The funeral for Jane Neal, spinster of the village of Three Pines in the county of St Rémy, Province of Quebec, was held two days later. The bells of the église Ste Marie rang and echoed along the valleys, heard miles away, and felt deep in the earth, where creatures lived who might not otherwise, had Jane Neal herself not lived and been the sort of person she’d been.
And now people gathered to say a formal goodbye. Armand Gamache was there, having driven in from Montreal. It made a nice break from his forced inaction. He sailed through the crowd, through the front of the small church, and found himself in the gloom inside. It always struck Gamache as paradoxical that churches were gloomy. Coming in from the sunshine it took a minute or so to adjust. And even then, to Gamache, it never came close to feeling like home. Churches were either great cavernous tributes not so much to God as the wealth and privilege of the community, or they were austere, cold tributes to the ecstasy of refusal.
Gamache enjoyed going to churches for their music and the beauty of the language and the stillness. But he felt closer to God in his Volvo. He spotted Beauvoir in the crowd, waved, then made his way over.
‘I hoped you’d be here,’ said Beauvoir. ‘You’ll be interested to hear we’ve arrested the entire Croft family and their farm animals.’
‘You’ve found the safe side.’
‘Damn straight, pardner.’ Gamache hadn’t seen Beauvoir since he’d left that Tuesday afternoon, but they’d talked on the phone several times. Beauvoir wanted to keep Gamache in the loop, and Gamache wanted to make sure Beauvoir knew there were no hard feelings.
Yolande wobbled behind the casket as it was led into the church. André, slim and greasy, was beside her and Bernard slouched behind, his furtive, active eyes darting everywhere as though in search of his next victim.
Gamache felt deeply sorry for Yolande. Not for the pain she felt, but for the pain she didn’t feel. He prayed, in the silence, that one day she wouldn’t have to pretend to emotions, other than resentment, but could actually feel them. Others in the church were sad but Yolande cut the saddest figure. Certainly the most pathetic.
The service was short and anonymous. The priest clearly had never met Jane Neal. No member of the family got up to speak, except André, who read one of the beautiful scriptures with less enlightenment than he might read the TV Guide listings. The service was entirely in French, though Jane herself had been English. The service was entirely Catholic, though Jane herself had been Anglican. Afterwards Yolande, André and Bernard accompanied the casket to a ‘family only’ burial, though Jane’s friends had actually been her family.
‘A real chill in the air today,’ said Clara Morrow, who had appeared at his elbow, her eyes bloodshot. ‘There’ll be frost on the pumpkins tonight.’ She managed a smile. ‘We’re having a memorial service for Jane at St Thomas’s on Sunday. A week to the day since she died. We’d like you to be there, if you don’t mind coming down again.’
Gamache didn’t mind. Looking around he realised how much he liked this place and these people. Too bad one of them was a murderer.
TEN
The memorial service for Jane Neal was short and sweet, and had it been plump it would have been an exact replica of the woman. The service was really nothing more than Jane’s friends getting up one after the other and talking about her, in French and English. The service was simple, and the message was clear. Her death was just one instant in a full and lovely life. She’d been with them for as long as she was meant to be. Not a minute longer, not a moment less. Jane Neal had known that when her time came God wouldn’t ask how many committees she’d sat on, or how much money she’d made, or what prizes she’d won. No. He’d ask how many fellow creatures she’d helped. And Jane Neal would have had an answer.
At the end of the service Ruth stood at her seat and sang, in a thin, unsure, alto, ‘What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor?’ She sang the unlikely sea shanty at a quarter speed, like a dirge, then slowly picked up speed. Gabri joined in, as did Ben and in the end the whole church was alive with people clapping and swinging their hips and asking the musical question, ‘What do you do with a drunken sailor, err-lie in the morning?’
In the basement after the service the Anglican Church Women served up homemade casseroles and fresh apple and pumpkin pies, accompanied by the thin hum of the sea shanty heard here and there.
‘Why “Drunken Sailor”?’ Approaching the buffet, Armand Gamache found himself standing next to Ruth.
‘It was one of Jane’s favorite songs,’ said Ruth. ‘She was always singing it.’
‘You were humming it that day in the woods,’ Gamache said to Clara.
‘Wards off bears. Didn’t Jane learn it in school?’ Clara asked Ruth.
Olivier jumped in. ‘She told me she learned it for school. To teach, right, Ruth?’
‘She was expected to teach every subject, but since she couldn’t sing or play piano she didn’t know what to do about the music course for her students. This was when she first started, back fifty years ago. So I taught her the song,’ said Ruth.
‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ mumbled Myrna.
‘It was the only song her students ever learned,’ said Ben.
‘Your Christmas pageants must have been something,’ said Gamache, imagining the Virgin Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus and three drunken sailors.
‘They were,’ laughed Ben, remembering. ‘We sang all the carols, but they were all to the tune of “Drunken Sailor”. The looks on the parents’ faces at the Christmas concert when Miss Neal would introduce, “Silent Night”, and we’d sing!’ Ben started singing, ‘Silent Night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright’, but to the tune of the shanty. Others in the room laughed and joined in.
‘I still find it really hard to sing the carols correctly,’ said Ben.
Clara spotted Nellie and Wayne and waved at them. Nellie left Wayne and made a bee-line for Ben, beginning to talk before she was halfway across the room.
‘Ah, Mr Hadley, I was hoping to find you here. I’m going to be over to do your place next week. How’s Tuesday?’ Then she turned to Clara and said confidentially, as though passing a State secret, ‘I haven’t cleaned since before Miss Neal died, Wayne’s had me that worried.’
‘How is he now?’ asked Clara, remembering Wayne’s hacking and coughing during the public meeting a few days earlier.
‘Now he’s complaining, so there’s nothing much wrong. Well, Mr Hadley? Haven’t got all day, ya know.’
‘Tuesday’s fine.’ He turned to Clara once Nellie had gone back to her pressing job, which seemed to be eating the entire buffet. ‘The place is filthy. You won’t believe the mess an old bachelor and his dog can create.’
As the line crawled forward, Gamache spoke to Ruth. ‘When I was in the notary’s office asking about Miss Neal’s will, he mentioned your name. When he said, “née Kemp”, something twigged, but I couldn’t figure it out.’
‘How did you finally get it?’ Ruth asked.
‘Clara Morrow told me.’
‘Ah, clever lad. And from that you deduced who I was.’
‘Well, it took a while after that, but eventually I got it,’ Gamache smiled. ‘I do love your poetry.’ Gamache was just about to quote from one of his favorites, feeling himself a pimply youth in front of a matinee idol. Ruth was backing up, trying to get out of the way of her own beautiful words coming toward her.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Clara, to two people apparently maniacally happy to see her. ‘But did you say, “he”?’
‘He?’ repeated Gamache.
‘He? The notary.’
‘Yes. Ma?tre Stickley in Williamsburg. He was Miss Neal’s notary.’
‘Are you sure? I thought she saw that notary who just had a baby. Solange someone-or-other.’
‘Solange Frenette? From exercise class?’ Myrna asked.
‘That’s her. Jane said he and Timmer were off to see her about wills.
Gamache stood very still, staring at Clara.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Frankly? No. I seem to remember her saying that because I asked Jane how Solange was feeling. Solange would have been in her first trimester. Morning sickness. She just had her baby, so she’s on maternity leave.’
‘I suggest one of you get in touch with Ma?tre Frenette as soon as possible.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Clara, suddenly wanting to drop everything and hurry home to call. But there was something that had to be done first.