Dr Harris was shaking her head. ‘This place. How do you explain a village like Three Pines where poets take ducks for walks and art seems to fall from the skies?’
On the mention of skies both of them looked at the storm cloud, now almost halfway up the sky.
‘I wouldn’t expect many Rembrandts from that,’ said Gamache.
‘No. More abstract than classic, I think.’
Gamache laughed. He liked Dr Harris.
‘Poor Ruth. You know she smiled at me just now.’
‘Smiled? Do you think she’s dying?’
‘No, but I think the little one is.’
Dr Harris pointed to the smaller of the ducks, struggling across the grass to the pond. The two sat on their bench and watched. Ruth went over to the straggler and walked very slowly beside it, the two limping along like mother and child.
‘What killed Madeleine Favreau, doctor?’
‘Ephedra. She had five or six times the recommended level of ephedra in her system.’
Gamache nodded. ‘That’s what the toxicology said, of course. Could it have been given to her over dinner?’
‘Had to have been. It works fairly quickly. I don’t think it’d be a problem slipping it into any of the food.’
‘But there’s more, isn’t there,’ said Gamache. ‘Not everyone who dies from ephedra has a look of horror on their faces.’
‘True. You want to know what really killed her?’
Gamache nodded.
Sharon Harris looked up from his strong, calm face and nodded to the hillside.
‘That killed her. The old Hadley house.’
‘Come along, doctor. Houses don’t kill.’ Gamache tried to sound convincing.
‘Perhaps not, but fear does. Do you believe in ghosts, Chief Inspector?’ When he was silent she went on. ‘I’m a doctor, a scientist, but I’ve been in homes that scare the hell out of me. I’ve been invited to parties in perfectly fine places. New houses even, and felt a dread. Felt a presence.’
She’d debated with herself all the way over. Should she tell him everything? Should she admit this? But she knew she had to. To find a killer, she had to expose herself. But she knew she’d never admit these things to any other Surete officer.
‘Do you believe in haunted houses?’ Gamache asked.
Dr Harris was suddenly eleven and creeping through the pine forest toward the Tremblay place. It was buried in the woods, abandoned, dark, brooding.
‘Someone was killed there once,’ her friend had hissed into her ear. ‘A kid. Strangled and stabbed.’
She’d heard he’d been beaten to death by his uncle, but someone else had said he’d died of starvation.
However he went, he was still there. Waiting. Waiting to possess the body of some other kid. To come alive again, and avenge his death.
They’d crept to within yards of the Tremblay place. It was night and the dark woods closed in and all things familiar and comforting during the day became unfamiliar. Branches cracked and footsteps approached and something creaked and little Sharon Harris had fled, running, tumbling through the forest, trees reaching out and scraping flesh from her face and behind her she heard panting. Was it her friend, abandoned by her? Or the dead boy, reaching out? She could feel his freezing hands on her shoulders, desperate to take a life.
The faster she ran the more terrified she became until she finally broke through the trees sobbing and petrified, and alone.
Even today, as she leaned in to the mirror, she could see the tiny scars made by the trees and her own terror. And she remembered that night she’d left her best friend to be taken instead of her. Of course, the friend had burst through the trees a moment later, also sobbing. And they both knew that dead boy had indeed stolen something. He’d stolen the trust between friends.
Sharon Harris believed houses could be haunted, but she knew for sure people were.
‘Do I believe in haunted houses, Chief Inspector? Are you really asking me that? A doctor and a scientist?’
‘I am,’ he smiled.
‘Do you believe it?’
‘Now, you know me, doctor. I believe everything.’
She hesitated for a moment, then decided, what the hell.
‘That place is haunted.’ She didn’t have to look, they both knew what she meant. ‘By what, I don’t know. Madeleine Favreau knows, but she had to die to find out. Me? I don’t want to know that badly.’
The two sat quietly on the bench in the very center of the peaceful village. Around them, as they talked about ghosts and demons and death, people walked their dogs and chatted and gardened. Gamache waited for Dr Harris to continue, and watched as Ruth tried to coax the tiny balls of fluff into the pond.
‘I did a bit of research this afternoon on ephedra. It’s from the’ – she pulled a notepad from her pocket – ‘gymnosperm shrub.’
