. To teach, right, Ruth?’

‘She was expected to teach every subject, but since she couldn’t sing or play piano she didn’t know what to do about the music course for her students. This was when she first started, back fifty years ago. So I taught her the song,’ said Ruth.

‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ mumbled Myrna.

‘It was the only song her students ever learned,’ said Ben.

‘Your Christmas pageants must have been something,’ said Gamache, imagining the Virgin Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus and three drunken sailors.

‘They were,’ laughed Ben, remembering. ‘We sang all the carols, but they were all to the tune of “Drunken Sailor”. The looks on the parents’ faces at the Christmas concert when Miss Neal would introduce, “Silent Night”, and we’d sing!’ Ben started singing, ‘Silent Night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright’, but to the tune of the shanty. Others in the room laughed and joined in.

‘I still find it really hard to sing the carols correctly,’ said Ben.

Clara spotted Nellie and Wayne and waved at them. Nellie left Wayne and made a bee-line for Ben, beginning to talk before she was halfway across the room.

‘Ah, Mr Hadley, I was hoping to find you here. I’m going to be over to do your place next week. How’s Tuesday?’ Then she turned to Clara and said confidentially, as though passing a State secret, ‘I haven’t cleaned since before Miss Neal died, Wayne’s had me that worried.’

‘How is he now?’ asked Clara, remembering Wayne’s hacking and coughing during the public meeting a few days earlier.

‘Now he’s complaining, so there’s nothing much wrong. Well, Mr Hadley? Haven’t got all day, ya know.’

‘Tuesday’s fine.’ He turned to Clara once Nellie had gone back to her pressing job, which seemed to be eating the entire buffet. ‘The place is filthy. You won’t believe the mess an old bachelor and his dog can create.’

As the line crawled forward, Gamache spoke to Ruth. ‘When I was in the notary’s office asking about Miss Neal’s will, he mentioned your name. When he said, “nee Kemp”, something twigged, but I couldn’t figure it out.’

‘How did you finally get it?’ Ruth asked.

‘Clara Morrow told me.’

‘Ah, clever lad. And from that you deduced who I was.’

‘Well, it took a while after that, but eventually I got it,’ Gamache smiled. ‘I do love your poetry.’ Gamache was just about to quote from one of his favorites, feeling himself a pimply youth in front of a matinee idol. Ruth was backing up, trying to get out of the way of her own beautiful words coming toward her.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Clara, to two people apparently maniacally happy to see her. ‘But did you say, “he”?’

‘He?’ repeated Gamache.

‘He? The notary.’

‘Yes. Maître Stickley in Williamsburg. He was Miss Neal’s notary.’

‘Are you sure? I thought she saw that notary who just had a baby. Solange someone-or-other.’

‘Solange Frenette? From exercise class?’ Myrna asked.

‘That’s her. Jane said he and Timmer were off to see her about wills.

Gamache stood very still, staring at Clara.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Frankly? No. I seem to remember her saying that because I asked Jane how Solange was feeling. Solange would have been in her first trimester. Morning sickness. She just had her baby, so she’s on maternity leave.’

‘I suggest one of you get in touch with Maître Frenette as soon as possible.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Clara, suddenly wanting to drop everything and hurry home to call. But there was something that had to be done first.

The ritual was simple and time-worn. Myrna led it, having grounded herself with a full lunch of casseroles and bread. Very important, she explained to Clara, to feel grounded before a ritual. Looking at her plate Clara thought there wasn’t much chance she’d fly away. Clara examined the twenty or so faces gathered in a cluster on the village green, many of them apprehensive. The farm women stood in a loose semi-circle of woolen sweaters and mitts and toques, staring at this huge black woman in a bright green cape. The Jolly Green Druid.

Clara felt perfectly relaxed and at home. Standing in the group she closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths and prayed for the grace to let go of the