'We have something to show you,' said Clara, brushing off her jeans and standing up. 'We've uncovered more of the walls. Shall we start upstairs?'
Grabbing pieces of pizza they trooped upstairs. In Peter's room the lighting was too dark to really appreciate what Jane had done, but Ben's work was different. Though tiny, the area he'd uncovered was astonishing. Brilliant, bold strokes leapt from the walls as people and animals came alive. And, in some cases, people as animals.
'Is that Nellie and Wayne?' Gamache was looking at a patch of wall. There, clear as day, was a stick-figure woman leading a cow. It was a very thick stick, and a skinny, happy cow, with a beard.
'Wonderful,' Gamache murmured.
They went back into the darkness downstairs. Peter had turned off the industrial floodlights he'd hooked up earlier in the day to allow them to work. Through dinner they'd eaten by firelight and the warm glow of a couple of table lamps. The walls had been in darkness. Now Peter went to the switch and flooded the room with light.
Gamache screwed his eyes tight shut. After a few moments he opened them.
It was like being in a cave, one of those wondrous caves explorers sometimes found filled with ancient symbols and depictions. Running caribou and swimming people. Gamache had read all about them in National Geographic, now he felt as though he'd been magically transported into one, here in the heart of Quebec, in a settled and even staid old village. As with cave drawings, Gamache knew the history of Three Pines and its people was depicted here. Slowly, hands clasped behind his back, Gamache walked around the walls. They were covered floor to ceiling with village scenes and rural scenes and classrooms and children and animals and adults singing and playing and working. A few of the scenes were of accidents, and there was at least one funeral.
He no longer felt he'd walked into a cave. Now he felt surrounded by life. He took a couple of steps back and could feel tears stinging his eyes. He screwed them shut again, hoping they'd think him bothered by the strong light. And in a way he was. He was overwhelmed by emotion. Sadness and melancholia. And delight. Joy. He was lifted right out of himself. It transcended the literal. This was Jane's long house. Her home had become her long house, where every one, every event, every thing, every emotion was present. And Gamache knew then the murderer was there as well. Somewhere on those walls.
The next day Clara took the envelope to Yolande at home. Ringing the gleaming faux-brass bell and hearing the Beethoven chimes, Clara steeled herself. Just this one thing for Jane, just this one thing for Jane.
'Bitch,' a furious Yolande screamed. There followed a stream of insults and accusations, ending with a promise to sue Clara for everything she had.
Just this one thing for Jane, just this one thing for Jane. 'You're a goddamned thief, tete carree. That home belongs to me. To my family. How can you sleep at night, you bitch?'
Just this one thing.
Clara held up the envelope until it caught Yolande's attention, and like a child presented with something shiny and new, Yolande stopped screaming and stared, mesmerised by the slim white paper.
'Is that for me? Is that mine? That's Aunt Jane's writing, isn't it?'
'I have a question for you.' Clara waved it back and forth.
'Give it to me.' Yolande lunged, but Clara flicked it out of her reach.
'Why did you cover up her drawings?'
'So you found them,' Yolande spat. 'Filthy, insane things. Everyone thought she was so wonderful but her family knew she was nuts. My grandparents knew she was crazy since she was a teenager and doing those hideous drawings. They were ashamed of her. All her art looked retarded. My mother said she actually wanted to study art but my grandparents put an end to that. Told her the truth. Told her it wasn't art. It was an embarrassment. They told her never to ever show anyone her scrawls. We told her the truth. It was our duty. We didn't want her to get hurt, did we? It was for her own good. And what did we get for it? Thrown out of the family home. She actually had the nerve to say I'd be allowed back the moment I apologised. The only thing I was sorry about, I told her, was that she ruined our home. Crazy old lady.'
Clara saw again Jane sitting in the Bistro, crying. Tears of joy that someone, finally, accepted her art. And Clara knew then what it had taken for Jane to expose one of her works.
'She fooled you, didn't she? You didn't know your friend was a freak. Well, now you know what we've had to put up with.'
'You have no idea, have you? No idea what you've thrown away? You're a stupid, stupid woman, Yolande.' Clara's mind went blank, as it always did in confrontations. She was vibrating and on the verge of losing it completely. She paid for her outburst by being forced to listen to a string of accusations and threats. Oddly enough, Yolande's rage was so deeply unattractive Clara could feel her own anger ease.
'Why that particular wallpaper?' she asked into Yolande's purple face.
'Hideous, wasn't it? It seemed fitting to cover one monstrosity with another. Besides, it was cheap.'
The door slammed. Clara realised she was still holding the envelope so she slipped it under the door. Done. Just this one thing for Jane. And it wasn't so hard, after all, standing up to Yolande. All those years she'd stood silent in the face of Yolande's sly and sometimes outright attacks, and now to find it's possible to speak out. Clara wondered whether Jane knew this would happen when she addressed the envelope. Knew Clara would be the one to deliver it. Knew Yolande would react the way she always did to Clara. And knew she'd given Clara one last chance to stand up for herself.
As she walked away from the perfect, silent house, Clara thanked Jane.
Yolande saw the envelope appear. Tearing it open she found a single playing card. The Queen of Hearts. The same one Aunt Jane had put out on the kitchen table at night when tiny Yolande had visited her and Aunt Jane had promised that in the morning that card would be different. It would have changed.
She peered into the envelope again. Surely there was something else? Some inheritance from her aunt? A cheque? A key to a safety deposit box? But the envelope was empty. Yolande examined the card, trying to remember whether it was the same one from her childhood. Were the markings on the Queen's robes the same? Did her face have one eye or two? No, Yolande concluded. This wasn't the same card. Someone had switched them. She'd been cheated again. As she made for the bucket to clean off the front stoop where Clara had stood, she threw the Queen of Hearts on the fire.
Worthless.
TWELVE
'Yolande Fontaine and her husband Andre Malenfant,'
Beauvoir said as he wrote their names in tidy capitals on the sheet of paper. It was 8.15 on Tuesday morning, almost a week and a half since the murder, and the investigators were reviewing the list of suspects. The first two were obvious.
'Who else?'
'Peter and Clara Morrow,' said Nichol, looking up from her doodling.
'Motive?' he asked, writing the names.
'Money,' said Lacoste. 'They have very little. Or had. Now they're rich, of course, but before Miss Neal died they were practically paupers. Clara Morrow comes from a modest background, so she's used to being careful with money, but not him. He's a Golden Mile boy, born and bred. A Montreal Brahmin. Best schools, St Andrew's Ball. I spoke to one of his sisters in Montreal. She was circumspect, as only these people can be, but she made it quite clear the family wasn't thrilled with his choice of career. Blamed Clara for it. They wanted him to go into business. The family considers him a disappointment, at least his mother does. Too bad, really, because by Canadian art standards he's a star. Sold ten thousand dollars' worth of art last year, but that's still below the poverty level. Clara sold about a thousand dollars. They live frugally. Their car needs major repair work as does their home. She teaches art in the winter to pay the bills, and they sometimes pick up contracts to restore art. They scrape by.'