‘The old Hadley house. Do you know the book?’
Did she hesitate? he wondered. She reached out and he handed it to her. After examining it for a moment she put it down.
‘It’s a Hamsa hand. An ancient symbol to ward off the envious and the evil eye. It’s also called the Hand of Miriam. Or Mary.’
‘Mary?’ said Clara, sitting slowly back in her chair. ‘As in the Madonna?’
Jeanne nodded.
‘It’s all bullshit,’ said Ruth, who’d wiped up the droplets of spilled Scotch with her finger and was sucking it.
‘You don’t believe in magic?’ Jeanne asked.
‘I don’t believe in magic, I don’t believe in God. There’s no such thing as angels and there’re no fairies at the end of the garden. Nothing. The only magic is this.’ She raised her glass and took a gulp.
‘Is it working?’ asked Gamache.
‘Fuck off,’ said Ruth.
‘Eloquent as ever,’ said Gabri. ‘I used to believe in God, but I gave it up for Lent.’
‘Har-dee-har-har,’ said Olivier.
‘You want to know what I believe?’ said Ruth. ‘Here, give me that.’
Without waiting she leaned over and snatched the second book from the table. The cracked and worn Bible Gamache had taken from the old Hadley house. She squinted and brought it close to a candle as she tried to find the right page. The room was silent, the only sound the slight sizzling of a candle wick.
‘
Into the silence they stared.
And then Ruth’s alarm went off.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Gamache couldn’t sleep. His bedside clock said 2:22. He’d been lying awake watching the bright red numbers change since the clock had said 1:11. He’d been woken up not by a bad dream, not by anxiety or a full bladder. He’d been woken up by frogs. Peepers. An army of invisible frogs at the pond spent most of the night singing a mating call. He would have thought they’d be exhausted by now, but apparently not. At dusk it was joyful, after dinner it was atmospheric. At 2 a.m. it was simply annoying. Anyone who said the country was peaceful hadn’t spent time there. Especially in the spring.
He got up, put on his dressing gown and slippers, took a stack of books from the dresser and headed downstairs.
He relit the fireplace and made himself a pot of tea, then settled in staring at the fire and thinking of the dinner party.
Ruth had left as soon as her alarm went off, scaring the pants off everyone. She’d just read that extraordinary passage. St Paul’s letter to the Corinthians. Quite a letter, thought Gamache. Thank God they kept it.
‘Good night,’ Peter had called from the door. ‘Sleep tight.’
‘Always do,’ Ruth snapped.
The rest of the dinner had been peaceful and tasty. A pear and cranberry
Over tea now, in the quietude of the B. & B., Gamache thought about what he’d heard. Then he picked up one of the yearbooks. It was from the first year Madeleine had been at the high school and she didn’t figure in many pictures. Hazel was in a few, on some of the junior teams. But as the years went by Madeleine seemed to bloom. Became captain of the basketball and volleyball teams. Beside her in all the shots was Hazel. Her natural place.
Gamache put down the books and thought a bit, then he picked one up again and looked for the missing cheerleader. Jeanne Potvin. Was it possible? Was it that easy?
‘Fucking frogs,’ said Beauvoir a few minutes later, shuffling into the living room. ‘We just get rid of Nichol and now the frogs start acting up. Still, they’re better-looking and less slimy. What’re you reading?’
‘Those yearbooks Agent Lacoste brought back. Tea?’
Beauvoir nodded and wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘Don’t suppose she brought back any
‘Sorry, old son. But I did find something in this one. Our missing cheerleader. You’ll never guess.’
‘Jeanne?’ Beauvoir got up and took the book from Gamache. He scanned the page until he found a picture of Jeanne Potvin. Then he looked at Gamache, taking a sip of tea and watching him over the rim of the mug.
