an impressive work of art.
‘That’s mine,’ said Clara, trying to get between the two men.
Amazed, as though in a dream, she’d shown Fortin around her studio. And she’d described her latest work, hidden under its canvas caul. Fortin had stared at the canvas, but hadn’t reached out for it, hadn’t even asked for it to be removed.
‘When will it be finished?’
‘A few days,’ said Clara, wondering where that came from.
‘Shall we say the first week in May?’ He’d smiled and shaken her hand with great warmth. ‘I’ll bring my curators so we can all decide.’
Decide?
The great Denis Fortin was coming in little over a week to see Clara’s latest work. And if he liked it her career would be decided.
Now Peter stood staring at the piece.
He suddenly felt something grab him. From behind. It reached forward and right into him and took hold. Peter gasped at the pain, the searing, scalding pain of it. Tears came to his eyes as he was overcome by this wraith that had threatened all his life. That he’d hidden from as a child, that he’d run from and buried and denied. It had stalked him and finally found him. Here, in his beloved wife’s studio. Standing in front of this creation of hers the terrible monster had found him.
And devoured him.
FIVE
‘So what did Ruth want?’ Olivier asked, as he placed single malt Scotches in front of Myrna and Gabri. Odile and Gilles had gone home but everyone else was in the bistro. Clara waved to Peter, who was shrugging out of his coat and hanging it on a peg by the door. She’d called him as soon as the séance had ended and invited him to the post-mortem.
‘Well, at first we thought she was yelling “fuck”,’ said Myrna, ‘then we realized she was yelling “duck”.’
‘Duck? Really?’ said Olivier, sitting on the arm of Gabri’s wing chair and sipping cognac. ‘Duck? Do you think she’s been saying that all along?’
‘And we just misheard?’ asked Myrna. ‘Duck off. Is that what she said to me the other day?’
‘Duck you?’ said Clara. ‘It’s possible. She is often in a fowl mood.’
Monsieur Béliveau laughed and looked over at Madeleine, pale and quiet beside him.
The fine April day had given way to a cold and damp night. It was getting on for midnight and they were the only ones in the bistro now.
‘What did she want?’ Peter asked.
‘Help with some duck eggs. Remember the ones we found by the pond this afternoon?’ said Clara, turning to Mad. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ Madeleine smiled. ‘Just a little edgy.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Jeanne. She sat on a hard chair slightly outside their circle. She’d reverted to her mousy self; all evidence of the strong, calm psychic had evaporated as soon as the lights had come on.
‘Oh, no, I’m sure it’s nothing to do with the séance,’ Madeleine assured her. ‘We had coffee after dinner and it must have had caffeine. It affects me that way.’
‘Mais, ce n’est pas possible,’ Monsieur Béliveau said. ‘I’m sure it was decaf.’ Though he was feeling a little edgy himself.
‘What’s the story with the eggs?’ asked Olivier, smoothing the crease on his immaculate corduroys.
‘Seems Ruth went to the pond after we’d left and picked them up,’ Clara explained.
‘Oh, no,’ said Mad.
‘Then the birds came back and wouldn’t sit on the nest,’ said Clara. ‘Just as you predicted. So Ruth took the eggs home.’
‘To eat?’ asked Myrna. ‘To hatch,’ said Gabri, who’d gone with Clara back to Ruth’s tiny house to see if they could help.
‘She didn’t sit on them, did she?’ Myrna asked, not sure if she was amused or repulsed by the image.
‘No, it was actually quite sweet. When we arrived the eggs were sitting on a soft flannel blanket in a basket. She’d put the whole lot in her oven on low.’
‘Good idea,’ said Peter. Like the rest, he’d have expected Ruth to devour, not save, them.
‘I don’t think she’s had that oven on in years. Keeps saying it takes too much energy,’ said Myrna.
‘Well, she has it on now,’ said Clara. ‘Trying to hatch the ducks. Those poor parents.’ She picked up her Scotch and glanced out the window to the darkness of the village green and imagined the parents sitting by the pond, at the spot where their young family had been, where their babies had sat in their little shells, trusting that Mom and Dad would keep them safe and warm. Ducks mate for life, Clara knew. That’s why