The Cruellest Month (5 page)

‘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   

‘
S
o 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 duck hunting season was particularly cruel. Every now and then in the fall you’d see a lone duck, quacking. Calling. Waiting for its spouse. And for the rest of its life it would wait.

Were the duck parents waiting now? Waiting for their babies to return? Did ducks believe in miracles?

‘Still, it must have scared the crap out of all of you,’ Olivier laughed, imagining Ruth at the window.

‘Fortunately Clara here was on top of the spiritual crisis, repeating an ancient blessing,’ said Gabri.

‘More drinks, anyone?’ Clara asked.

‘Bless O Lord,’ Gabri began and the others joined in, ‘this food to our use, and ourselves to Thy service.’

Peter sputtered with laughter and felt Scotch dribble down his chin.

‘Let us be ever mindful of the needs of others.’ Peter looked her directly in her amused blue eyes.

‘Amen,’ they all said together, including Clara, who was herself laughing.

‘You said grace?’ Peter asked.

‘Well, I thought I might be seeing my dinner again.’

By now everyone was laughing and even staid and proper Monsieur Béliveau was letting out a rolling, deep guffaw and wiping his eyes.

‘Ruth’s appearance sure put paid to the séance,’ said Clara after she’d regained herself.

‘I don’t think we’d have been successful anyway,’ said Jeanne.

‘Why not?’ Peter asked, curious to hear her excuse.

‘I’m afraid this place is too happy,’ said Jeanne to Olivier. ‘I suspected as much as soon as I arrived.’

‘Damn,’ said Olivier. ‘That can’t be tolerated.’

‘Then why’d you do a séance?’ Peter persisted, certain he’d caught her out.

‘Well, it wasn’t exactly my idea. I’d planned to spend tonight here having the
linguine primavera
and reading old copies of
Country Life
. No mean spirits around.’

Jeanne looked directly at Peter, her smile fading.

‘Except one,’ said Monsieur Béliveau. Peter tore his eyes from Jeanne and looked at Béliveau, expecting to see the kindly grocer pointing a crooked Jacob Marley finger at him. But instead Monsieur Béliveau’s hawk-like profile stared out the window.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Jeanne, following his gaze but seeing only the warm lights of the village homes through the lace curtains and the old leaded glass.

‘Up there.’ Monsieur Béliveau jerked his head. ‘Beyond the village. You can’t see it now unless you know what to look for.’

Clara didn’t look. She knew what he was talking about and begged him, silently, to go no further.

‘But it’s there,’ he continued, ‘if you look up, on the hill overlooking the village, there’s a spot that’s darker than the rest.’

‘What is it?’ Jeanne asked.

‘Evil,’ said the old grocer and the room grew silent. Even the fire seemed to stop its muttering.

Jeanne went to the window and did as he instructed. She lifted her eyes from the friendly village. It took her a moment, but eventually above the lights of Three Pines she saw it, a spot darker than the night.

‘The old Hadley house,’ whispered Madeleine.

Jeanne turned back to the gathering, now no longer lounging comfortably with each other, but alert and tense. Myrna picked up her Scotch and took a swig.

‘Why do you say it’s evil?’ Jeanne asked Monsieur Béliveau. ‘That’s quite an accusation, for a person or a place.’

‘Bad things happen there,’ he said simply, turning to the others for support.

‘He’s right,’ said Gabri, taking Olivier’s hand but turning to Clara and Peter. ‘Should I say more?’

Clara looked to Peter who shrugged. The old Hadley house was abandoned now. Had been empty for months. But Peter knew it wasn’t empty. For one thing he’d left part of himself in it. Not a hand or a nose or a foot, thank God. But things that had no substance but fantastic weight. He’d left his hope there, and trust. He’d left his faith there too. What little he had, he’d lost. There.

Peter Morrow knew the old Hadley house was wicked. It stole things. Like lives. And friends. Souls and faith. It had stolen his best friend, Ben Hadley. And the monstrosity on the hill gave back only sorrow.

