‘Yes. That day she died. And she told me what she thought. She was pretty blunt. I had a lot of respect for Timmer. Hard to hear a person you admire and respect say those things, even harder because Timmer was dying and there was no way to make up for it.’
‘What did you do?’
‘It was the afternoon of the parade and Timmer said she wanted to be alone. I’d started to explain but she was tired and said she needed to rest, and could I go to the parade and come back in an hour. We could talk then. By the time I got back, exactly an hour later, she was dead.’
‘Did Mrs Hadley tell Jane Neal?’
‘I don’t know. I think perhaps she planned to, but felt she needed to say something to me first.’
‘Did you tell Miss Neal?’
‘Why would I? It was long ago. Jane had probably long forgotten.’
Gamache wondered how much of this was Ruth Zardo trying to convince herself. It certainly didn’t convince him.
‘Do you have any idea who could have wanted Miss Neal dead?’
Ruth folded both hands on her cane, and carefully placed her chin on her hands. She looked past Gamache. Finally, after about a minute of silence, she spoke.
‘I told you before I think one of those three boys who threw manure might have wanted her dead. She’d embarrassed them. I still think there’s nothing like a brooding, adolescent mind for creating poison. But it often takes time. They say time heals. I think that’s bullshit, I think time does nothing. It only heals if the person wants it to. I’ve seen time, in the hands of a sick person, make situations worse. They ruminate and brood and turn a minor event into a catastrophe, given enough time.’
‘Do you think that’s what might have happened here?’ Ruth Zardo’s thoughts so mirrored his own it was as though she’d read his mind. But did she realise this made her a perfect suspect?
‘Could have.’
On their walk back across the village Nichol told Gamache about the sticker on Ruth’s mirror and her own search, which had revealed shampoo, soap and a bath mat. Nichol was confirmed in her certainty Gamache was beyond it. All he did was laugh.
‘Let’s get started, said Solange Frenette, a few minutes later when Gamache, Beauvoir and Ruth had arrived. Clara and Peter were already seated. ‘I called the Régie du Notaries in Quebec City and they looked up the official registered wills. According to them, Miss Neal’s last will and testament was made in this office on 28 May this year. Her previous will was ten years ago. It’s been nullified.
‘Her will is very simple. After covering burial expenses and any debts, credit card, taxes, et cetera, she leaves her home and its contents to Clara Morrow.’
Clara felt the blood race from her skin. She didn’t want Jane’s home. She wanted Jane’s voice in her ears and her arms around her. And her laughter. She wanted Jane’s company.
‘Miss Neal asks Clara to have a party, invite certain people, the list is in the will, and ask each of those people to choose one item from the home. She leaves her car to Ruth Zardo and her book collection to Myrna. The rest she leaves to Clara Morrow.’
‘How much?’ asked Ruth, to Clara’s relief. She wanted to know but didn’t want to look greedy.
‘I made some calls and did some calculations this morning. It’s roughly a quarter of a million dollars, after tax.’
The air seemed to have been sucked from the room. Clara couldn’t believe it. Rich. They’d be rich. Despite herself she saw a new car, and new bedlinens and a good dinner in a restaurant in Montreal. And ...
‘There are two more things; envelopes, actually. One is for you, Mrs Zardo.’ Ruth took it and shot a glance at Gamache who’d been watching this entire process intently. ‘The other is for Yolande Fontaine. Who’d like it?’ No one spoke.
‘I’ll take it,’ said Clara.
Outside the notary’s office Chief Inspector Gamache approached Peter and Clara.
‘I’d like your help at Miss Neal’s home. Your home, now, I suppose.’
‘I can’t imagine ever thinking of it as anything other than Jane’s home.’
‘I hope that’s not true,’ said Gamache, smiling slightly at Clara.
‘Of course we’ll help,’ said Peter. ‘What can we do?’
‘I’d like both of you to come into the home and just look.’ He didn’t want to say more.
It was, unexpectedly, the smells that got to Clara. That unmistakable aroma of Jane, the coffee and woodsmoke. The undercurrent of fresh baking and wet dog. And Floris, her one extravagance. Jane adored Floris eau de toilette, and ordered some from London every Christmas as her gift to herself.
