But he heard it again. A long, shril bel . Elizabeth had locked the front door to the Literary and Historical Society as soon as everyone had arrived. A precaution against being interrupted. Though since hardly anyone ever visited it was more habit than necessity. She’d also hung a sign on the thick wooden door. Board Meeting in Progress. Library will reopen at noon. Thank you. Merci.
The bel sounded again. Someone was leaning on it, finger jammed into the button.
Stil they stared at each other.
“I’l go,” said Elizabeth.
Porter looked down at his papers, the better part of valor.
“No,” Winnie stood. “I’l go. You al stay here.”
They watched Winnie disappear down the corridor and heard her feet on the wooden stairs. There was silence. Then a minute later her feet on the stairs again.
They listened to the footsteps clicking and clacking closer. She arrived but stopped at the door, her face pale and serious.
“There’s someone there. Someone who wants to speak to the board.”
“Wel ,” demanded Porter, remembering he was their leader, now that the elderly woman had gone to the door. “Who is it?”
“Augustin Renaud,” she said and saw the looks on their faces. Had she said “Dracula” they could not have been more startled. Though, for the English, startled meant raised eyebrows.
Every eyebrow in the room was raised, and if General Wolfe could have managed it, he would have.
“I left him outside,” she said into the silence.
As if to underscore that the doorbel shrieked again.
“What should we do?” Winnie asked, but instead of turning to Porter she looked at Elizabeth. They al did.
“We need to take a vote,” Elizabeth said at last.
“Should we see him?”
“He’s not on the agenda,” Mr. Blake pointed out.
“That’s right,” said Porter, trying to wrestle back control. But even he looked at Elizabeth.
“Who’s in favor of letting Augustin Renaud speak to the board?” Elizabeth asked.
Not a hand was raised.
Elizabeth lowered her pen, not taking note of the vote. Giving one curt nod she stood. “I’l tel him.”
“I’l go with you,” said Winnie.
“No, dear, you stay here. I’l be right back. I mean, real y?” She paused at the door, taking in the board and General Wolfe above. “How bad could it be?”
But they al knew the answer to that. When Augustin Renaud came cal ing it was never good.
TWO
Armand Gamache settled into the worn leather sofa beneath the statue of General Wolfe. Nodding to the elderly man across from him he pul ed the letters out of his satchel. After a walk through the city with Émile and Henri, Gamache had returned home, picked up his mail, col ected his notes, stuffed it al into his satchel, then he and Henri had walked up the hil .
To the hushed library of the Literary and Historical Society.
Now he looked at the bulging manila envelope on the sofa beside him. Daily correspondence from his office in Montreal sent on to Émile’s home. Agent Isabel e Lacoste had sorted his mail and sent it with a note.
Cher Patron,
It was good to speak to you the other day. I envy you a few weeks in Québec. I keep telling my husband we must take the children to Carnaval but he insists they’re too young yet. He’s probably right. The truth is, I’d just like to go.
The interrogation of the suspect (so hard to call him that when we all know there are no suspicions, only certainties) continues. I haven’t heard what he’s said, if anything. As you know, a Royal Commission has been formed. Have you testified yet? I received my summons today. I’m not sure what to tell them.
Gamache lowered the note for a moment. Agent Lacoste would, of course, tel them the truth. As she knew it. She had no choice, by temperament and training. Before he left he’d ordered al of his department to cooperate.
As he had.
He went back to the note.
No one yet knows where it will lead, or end.
But there are suspicions. The atmosphere is tense.
I will keep you informed.
Isabelle Lacoste
Too heavy to hold, the letter slowly lowered to his lap. He stared ahead and saw Agent Isabel e Lacoste in flashes. Images moved, uninvited, in and out of his mind. Of her staring down at him, seeming to shout though he couldn’t make out her words. He felt her smal , strong hands gripping either side of his head, saw her leaning close, her mouth moving, her eyes intense, trying to communicate something to him. Felt hands ripping away the tactical vest from his chest.
He saw blood on her hands and the look on her face.
Then he saw her again.
At the funeral. The funerals. Lined up in uniform with the rest of the famous homicide division of the Sûreté du Québec as he took his place at the head of the terrible column. One bitter cold day. To bury those who died under his command that day in the abandoned factory.
Closing his eyes he breathed deeply, smel ing the musky scents of the library. Of age, of stability, of calm and peace. Of old-fashioned polish, of wood, of words bound in worn leather. He smel ed his own slight fragrance of rosewater and sandalwood.
And he thought of something good, something nice, some kind harbor. And he found it in Reine-Marie, as he remembered her voice on his cel phone earlier in the day. Cheerful. Home. Safe. Their daughter Annie coming over for dinner with her husband. Groceries to buy, plants to water, correspondence to catch up on.
He could see her on the phone in their Outremont apartment standing by the bookcase, the sunny room fil ed with books and periodicals and comfortable furniture, orderly and peaceful.
There was a calm about it, as there was about Reine-Marie.
And he felt his racing heart settle and his breathing deepen. Taking one last long breath, he opened his eyes.
“Would your dog like some water?”
“I beg your pardon?” Gamache refocused and saw the elderly man sitting across from him motioning to Henri.
“I used to bring Seamus here. He’d lie at my feet while I read. Like your dog. What’s his name?”
“Henri.”
At the sound of his name the young shepherd sat up, alert, his huge ears swinging this way and that, like satel ite dishes searching for a signal.
“I beg you, monsieur, ” smiled Gamache, “don’t say B-A-L-L or we’l al be lost.”
The man laughed. “Seamus used to get excited whenever I’d say B-O-O-K. He’d know we were coming here. I think he loved it even more than I do.”
Gamache had been coming to this library every day for almost a week and except for whispered conversations with the elderly female librarian as he searched for obscure volumes on the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, he hadn’t spoken to anyone.
It was a relief to not talk, to not explain, or feel an explanation was desired if not demanded. That would come soon enough. But for now he’d yearned for and found peace in this obscure library.
Though he’d been visiting his mentor for years, and had come to believe he knew old Québec intimately, he’d never actual y been in this building. Never even noticed it among the other lovely homes and churches, convents, schools, hotels and restaurants.