He turned to Béliveau, who looked perplexed. Gabri handed him the photograph and the grocer studied it for a few moments. In the silence they heard more creaks. Something seemed to be coming up the stairs. Clara knew it was all in her mind. Knew what she’d felt before had only been the baby bird, not the monster of her imagination. That bird was dead now. So nothing could be coming up the stairs. Nothing could be on the landing. Nothing could be creaking along the corridor.
‘Hazel’s always been very kind,’ Monsieur Béliveau finally said, looking over at Hazel who’d all but disappeared.
‘You fell in love with him,’ said Gamache. ‘Didn’t you?’
Hazel shook her head slightly.
‘Mom? Did you?’
‘I thought he was nice. I once thought maybe…’
Hazel’s voice petered out.
‘Until Madeleine showed up,’ said Gamache. ‘She didn’t mean to, almost certainly had no idea how you felt about him, but she stole Monsieur Béliveau from you.’
‘He wasn’t mine to steal.’
‘We say that,’ said Gamache, ‘but saying and feeling are very different. You were two lonely people, you and Monsieur Béliveau. In many ways a much more natural match. But Madeleine was this magnificent, lovely, laughing magnet and Monsieur Béliveau was mesmerized. I don’t want to give the impression Madeleine was malicious or mean. She was just being herself. And it was hard not to fall in love with her. Am I right, Monsieur Sandon?’
‘Moi?’
At the sound of his own name Sandon’s head jerked up.
‘You loved her too. Deeply. As deeply and totally as unrequited love can be. In many ways it’s the deepest because it’s never tested. She remained the ideal for you. The perfect woman. But then the perfect woman faltered. She fell in love with someone else. And worse. The one man you despise. Monsieur Béliveau. The bringer of death. The man who allowed a venerable old oak to die in agony.’
‘I could never kill Madeleine. I can’t even cut down a tree. Can’t step on a flower, can’t crush an earwig. I can’t take a life.’
‘But you can, Monsieur Sandon.’ Armand Gamache grew very silent and leaned forward again, staring at the huge lumberjack. ‘You said so yourself. Better to put something out of its misery than allow it to die a long and painful death. You were talking about the oak. But you were prepared to kill it. Put it out of its misery. If you knew Madeleine was dying, perhaps you’d do the same for her.’
Sandon was speechless, his eyes wide, his mouth wide.
‘I loved her. I couldn’t kill her.’
‘Gilles,’ Odile whispered.
‘And she loved someone else.’ Gamache moved in closer, thrusting his words home. ‘She loved Monsieur Béliveau. Every day you saw it, every day it was in your face, undeniable, even for you. She didn’t love you at all.’
‘How could she?’ He rose from his chair, his massive hands clenched like mallets. ‘You don’t know what it was like, to see her with him.’ He turned to look at meek Monsieur Béliveau. ‘I knew she couldn’t care for someone like me, but…’
He faltered.
‘But if she couldn’t love you, she couldn’t love anyone?’ said Gamache softly. ‘It must have been horrible.’
The lumberjack collapsed into his chair. They waited for the crack as the wood gave way, but instead it held him, as a mother might a hurt child.
‘But the stuff that killed her was in the Smyths’ medicine cabinet,’ said Odile wildly. ‘He couldn’t get it.’
‘You’re right. He didn’t have access to their home.’ Gamache turned to Odile. ‘I mentioned the lab report. It said the ephedra that killed Madeleine wasn’t from a recent batch. It was much more natural. I’d been a fool. Over and over people had told me and it never registered. Ephedra’s an herb. A plant. Used for centuries in Chinese medicines. Maybe Gilles didn’t need access to their home. Maybe you didn’t either. You know what I took from your store?’
He stared at Odile, who stared back, frantic and frozen.
‘Ma Huang. An old Chinese herb. Also known as Mormon’s tea. And ephedra.’
‘I didn’t do it. He didn’t do it. He didn’t love her. She was a bitch, a horrible, horrible person. She tricked people into thinking she cared.’
‘You spoke to her, warned her, as you were walking here that night, didn’t you? You told her she could have anyone, but Gilles was the only man you ever wanted. You pleaded with her to stay away from him.’
‘She told me not to be so stupid. But I’m not stupid.’
‘By then it was too late. The ephedra was already in her.’ Gamache looked at the circle of staring faces. ‘You all had reason to kill her. You all had the opportunity to kill her. But there was one more necessary ingredient. What killed Madeleine Favreau was ephedra and a fright. Someone had to provide the fright.’
All eyes turned to Jeanne Chauvet. Her own were hooded, sunken and dark.
‘You were all trying to get me to consider Jeanne a suspect. You told me you didn’t trust her, didn’t like her. Were frightened of her. I’d put it down to a kind of hysteria. The stranger among you. The witch. Who else would you want to be guilty?’
Clara stared at him. Gamache had put it so simply, so clearly. Had they really thrown this mousy woman to the inquisition? Turned her in? Lit the pyre and warmed themselves by it like smug Puritans, confident the beast wasn’t one of them. No thought for the truth, no thought for the woman.
‘I’d all but dismissed her as being too obvious. But dinner last night changed my mind.’
Clara thought she heard creaking again, as though the house had woken up, could sense a kill. Her heart thudded and the candle began flickering as though trembling itself. There was something about in the old Hadley house. Something had come to life. Gamache seemed to sense it too. He cocked his head to one side, a puzzled look on his face. Listening.
‘Ruth Zardo was talking about the burning times and called you Joan of Arc,’ he said to Jeanne. ‘And I remembered that Jeanne is French for Joan. Joan of Arc becomes Jeanne d’Arc. A woman burned for hearing voices and seeing visions. A witch.’
‘A saint,’ corrected Jeanne, her voice detached, far away.
‘If you prefer,’ said Gamache. ‘That first séance you thought was a joke, but the next one you took seriously. You made sure it was as atmospheric, as frightening, as possible.’
‘I’m not responsible for other people’s fears.’
‘You think not? If you jump out of the dark and say boo, you can’t blame the person for being frightened. And that’s what you did. Deliberately.’
‘No one forced Mad to come that night,’ said Jeanne, then stopped.
‘Mad,’ said Gamache quietly. ‘A nickname. Used by people who knew her well, not by someone who’d only just met her. You knew her, didn’t you?’
Jeanne was silent.
Gamache nodded. ‘You knew her. I’ll come back to that in a moment. The final element for murder was the séance. But no one here was going to lead one, and who’d expect a psychic to show up for Easter? It seemed far too fortuitous to be chance. And it wasn’t. Did you send this?’
Gamache handed Gabri the brochure for the B. & B.
‘I’ve never sent these out,’ said Gabri, barely looking at the brochure. ‘Only made them to satisfy Olivier who said we weren’t doing enough advertising.’
‘You’ve never mailed any out?’ Gamache persisted.
‘Why would I?’
‘You’re a B. & B.,’ suggested Myrna. ‘A business.’
‘That’s just what Olivier says, but we get enough people. Why would I want more work?’
‘Being Gabri is work enough,’ agreed Clara.
‘It’s exhausting,’ said Gabri.
‘So you didn’t write that across the top of the brochure.’ Gamache pointed to the glossy paper in Gabri’s large hand. Leaning into the candlelight Gabri strained to see.