The Piano Maker (26 page)

“Oh, her. That’s Mrs. Fitch. She’s the postmistress from down the coast.”

In the room they were arguing. “But she killed him,” a man’s voice said. “Doornail-dead. She said so herself. A woman picks up a gun and shoots a man dead, is that not murder? It would be, the other way round. What is there to waffle and go on about?”

The foreman’s voice said, “Please, Mr. Dunsmore. We
need to proceed slowly and deliberately. Someone go to the criminal code and read section eighteen to us again …”

The clerk ran a crooked finger inside the pudding bowl and licked it. He put the spoon in the bowl and held it out for Marie-Tatin to take. “There. You should go now. Can’t have anyone see you standing there, listening.”

The jury deliberated until nearly nine o’clock that night. Then the foreman declared an impasse and invoked her option to bring in the judge for counsel.

The judge had been in his room, reading the file and dozing and waking. He’d had Mildred make him a pot of coffee, and he drank it all and went to the bathroom twice while he waited.

When the clerk knocked, the judge said, “Come in,” and then he listened to the clerk. He sighed and put on his robe and wig, and he stepped into his black buckled shoes and followed the clerk up the stairs.

Down below Mildred could hear them, and she sent Marie-Tatin to tell Father William and David Chandler in the dining room. They came hurrying, and then the four climbed the stairs and stood near the jury room door. The clerk opened his mouth to object, but with Father William there in his full blacks, he changed his mind.

“What is it with you people?” they heard the judge say. He made no effort to keep his voice down. “What is the problem here? Were you not listening to my instructions?
What are your available choices, your considerations? Speak up, someone.”

The foreman’s voice said, “The charge is first-degree murder.”

“Precisely. So? You must ask yourself, is she guilty of first-degree, yes or no? If you find that she is not, you move on. Madam Foreman, read me the legal definition of first-degree murder.”

And they heard Mrs. Fitch clear her throat and stumble through a complicated legal paragraph.

“Stop right there,” said the judge. “Repeat that phrase.”

“Which one?”

“Madam!” shouted the judge. “Are we all awake here? The one you just read. ‘Must contain an element, however small, of malice aforethought.’ Think about it.
Taste
that notion. Hold it up to this case and do your job. If you do not find her guilty of first-degree, what about the included lesser charges? You’ve had nearly four hours already to deliberate, and so I’m going to carry this chair into the corner over there, and I’ll sit and wait for twenty more minutes by my watch. You get to work and reach your verdict.”

At 9:45 that night, the lights were turned on again in the co-operative market hall, and people when they saw that came from all over and stomped the snow off their boots and filed into the hall to stand behind the rope. The court scribe with his papers and pen came and sat
at his desk, and then the assistant Crown attorney entered through the side door, followed by the matron and Hélène and Mr. Quormby. They all took their places and then the clerk told them to
rise, all rise
, and the Honourable Sir James F. Whitmore strode in, in his long black robe and big wig of office. Under his arm he carried his case notes.

He sat down in the chair behind his desk and said, “Clerk, proceed.” And the clerk in his black suit and small wig stood very upright and declared this court to be in session. He said, “The accused will remain standing, but Crown and counsel may sit.”

When all was quiet again, the judge said, “So bring in the jury,” and the clerk stepped to the side-room door and opened it.

There were noises from the vegetable crates, and then the twelve men and women filed in, Mrs. Fitch the postmistress first, and then the others, solemnly, with their hands behind their backs. They crossed the floor in front of the judge’s desk to their chairs and sat down. They stopped moving, and for a few heartbeats there was not one sound inside or out on this snowy night.

Then the judge said, “Madam Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?”

Mrs. Fitch was holding a piece of paper, and she put her hands on the armrests of her chair and stood up. She was very pale. They could all see her swallowing, and then she said, “Yes we have, Your Honour.”

“And how do you find the accused in the charge of first-degree murder?”

And Mrs. Fitch said, “We find her not guilty, Your Honour. But—”

There came a collective sound from the audience, a loud sigh or exhalation, and the judge called, “Quiet! All quiet or I’ll have the hall cleared.” He turned to the jury and said, “Please continue, Madam Foreman.”

Mrs. Fitch looked at the piece of paper in her hand, and then she raised her head. “But we do find her guilty of manslaughter, Your Honour. Manslaughter with reduced criminal culpability under the circumstances.”

The judge allowed a moment’s silence to give the verdict its due space. Then he leaned forward with his hands and elbows on the desk.

“So noted,” he said. “Manslaughter. Thank you, Madam Foreman. Does the jury have a recommendation for a sentence?”

“We do, Your Honour. That same section in the code states that there is no set minimum sentence for manslaughter, and so we propose to give credit for the time in pre-trial confinement already served by the accused. But we also recommend an additional penalty of unpaid community work, which is listed in the code as an option, Your Honour. We recommend five hundred hours.”

There was another silence, and then the judge said, “Very well. Five hundred hours’ community work. This court agrees with the jury’s recommendation. The community
work is to be determined and monitored by local municipal authorities. Scribe, make note of it.”

The judge paused. He looked around and said, “The court thanks the jury and the prosecution and the defence. This case is now closed. Madam, you are free to go. You will be contacted by your mayor’s office.”

He was looking fully at her then. A strong face, strong eyes. He inclined his head to her, and then hammered the gavel down on the wooden plate.

“Clerk,” he said. “Have the motorcar brought around to the entrance.”

THE FIRST THING
she did with her freedom the next morning was to put on her boots and coat and hat and walk to the post office to call Claire. In the street people smiled and said
Mornin’, ma’am
and
Bonjour, Madame
.

