hated it. Wanted it to die, or at least go away, or failing that attack someone else.
And now it was here. Dead. A baby. A tiny, frightened robin, which probably fell down the chimney from its nest and only wanted to find its mother and its home again.
Finally Agent Lacoste had been ready. The three women had held hands and stared at the salt circle. And each sent silent thoughts out to Madeleine. While Agent Lacoste had seen only the grotesque shell, Clara and Myrna remembered her alive. It was liberating, seeing Madeleine smiling and laughing. Glowing. Listening and taking everything in with those interested eyes. The living Madeleine became more real. As it should be.
Then Clara thought of the bird, and apologized to it, and promised to do better next time.
It was the most peaceful few moments in the old Hadley house Clara had ever spent. Still, none of them protested when it was time to leave.
Chief Inspector Gamache had been driving by just as they’d left and Agent Lacoste flagged him down. Myrna and Clara said hello then walked back to the loft. While Myrna put the bacon back on, Clara called Peter to tell him where she was.
‘Have you seen the paper?’ he asked.
‘No, we were too busy doing an exorcism.’
‘You’re at Myrna’s? Wait there. I’ll be right over.’
Myrna put on more bacon and ground some coffee while Clara set the table and cut the bread for the teepee toaster. By the time Peter arrived breakfast was ready.
‘From Sarah’s.’ He held a paper bag. Clara kissed him and took it.
Croissants.
Twenty minutes later Peter licked his finger and wiped a bit of butter from Clara’s cheek. Not even close to her mouth. How does she do it, he marveled. It was like a superpower without purpose.
‘I dropped by Monsieur Béliveau’s store too,’ he said, pouring coffees.
‘Is he open?’ Myrna asked. ‘I didn’t notice.’
‘As always. He came over for dinner last night, you know,’ said Peter, opening some jam jars. One still had the wax on top and he needed to dig it out with a knife. ‘Hardly ate anything.’
‘Not surprised,’ said Myrna. ‘I think he loved her.’
The other two nodded. Poor man. To lose two women he loved within a few years. He’d been so sweet over dinner the night before. Even bringing a pie from Sarah’s Boulangerie. But his energy had flagged and within half an hour he just sat there, moving food about on his plate. Peter kept filling his wine glass, and Clara prattled on about getting the garden ready. That was the beauty of friends, she knew. Nothing was expected of Monsieur Béliveau, and he knew it. Sometimes it’s just nice not to be alone. He’d left early, right after supper. And he’d seemed a little livelier. Clara and Peter had taken Lucy and walked with Monsieur Béliveau across the village green to his home. On the veranda Clara and Peter had hugged him but offered no easy words of comfort. To do that would be to simply comfort themselves. What Monsieur Béliveau needed was to feel bad. And then he’d feel better.
Now, over breakfast Clara and Myrna told Peter about their morning so far. He listened, amazed by their courage to go back into that house and astonished by their stupidity. Did they really believe Madeleine’s spirit was hovering around the room and could hear them? Never mind the supposed spirit of a dead bird. And, even more disconcerting, did an officer with the Sûreté believe it? But that reminded him. He reached for the paper he’d brought and opened it.
‘Listen to this.’
‘Golf scores?’ Myrna asked, pouring more coffee and offering some to Clara. Peter was hidden behind La Journée, the Montreal paper.
‘This is in the city column.’ Peter poked his head round the paper to find Myrna pouring cream into her coffee and Clara opening the doors of the toaster to gingerly remove the bread. Giving one piece to Myrna, Clara reached for the marmalade and started spreading it thick upon her toast. They were paying absolutely no attention. He ducked back behind the paper with a smile. That would soon change, he knew. He started to read out loud.
‘It is a matter of some concern that a senior officer in the Sûreté du Québec is living way beyond his means. According to my sources a man in his position should be making no more than ninety-five thousand dollars. Even that, in my opinion, is far too much. Still, even on that