been given crucifixes by their parents, Robbie shook his head. âI believe my parents used to be very religious, but they werenât much for jewellery, especially expensive stuff like that. We had no money to spare. I know Derek had to work two jobs and win a scholarship to go to university.â
Sullivan had already closed his notebook and was edging toward the door, but Green took the photo album out again and began to examine the photos of Derek with his magnifying glass. No sign of a crucifix. Perhaps it was under his shirt, rather than being worn as a fashion statement, as they were today. He felt vaguely dissatisfied that he couldnât connect this loose end, but he was still convinced that it connected somewhere. Patience, he told himself as he rose to join Sullivan at the door. When Hannah found out from Kyle where Derek had lost his crucifix, that might shed some light on what had led him from his childhood farm house to his death in the church yard. It was only once they were back in the car heading across Billings Bridge towards downtown, that Green remembered.
âJesus, Brian. There was another son. We forgot the fifth son!â
Five
F or the first time since her impetuous decision to purchase the Pettigrew farm, Isabelle Boisvert felt overwhelmed. A surly Jacques had gone into the village for supplies, and she was sitting on the front porch with her mid-morning coffee, taking advantage of the rare October warmth to contemplate the bounty of her land. But all she could see was work. The porch sagged beneath her feet, its wood planks rotting away, and across the expanse of barren weedy yard, the two wooden outbuildings were collapsing beneath the weight of time. And inside its spectacular red brick exterior, the house was just as bad. The plaster walls were crumbling, and all the beautiful oak woodwork had been painted over with cheap white paint that had cracked and flaked.
In the distance, the maple trees by the river shone crimson and gold. She tried to remind herself that this was why sheâd bought the property. Sheâd known it would be a labour of love, but owning a hundred acres of land and forest with over a thousand feet of wooded river frontage had seemed like a dream worth labouring for. Jacques had been reluctantly persuaded by its investment value, but she hoped to raise horses, perhaps one day have an equestrian school and make enough money that they could both quit their civil service jobs and dispense with the frustrating commute to the city altogether.
For now, to pay for all the repairs, they needed their jobs more than ever. To save money, she and Jacques were trying to do much of the work themselves. Unlike Jacques, she had grown up in the country and hoped that working with her hands would somehow return her to her roots. But today she didnât know where to start. Jacques wanted to attack the interior of the house, where they would be confined for most of the long, upcoming winter months.
But the warm weather would soon be over, and with it all chance to tackle the outside. They hoped to have a professional builder restore the main barn in the spring, so she could use it for her horses. But the little tool shed looked beyond repair, and even worse was the eyesore of bushes and burnt planking that sat at the edge of the yard. Jacques was anxious to bulldoze it over and build a garage for the cars before winter struck, but that cost money that was sorely needed for other things. It looked as if no one had spent a penny on the place in years.
She didnât know how Mr. Pettigrew had earned his money once he no longer farmed the land, but the man had managed to consume an astonishing quantity of booze. They had found closets full of empty bottles everywhere and had spent a whole day simply carting bottles to the local dump.
Once, long ago, someone with skill and devotion had ministered to the house, for beneath the flaking paint, the woodwork was intricately
Sullivan had already closed his notebook and was edging toward the door, but Green took the photo album out again and began to examine the photos of Derek with his magnifying glass. No sign of a crucifix. Perhaps it was under his shirt, rather than being worn as a fashion statement, as they were today. He felt vaguely dissatisfied that he couldnât connect this loose end, but he was still convinced that it connected somewhere. Patience, he told himself as he rose to join Sullivan at the door. When Hannah found out from Kyle where Derek had lost his crucifix, that might shed some light on what had led him from his childhood farm house to his death in the church yard. It was only once they were back in the car heading across Billings Bridge towards downtown, that Green remembered.
âJesus, Brian. There was another son. We forgot the fifth son!â
Five
F or the first time since her impetuous decision to purchase the Pettigrew farm, Isabelle Boisvert felt overwhelmed. A surly Jacques had gone into the village for supplies, and she was sitting on the front porch with her mid-morning coffee, taking advantage of the rare October warmth to contemplate the bounty of her land. But all she could see was work. The porch sagged beneath her feet, its wood planks rotting away, and across the expanse of barren weedy yard, the two wooden outbuildings were collapsing beneath the weight of time. And inside its spectacular red brick exterior, the house was just as bad. The plaster walls were crumbling, and all the beautiful oak woodwork had been painted over with cheap white paint that had cracked and flaked.
In the distance, the maple trees by the river shone crimson and gold. She tried to remind herself that this was why sheâd bought the property. Sheâd known it would be a labour of love, but owning a hundred acres of land and forest with over a thousand feet of wooded river frontage had seemed like a dream worth labouring for. Jacques had been reluctantly persuaded by its investment value, but she hoped to raise horses, perhaps one day have an equestrian school and make enough money that they could both quit their civil service jobs and dispense with the frustrating commute to the city altogether.
For now, to pay for all the repairs, they needed their jobs more than ever. To save money, she and Jacques were trying to do much of the work themselves. Unlike Jacques, she had grown up in the country and hoped that working with her hands would somehow return her to her roots. But today she didnât know where to start. Jacques wanted to attack the interior of the house, where they would be confined for most of the long, upcoming winter months.
But the warm weather would soon be over, and with it all chance to tackle the outside. They hoped to have a professional builder restore the main barn in the spring, so she could use it for her horses. But the little tool shed looked beyond repair, and even worse was the eyesore of bushes and burnt planking that sat at the edge of the yard. Jacques was anxious to bulldoze it over and build a garage for the cars before winter struck, but that cost money that was sorely needed for other things. It looked as if no one had spent a penny on the place in years.
She didnât know how Mr. Pettigrew had earned his money once he no longer farmed the land, but the man had managed to consume an astonishing quantity of booze. They had found closets full of empty bottles everywhere and had spent a whole day simply carting bottles to the local dump.
Once, long ago, someone with skill and devotion had ministered to the house, for beneath the flaking paint, the woodwork was intricately
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