It was just one week until Christmas.

On Sunday they performed the “Faith” cantata, and the church was filled again, and another hundred people stood outside in the snow. They were coming from all over now, straight across the peninsula from as far as Cape Sable and Port Mouton, a good three hours away in this weather, and Father William announced from the pulpit that for the next while there would be three services on Sundays: the first one at eight, High Mass at eleven, and vespers at seven. All with music and choir, he promised, although perhaps not always the full choir.

Claire was due to arrive on Wednesday, and this time Hélène drove to meet the ferry from Portland herself. She stopped at the foundry and asked David Chandler if he
would like to come along and he said yes, he certainly would. He put down the piece he was working on and turned off the machines and went into the other room. He came back looking scrubbed and bright-eyed, his hair combed with water like a little boy.

They drove along the shore road with the evening sun veiled behind red clouds, and with slabs of ice on the water and seals and seagulls riding them.

“Are people leaving you alone about it, Mrs. Giroux?” he said. “I don’t mean the newspaper people. I know they’re still all over town, but everybody else.”

“Yes, they are, Mr. Chandler. For the most part.”

“And are you able to rest enough after the ordeal?”

“Yes, I am,” she said. She told him she’d had an interesting telephone call at the church office. “Two, actually,” she said. “From piano companies. Offers for management positions and quality control, one in Boston and one in Stratford, Ontario. I could be making pianos again, Mr. Chandler.”

“Oh,” he said.

After a while he said, “But would you want to be leaving here now?”

No, she wouldn’t, she said. And she couldn’t anyway, not with the ordered community work and the chance of organizing a music festival. There was a lot to think about, and it was much too soon to make any kind of decision.

“Of course,” he said. “Can I ask a question, Mrs. Giroux? About the dinosaur skull.”

“Of course, Mr. Chandler. Ask.”

“What happened to it?”

“The government confiscated it. Apparently they had just passed a law forbidding private ownership of fossil finds. Nathan might not have known, but I think the geologist did, and that’s why we never saw him in person. I imagine someday that skull will end up in a British museum. Maybe it has already. I do know that they sent over a mythologist and a team from London, and they took away one of the rock pyramids and shipped it to England and erected it in a museum.”

“Imagine,” he said. “And one last thing, Mrs. Giroux. The dog, what happened to it?”

“Jack. He ended up at that outfitter’s where we rented him. All the other dogs did too, they just found their way home. I inquired about that once, but I never went back.”

They were standing among other people on the Yarmouth pier by then, waiting for the ferry.

She said, “When I was young I always wanted a dog, but I could never have one. Jack was the best dog anyone could wish for. He was strong and fierce and loyal. And he could smile, Mr. Chandler. I saw that with my own eyes.”

It was night and a few overhead lights on wires were on. If they shielded their eyes they could see the ferry, not far out now: bright windows, the small red and green lights at port and starboard. The running lights at the mast. The ferry came their way through the night, pushing before it a wave of foaming water. It sounded its horn.

Much of that week leading up to Christmas, the weather was clear and cold. Truckloads of Christmas trees had been delivered to the square, and people came with their children and bought trees and took them home on toboggans. Then it began to snow again. Blue jays screeched and dipped between bird feeders, and at noon on Thursday winter lightning could be seen in the middle of the day and then thunder rolled over the town. Market stalls sold roasted chestnuts and tea and home-baked cookies and fudge and mulled wine. Sergeant Elliott came to inspect liquor licences, and when they did not have one he said they would have to stop selling mulled wine, but that they could wait until the writ was served, which might take a week or more with him being so busy.

They rehearsed the Christmas concert for hours. They had decided to drop the part of the Bach oratorio, and they would instead focus on carols. She’d considered bringing in some strings, but there was not enough time to rehearse. Father William agreed it was better to keep things simple for now.

“But in the new year,” he said and smiled. “The French Shore Music Festival. I do look forward to that. I mentioned our idea to the mayor, and he said he would talk to the councillors. He was very interested.”

Claire had eight days before she needed to fly back. She’d had a call letting her know that the position was hers; now she was thinking of building on it and then perhaps going back to university for a full medical degree. She spent her
nights bunking on the sofa in the living room, and every night on her way to the bathroom Hélène would glance through the doorway towards the sofa in the window light and feel a sweet pain in her heart and move on.

Claire borrowed skates and with other young people went to the rink behind the school. She also took on the job of dealing with the reporters; too many of them were still in town, snooping around and clicking pictures of Hélène whenever they glimpsed her. It took a few days, but Claire confronted them one by one and asked them kindly to leave her mother alone now. And one after another, they did.

For Mass on Christmas Eve, she’d wear the long dark-grey skirt and the matching jacket over a white blouse, silk stockings and her mother’s pearls. She’d laid the clothes out on the bed, and she was in the kitchen making tea when Father William came up to see her.

“Have a cup of tea,” she said. “I’ve got some brewing.”

He followed her into the kitchen and they pulled out chairs. He seemed different somehow. Upset about something.

“Is everything all right?” she said.

“Ah. No, it is not.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “How do I say this? Mrs. Giroux, ever since you told me about your father’s death and the missionaries, I have been very understanding with you. Very tolerant. But now I have a problem that I cannot ignore.”

“Tell me.”

“The problem is that, while it was at first all right for you to be uncommitted, now your admission in public of a criminal act – no, let me finish – your admission of an act the church calls a mortal sin, calls for certain steps to be taken. I think you know what I mean.”