Jeanne Chauvet floated back to the fire and dragged her chair closer to them so that she was finally in their circle. She placed her elbows on her thin knees and leaned forward, her eyes brighter than Clara had seen them all night.

Slowly the friends all turned to Clara, who took a deep breath. That house had haunted her ever since she’d arrived in Three Pines, a young wife to Peter, more than twenty years ago. It had haunted her and almost killed her.

‘There’s been a murder there, and a kidnapping. And attempted murder. And murderers have lived there.’ Clara was surprised how distant this list sounded and felt.

Jeanne nodded, turning her face to the embers slowly dying in the grate.

‘Balance,’ she finally said. ‘It makes sense.’ She seemed to rouse herself and sat up straighter, as though moving into another mode. ‘As soon as I arrived here in Three Pines I felt it. And I feel it tonight right here, right now.’

Monsieur Béliveau took Madeleine’s hand. Peter and Clara moved closer. Olivier, Gabri and Myrna inched together. Clara closed her eyes and tried to feel whatever evil Jeanne was sensing. But she felt only –

‘Peace.’ Jeanne smiled a little. ‘From the moment I arrived I felt great kindness here. I went into the little church, St Thomas’s I think it’s
called, even before booking into the B. & B., and sat quietly. It felt peaceful and content. This is an old village, with an old soul. I read the plaques on the walls of the church and looked at the stained glass. This village has known loss, people killed before their time, accidents, war, disease. Three Pines isn’t immune to any of that. But you seem to accept it as part of life and not hang on to the bitterness. Those murders you speak of, did you know the people?’

Everyone nodded.

‘And yet you don’t seem bitter or bound by that horrible experience. Just the opposite. You seem happy and peaceful. Do you know why?’

They stared into the fire, into their drinks, at the floor. How do you explain happiness? Contentment?

‘We let it go,’ said Myrna finally.

‘You let it go,’ Jeanne nodded. ‘But.’ Now she grew very still and looked Myrna directly in the eyes. Not challenging. More imploring, almost begging Myrna to understand this next part. ‘Where does it go?’

‘Where does what go?’ Gabri asked after a minute’s silence.

Myrna whispered, ‘Our sorrow. It has to go somewhere.’

‘That’s right.’ Jeanne smiled as though to a particularly gifted pupil. ‘We’re energy. The brain, the heart, run by impulses. Our bodies are fueled by food that’s converted into energy. That’s what calories are. This’, Jeanne brought her hands up and patted her thin body, ‘is the most amazing factory and it produces energy. But we’re also emotional and spiritual beings and that’s energy too. Auras, vibes, whatever you want to call it. When you’re angry,’ she turned to Peter, ‘can’t you feel yourself tremble?’

‘I don’t get angry,’ he said, meeting her gaze with cold eyes. He’d had just about enough of this bullshit.

‘You’re angry now, I can feel it. We can all feel it.’ She turned to the others, who didn’t comment, out of loyalty to their friend. But they knew she was right. They could feel his rage. It radiated off him.

Peter felt set up by this shaman and betrayed by his own body.

‘It’s natural,’ said Jeanne. ‘Your body feels a strong emotion and sends out signals.’

‘It’s true,’ Gabri said, turning to Peter apologetically. ‘I can feel your anger, and I can feel that the rest of us are uncomfortable. Earlier I could feel the happiness. Everyone was relaxed. No one had to tell me. When you walk into a room full of people don’t you get it immediately? You can feel whether people are happy or tense.’

Gabri looked around and everyone nodded, even Monsieur Béliveau.

‘At my store you get good at reading people fast. If people are in a bad mood, or upset or might be a threat.’

‘A threat? In Three Pines?’ Madeleine asked.

‘
Non, c’est vrai
,’ the grocer admitted. ‘It has never happened. But still I watch, just in case. I can tell as soon as they walk in.’

‘But that’s body language and familiarity,’ said Peter. ‘That’s not energy.’ He vibrated his hands in front of him and lowered his voice in a mocking tone. Monsieur Béliveau was silenced.