The Cruelest Month

‘A threat? In Three Pines?’ Madeleine asked.



‘Non, c’est vrai,’ the grocer admitted. ‘It has never happened. But still I watch, just in case. I can tell as soon as they walk in.’



‘But that’s body language and familiarity,’ said Peter. ‘That’s not energy.’ He vibrated his hands in front of him and lowered his voice in a mocking tone. Monsieur Béliveau was silenced.



‘You don’t have to believe it,’ Jeanne said. ‘Most people don’t.’ She smiled at Peter in a way he took to be patronizing. ‘Bread cast on the water,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘If we put angry energy out that’s what we’ll get back. It’s pretty simple.’



Peter looked around the gathering. Everyone was listening intently to this Jeanne woman, as though they believed this crap.



‘You mentioned balance,’ said Myrna.



‘That’s right. Nature is balance. Action and reaction. Life and death. Everything’s in balance. It makes sense that the old Hadley house is close to Three Pines. They balance each other.’



‘What do you mean?’ Madeleine asked.



‘She means the old Hadley house is the dark to our light,’ said Myrna.



‘Three Pines is a happy place because you let your sorrow go. But it doesn’t go far. Just up the hill,’ said Jeanne. ‘To the old Hadley house.’



Now Peter felt it. The skin on his arms contracted and his hairs stood on end. Everything he let go of had claw marks on it. And it made straight for the old Hadley house. It was full of their fear, their sorrow, their rage.



‘Why don’t we do a séance there?’ Monsieur Béliveau asked. Everyone turned slowly to stare at him, stunned, as though the fireplace had spoken and said a most unlikely thing.



‘I don’t know about that.’ Gabri shifted uneasily in his seat.



Instinctively they turned to Clara. Without asking for it she’d become the heart of their community. Small, middle-aged and getting a little plump, Clara was that rare combination: she was sensible and sensitive. Now she got up, grabbed a handful of cashews and what was left of her Scotch and walked to the window. Most of the lights were out around the village green. Three Pines was at rest. After a moment appreciating the peace her eyes traveled to that black hole above them. She stood for a couple of minutes, sipping and munching, and contemplating.



Was it possible the old Hadley house was full of their anger and sorrow? Was that why it attracted murderers? And ghosts?



‘I think we should do it,’ she said finally.



‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Peter.



Clara briefly glanced out the window again.



It was time to lay the wickedness to rest.



SIX



Monsieur Béliveau opened the car door for Madeleine. ‘Are you sure I can’t drive you home?’



‘Oh, no, I’ll be fine. My nerves are calming down,’ she lied. Her heart was still racing and she was exhausted. ‘You’ve brought me safe and sound to my car. No bears.’



He took her hand. His felt like rice paper, dry and fragile, and yet his hold was firm. ‘They won’t hurt you. They’re only dangerous if you come between mother and cub. Be careful of that.’



‘I’ll mark it down. “Mustn’t anger bears.” Now you’re sure of that?’



Monsieur Béliveau laughed. Madeleine liked the sound. She liked the man. She wondered whether she should tell him her secret. It would be a relief. She opened her mouth but closed it again. There was still such sadness in him. Such kindness. She couldn’t take it away. Not yet.



‘Would you come in for a coffee? I’ll make sure it’s decaf.’



She released her hand from his light grip.



‘I must go, but I’ve had a lovely day,’ she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek.



‘Though no ghosts.’ He sounded almost regretful. And he was.



He watched her red tail lights head up du Moulin, past the old Hadley house and out of sight, then turned and walked to his front door. There was a small, almost imperceptible, bounce in his step. Some tiny thing had come alive in him. Something he was sure he’d buried with his wife.



Myrna shoved a few logs into her woodstove and shut the cast-iron door. Then she walked wearily across the loft, her slippered feet shuffling on the old wooden floors, instinctively moving from one throw rug to another, as a swimmer might travel between islands, shutting lights as she went. The beamed and old brick loft slowly subsided into darkness, except the one light beside her large and welcoming bed. Myrna placed her mug of hot chocolate and plate of chocolate chip cookies on the old pine table and picked up her book. Ngaio Marsh. Myrna was re-reading the classics. Fortunately her used bookstore had no end of them. She was her own best customer. Well, she and Clara, who brought in most of the old mysteries. The hot water bottle warmed her feet and pulling the comforter up she started to read. Sipping on her chocolate and nibbling cookies she realized she’d been reading the same page for ten minutes.