“What time did you arrive?”
“Nine o’clock. Gives us an hour to sort books and do other work before the library opens. We unlock the door at ten every morning, as you know.”
He smiled. “I do. It’s a wonderful library.”
“We’re very proud of it.”
“So you arrived at nine and called Bell right away?”
“He came within twenty minutes. Took him about half an hour to track down the problem. He figured it was a broken wire in the basement. We all thought it was just another mouse.”
She paused.
“When did you realize it wasn’t that?” Gamache asked, recognizing she now needed help telling her story.
“We heard him, actually. The repairman. His feet on the stairs. He’s not a small man and it sounded like a stampede in our direction. He arrived at the office and just stared for a moment. Then he told us. There was a dead man in the basement. He’d dug him up. Poor man. It’ll take him a while to recover, I suspect.”
Gamache agreed. Some got over an experience like that quite quickly, others never did.
“You say he dug the man up. Your basement isn’t concrete?”
“It’s dirt. Used to be a root cellar centuries ago.”
“I thought it was a prison. Were there cells there at one point?”
“No, the cells were in the level above, this was the lowest. Hundreds of years old, of course, used for keeping food cool. When the repairman said he’d found a body I thought he meant a skeleton. They’re dug up in Quebec City all the time. Perhaps this was an executed prisoner. Winnie and I went to look. I didn’t go all the way in, didn’t have to. We could see from the doorway that it wasn’t a skeleton. The man was recently dead.”
“It must have been a shock.”
“It was. I’ve seen bodies before, in a hospital or funeral home. Once a friend died in her sleep and I found her when I went by to take her to bridge. But that’s different.”
Gamache nodded. He understood. There were places dead people should be, and places they shouldn’t. Half buried under a library was where they should not be.
“What did the Inspector tell you?” Elizabeth asked. There was no use being coy with this man, she realized. Might as well come right out with it.
“I’m afraid I didn’t ask much, but he confirmed it was a violent death.”
She looked down at her now empty cup, drunk without even noticing. This rare treat wasted, just a rim of foam left. She was tempted to stick her finger in and scoop it up, but resisted.
The bill had arrived and was sitting on the table. It was time to leave. The Chief Inspector slid it toward him, but made no other move. Instead he continued to watch her. Waiting.
“I came after you to ask a favor.”
“Oui, madame?”
“We need your help. You know the library. I think you like it.” He inclined his head. “You certainly know English, and not just the language. I’m afraid of what this might do to us. We’re a small community and the Literary and Historical Society is precious to us.”
“I understand. But you’re in good hands with Inspector Langlois. He’ll treat you with respect.”
She watched him then plunged ahead. “Can you just come and take a look, maybe ask some questions? You have no idea what a disaster this is. For the victim, of course, but also for us.” She hurried on before he could refuse. “I know what an imposition this is. I really do.”
Gamache knew she was sincere but doubted she did know. He looked down at his hands, loose fists on the table. He was silent, and into that silence, as always, crept the young voice. More familiar now than those of his own children.
“And then at Christmas, we visit both Suzanne’s family and my own. We go to hers for réveillon and mine for Mass on Christmas morning.” The voice went on and on about trivial, minute, mundane events. The things that made up an average life. A voice that was no longer tinny in his ears, but living now in his brain, his mind. Always there, talking. Ad infinitum.
“I’m sorry, madame, I can’t help you.”
He watched the older woman across the table. Mid-seventies, he guessed. Slim, with beautiful bone structure. She wore little makeup, just some around the eyes, and lipstick. If less was more, she had a great deal. She was the image of cultured restraint. Her suit wasn’t the latest fashion, but it was classic and would never be out of style.
She’d introduced herself as Elizabeth MacWhirter and even Gamache, not a native of Quebec City, knew that name. The MacWhirter Shipyards. MacWhirter paper mills in the north of the province.
“Please. We need your help.”
He could tell this plea had cost her, because she knew what a position it put him in. And still, she’d done it. He hadn’t quite appreciated how desperate she must be. Her keen blue eyes never left his.
“Désolé,” he said, softly but firmly. “It gives me no pleasure to say that. And if I could help, I would. But …” He didn’t finish. He didn’t even know what would come after the “but.”
She smiled. “I’m so sorry, Chief Inspector. I should never have asked. Forgive me. I’m afraid my own needs blinded me. I’m sure you’re right and Inspector Langlois will be just fine.”
“I understand that the night is a strawberry,” said Gamache, smiling slightly.
“Oh, you heard about that, did you?” Elizabeth smiled. “Poor Winnie. No ear for languages. Reads French perfectly, you know. Always the highest marks in school, but can’t seem to speak it. Her accent would stop a train.”
“Inspector Langlois might have thrown her off by asking about her birth.”
“That didn’t help,” Elizabeth admitted. Her mirth disappeared, to be replaced by worry once again.
“You have no need for concern,” he reassured her.
“But you don’t know everything, I think. You don’t know who the dead man is.”
She’d lowered her voice and was whispering now. She sounded as Reine-Marie did when reading their infant granddaughters a fairy tale. It was the voice she used not for the fairy godmother, but the wicked witch.
“Who is it?” he asked, lowering his own voice.
“Augustin Renaud,” she whispered.
Gamache sat back and stared. Augustin Renaud. Dead. Murdered in the Literary and Historical Society. Now he knew why Elizabeth MacWhirter was so desperate.
And he knew she had reason to be.
FOUR
Gabri sat in the worn armchair by the roaring fire. Around him in the bistro he now ran he heard the familiar hubbub of the lunch crowd. People laughing, chatting. At some tables people were quietly reading the Saturday paper or a book, some had come in for breakfast and stayed through lunch, and might very well be there for dinner.
It was a lazy Saturday in February, the dead of winter, and the bistro was mumbling along with conversation and the clinking of silverware on china. His friends Peter and Clara Morrow were with him, as was Myrna, who ran the new and used bookstore next door. Ruth had promised to join them, which generally meant she wouldn’t be there.
Through the window he could see the village of Three Pines covered in snow, and more falling. It wouldn’t be a blizzard, not enough driving wind for that, but he’d be surprised if they got less than a foot by the time it was finished. That was the thing with a Québec winter, he knew. It might look gentle, beautiful even, but it could take you by surprise.