indicated.
“We have some questions,” said Inspector Langlois, getting down to business.
Over the course of the next hour they interviewed everyone there. They learned from Porter Wilson that the library was locked every evening at six, and had been locked that morning when he’d arrived. Nothing was out of place. But Langlois’s people had examined the large, old lock on the front door and while it showed no signs of tampering a clever six-year-old could have unlocked it without a key.
There was no alarm system.
“Why would we bother with an alarm?” Porter had asked. “No one comes when we’re open, why would anyone come when we’re closed?”
They learned this was the only place in old Quebec City English books could be found.
“And you seem to have a lot of them,” said Gamache. “I couldn’t help but notice as I walked through the back corridors and rooms that you have quite a few books not displayed.”
That was an understatement, he thought, remembering the boxes of books piled everywhere.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just an observation.”
“It’s true,” said Porter, reluctantly. “And more coming every day. Every time someone dies they leave us their books. That’s how we find out someone’s dead. A box of worthless books appears.
More accurate than the Chronicle-Telegraph obits.”
“Are they always worthless?” asked Langlois.
“Wel , we found a nice book of drawings once.”
“When was that?”
“1926.”
“Can you not sel some?” Gamache asked.
Porter stared at the Chief Inspector. Gamache stared back, not certain what had caused this sudden vitriolic look.
“Are you kidding?”
“Non, monsieur.”
“Wel , we can’t. Tried once, members didn’t like it.”
“In 1926?” Langlois asked.
Wilson didn’t answer.
Winnie Manning came in next and confirmed that the night was indeed a strawberry, but added that the English were good pumpkins and that the library had a particularly impressive section on mattresses and mattress warfare.
“In fact,” she turned to Gamache. “I think that’s an
area you’re interested in.”
“It is,” he admitted, to the surprise of both Langlois and his assistant. After Winnie left, saying she had to launch a new line of doorknobs, Gamache explained.
“She meant ‘naval’, not ‘mattress’.”
“Real y?” asked the assistant, who’d made notes but had decided to burn them in case anyone thought he was stoned when he’d taken them down.
Mr. Blake took Winnie’s place.
“Stuart Blake,” the elderly man said, sitting in the chair offered and looking at them with polite interest.
He was immaculately dressed, shaved, his face smooth and pink and soft. His eyes bright. He looked at Gamache and smiled.
“Monsieur l’inspecteur,” he inclined his head.
“Désolé. I had no idea who you were.”
“You knew what mattered,” said Gamache. “That I was a man in need of this magnificent library. That was enough to know.”
Mr. Blake smiled, folded his hands, and waited. At ease.
“You spend a lot of time in the library, I believe,”
said Inspector Langlois.
“I do. For many years, since my retirement.”
“And what was your profession?”
“I was a lawyer.”
“So it’s Maître Blake,” said Langlois.
“No, please, I’ve been retired for years. Plain
‘Mister’ wil do.”
“How long have you been involved with the Literary and Historical Society?”
“Oh, al my life in one way or another, and my parents and grandparents before that. It was the first historical society in the country, you know. Pre-dates the national archives. Been around since 1824, though not in this building.”
“This building,” said Gamache, picking up on the opening. “It has an interesting history?”
“Very.” Mr. Blake turned to face the Chief Inspector.
“It didn’t become the Literary and Historical Society until 1868. This was original y the Redoubt Royale, a military barracks. It also housed prisoners of war, mostly American. Then it became a regular prison.
There were public hangings, you know.”
Gamache said nothing, though he was interested that this refined, cultured, civilized man seemed to get pleasure tel ing them of such barbarity.
“Hung right out there.” He waved toward the front door. “If you believe in ghosts, this is the place for
you.”
“Have you seen any?” Gamache asked, surprising both Langlois and the young officer.
Blake hesitated, then shook his head. “No. But I can feel them sometimes, when no one else is here.”
“Are you often here, when no one else is?”
Gamache asked, pleasantly.
“Sometimes. I find it peaceful. I think you do too.”
“C’est la vérité,” agreed the Chief Inspector. “But I don’t have a key to get in after hours. You do. And, I presume, you use it.”
Again, Mr. Blake hesitated. “I do. But not often. Only when I can’t sleep and a question troubles me.”
“Like what?” Gamache asked.
“Like what grasses grow on Rum Island, and when the last coelacanth was caught.”
“And were you troubled by such questions last night?”
The two men looked at each other. Final y Mr.
Blake smiled and shook his head.
“I was not. Slept like a child last night. As Shakespeare said, the best way to peace is to have a stil and quiet conscience.”
Or none at al , thought Gamache, watching Mr.
Blake with interest.
“Can anyone confirm that?” Inspector Langlois asked.
“I’m a widower. Lost my wife eight years ago, so no, I have no witnesses.”
“Désolé,” said Langlois. “Tel me, Mr. Blake, why do you think Augustin Renaud was here last night?”
“Isn’t it obvious? He must have thought Champlain is buried here.”
And there it was. The obvious answer, out in the open.
“And is he?”
Blake smiled. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“Why would he think Champlain was here?”
Langlois asked.
“Why did Augustin Renaud think anything? Has anyone ever figured out his logic? Perhaps his digs were more alphabetical than archeological and he’d come to the ‘Ls’. That makes as much sense as any of his reasoning. Poor man,” Blake added. “I imagine you’l be digging?”
“Right now it’s stil a crime scene.”
“Incredible,” said Mr. Blake, almost to himself. “Why would Augustin Renaud be here in the Lit and His?”
“And why would someone murder him?” said
Langlois.
“Here,” added Gamache.
Final y Elizabeth MacWhirter entered and sat.
“What is your job, exactly?” Langlois asked.
“Wel , ‘job’ is a loose term. We’re al volunteer.
Used to be paid, but the government’s cut back on library funding, so now any money we get goes in to upkeep. Heating alone is ruinous and we just had the wiring redone. In fact, if it hadn’t been done we might never have found Mr. Renaud.”
“What do you mean?” Langlois asked.
“When we rewired the place we decided to do the phone lines too. Bury them in the basement. If the line hadn’t been cut we’d never have found the body, and he’d have been concreted over.”
“Pardon?” asked Langlois.
“Next week. The concrete people are supposed to come on Monday to put down the forms.”
The men looked at each other.
“You mean, if either Renaud or his murderer hadn’t cut the telephone line while digging last night, the whole floor would have been concreted? Sealed?”