‘Where to?’
‘Are you afraid?’ She wasn’t laughing at him.
He paused for a moment to think about that. He tried not to lie to suspects. Not because he was a moral or ethical man, but because he knew if found out it weakened his position. And Chief Inspector Gamache would never do that. Not for something as foolish as a lie.
‘I’m always a little afraid of the unknown,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m not afraid of you.’
‘You trust me?’
‘No.’ He smiled. ‘I trust myself. Besides, I have a gun and you probably don’t.’
‘Not my weapon of choice, it’s true. It’s such a lovely day it’s a shame to be inside. I’m only suggesting a walk. Perhaps we can go back to the chapel.’
They stood on the wide veranda for a moment, beside the rocking chairs and wicker tables, then descended the sweeping stairs and fell into step. They walked in silence for a minute or two. It was a golden day with every shade of green imaginable just appearing. The dirt road was finally dry and the air smelled of fresh grass and buds. Purple and yellow crocuses dotted the lawns and the village green. Great fields of early daffodils bobbed, having spread and naturalized all over Three Pines, their bright yellow trumpets catching the sun. After a minute Gamache took off his field coat and draped it over his arm.
‘It’s very peaceful,’ said Jeanne. Gamache didn’t answer. He walked and waited. ‘It’s like a mystical village that only appears for people who need it.’
‘Did you?’
‘I needed a rest, yes. I’d heard about the B. & B. and decided to book in at the last minute.’
‘How’d you hear about it?’
‘A brochure. Gabri must have advertised.’
Gamache nodded. The sun was warm on his face, though not hot.
‘Nothing like that has ever happened to me before. No one has ever died at one of my rituals. And no one has ever been hurt. Not in the physical sense.’
Gamache longed to ask, but decided to stay quiet.
‘People often hear things that upset them emotionally,’ said Jeanne. ‘Spirits don’t seem to care much for people’s feelings. But for the most part contacting the dead is a very gentle, even tender experience.’
She stopped and looked at him. ‘You said you know nothing about the Wicca. I assume that means you know nothing about our rituals as well.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Seances aren’t about hauntings or ghosts or demons. They aren’t about exorcisms even. Not really. They’re not even about death, though we do contact the spirits of the dead.’
‘What are they about?’
‘Life. And healing. When people ask for a seance chances are they need healing. On the surface it might appear to be about titillation or a game to pass the time and scare each other, but someone there needs something resolved, in order to get on with their lives. They need to let something or someone go. That’s what I do. That’s my job.’
‘You’re a healer?’
Jeanne stopped and looked directly into Gamache’s deep brown eyes. ‘I am. All Wicca are. We’re the crones, the midwives, the medicine women. We use herbs and ritual, we use the power of the Earth and the power of the mind and soul. And we use the energy of the universe and we use spirits. We do whatever we can to help wounded souls heal.’
‘There are a lot of wounded souls.’
‘Which is why I came here.’
‘To find more or to rest from your labors?’
Jeanne was about to answer when her face suddenly changed. It went from earnest and concentrated to perplexed. She stared off at something behind him.
He turned round then he too suddenly looked perplexed.
Ruth Zardo was limping slowly down her walkway, quacking.
Jean Guy Beauvoir found La Maison Biologique without difficulty. The organic store was on rue Principale in St- Remy, right across from the
As Inspector Beauvoir entered the empty shop he noticed a strange unnatural smell. It was a musky, dark aroma as though the various herbs and dried flowers, incense and powders were locked in battle.
In short, it stank.
A pretty, pudgy woman in her late thirties or early forties was standing behind the counter, her hand flat on a closed exercise book. Cheaply cut and dyed hair sat limply around her face. She looked pleasant and unremarkable. For the briefest moment she also looked annoyed, as though he’d entered her private space. Then she smiled. It was the practiced smile of someone used to pleasing.
‘
