Ruth snorted. ‘You really think throwing my own poetry at me’s going to do it? What’d you do, stay up all night cramming like a student for this interview? Hoping to reduce me to tears in the face of my own pain? Crap.’
‘Actually, I know that whole poem by heart:
When were these seeds of anger sown, and on what ground that they should flourish so, watered by tears of rage, or grief?’
‘It was not always so,’ Ruth and Gamache finished the stanza together.
‘Yeah, yeah. Enough. I told Jane’s parents because I thought she was making a mistake. She had potential and it’d be lost on that brute of a man. I did it for her sake. I tried to convince her; when that failed, I went behind her back. In retrospect it was a mistake, but only that. Not the end of the world.’
‘Did Miss Neal know?’
‘Not that I know of, and it wouldn’t have mattered if she did. It was long ago, gone and buried.’
What a horrible, self-involved woman, thought Nichol, looking around for something to eat. Then Nichol awoke to a realisation. She had to pee.
‘May I use your toilet?’ She’d be damned if she’d say please to this woman.
‘You can find it.’
Nichol opened every door on the main floor and found books, and magazines but no toilet. Then she climbed the stairs and found the only washroom in the home. After flushing she ran the water, pretending to wash her hands, and looked into the mirror. A young woman with a short-bob haircut looked back. As did some lettering, probably another Goddamned poem. She leaned in closer and saw there was a sticker attached to the mirror. On it was written, ‘You’re looking at the problem.’
Nichol immediately began searching the area behind her, the area reflected in the mirror, because the problem was there.
‘Did Timmer Hadley tell you she knew what you’d done?’
Ruth had wondered whether this question would ever be asked. She hoped not. But here it was.
‘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.