A small tapping on the door brought Elizabeth MacWhirter out of her reverie. She’d been staring down at the list of members, putting off the time she’d have to phone them. But she knew that time had already come and gone. She should have made the calls an hour ago. Already messages were coming in from members of the English community, including CBC Radio and the weekly English newspaper, the Chronicle-Telegraph. She, Winnie and Porter had tried to be coy, but had only succeeded in sounding secretive.
Reporters were on their way.
And still Elizabeth put off phoning, clinging, she knew to the last moments of anything that resembled normalcy. Of their quiet, uneventful lives, volunteering to be custodians of a dusty and all but irrelevant past, but a past precious to them.
The knocking sounded again. No louder, but not going away either. Were the reporters here already? But they, she suspected, would pound at the door as would the police. This tapping was a request, not a demand.
“I’ll get it,” said Winnie, walking across the large room and up the two steps to the door. At their desks in front of the large Palladian windows Elizabeth and Porter watched. Winnie was speaking with someone they couldn’t see, nor could they hear her conversation but she seemed to be trying to explain something. Then she seemed to be trying to close the door. Then she stopped, and opening it wide she turned into the room.
“Chief Inspector Gamache wants to speak to you,” she said to Elizabeth, almost in a daze.
“Who?” asked Porter, popping up at his desk, taking charge, now that the elderly woman had answered the door.
Winnie swung the door wide and there stood Armand Gamache. He looked at the people, but took in his surroundings. The office had a cathedral ceiling, huge arched windows and was sunken a few steps from the door. It was paneled in wood, with wood floors and bookcases and looked like an old-fashioned, miniature, gymnasium where the activity was intellectual not physical.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, coming further into the room. His coat was off and he was wearing a camel hair cardigan, a shirt and tie, and deep blue corduroy slacks. Henri, his German shepherd, was at his side.
Porter stared. Winnie backed down the stairway. Elizabeth got up from her desk and walked over.
“You came,” she said, smiling, her hand out. He took it in his large hand and held it.
“What do you mean?” asked Porter. “I don’t understand.”
“I asked if he could come and watch over the investigation for us. This is Chief Inspector Gamache,” Elizabeth waited for recognition. “Of the S?reté du Québec.”
“I know who it is,” lied Porter. “Knew all along.”
“Chief Inspector Gamache, let me introduce the head of our Board of Directors,” said Elizabeth. “Porter Wilson.”
The two men shook hands.
“We don’t need help, you know. We’re fine on our own,” said Porter.
“I know, I just wanted to make sure. You’ve been so kind allowing me to use your library, I thought I’d offer some of my own expertise in return.”
“This isn’t even your jurisdiction,” Porter grumbled, turning his back on the Chief Inspector. “The separatists are going to have a field day. How do we know you’re not one of them?”
Elizabeth MacWhirter could have died. “For God’s sake, Porter, he’s here to help. I invited him.”
“We’ll talk about that later.”
“Not all separatists wish you harm, monsieur,” said Gamache, his voice friendly but firm. “But you’re right, this isn’t my jurisdiction. I’m impressed you know that.” Elizabeth watched with some amusement as Porter began to melt. “You clearly follow politics.” Porter nodded and relaxed further. Much more, thought Elizabeth, and he’d curl up in Gamache’s lap.
“The S?reté has no jurisdiction in cities,” Gamache continued. “The death of Monsieur Renaud is a case for the local Quebec City homicide force. I happen to know Inspector Langlois and he was kind enough to also ask me to join them. After some thought,” he looked over at Elizabeth, “I decided I would just have a look.” He turned back to Porter. “With your permission of course, sir.”
Porter Wilson all but swooned. Winnie and Elizabeth exchanged glances. If they’d only realized it was so easy. But then Porter’s face clouded again as the reality sunk in.
This might not be an improvement. They’d gone from no police to now two forces occupying their building.
Not to mention the body.
“I wonder if I could leave Henri with you while I go into the basement?”
“Absolutely,” said Winnie, taking the leash. Gamache also gave her some biscuits for Henri, patted him, told him to be a gentleman, then left.
“I don’t like this,” he heard Porter say just as the door closed. He suspected he was meant to hear it. But, then, he didn’t much like it either.
A uniformed officer was waiting for him in the corridor and together they made their way through the warren of hallways and staircases. Gamache had to admit he was completely lost, and suspected the officer was too. Boxes full of books and papers lined the linoleum floors, elaborate stairways led to grotty washrooms and deserted offices. They came to two huge wooden doors and opening them they walked into a spectacular double-height ballroom that led into an equally spectacular twin. Both empty except for a few ladders and the ubiquitous boxes of books. He opened one of them. More leather-bound volumes. He knew if he picked one up he would be well and truly lost, so he ignored it and instead followed the increasingly frustrated officer down another corridor.
“Never seen anything like it,” said the officer. “All this beautiful space, gone to waste. Doesn’t seem right. What’re they doing with this great building? Shouldn’t it be used for something worthwhile?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. But there must be something someone could use it for.”
“Someone is using it.”
“Les Anglais.”
Gamache stopped. “Excusez-moi?”
“Les têtes carré,” the young officer explained.
The square heads.
“You will treat these people with respect,” said Gamache. “They’re no more tête carré than you and I are frogs.” His voice was hard, sharp. The officer stiffened.
“I meant no harm.”
“Is that really true?” Gamache stared at the young officer, who stared back. Finally Gamache smiled a little. “You won’t solve this crime by insulting these people, or mocking them. Don’t be blinded.”
“Yes sir.”
They walked on, down endless hallways, past some magnificent rooms and past some dreary rooms, all empty. As though the Literary and Historical Society was in full retreat, regrouping into that one splendid library where General Wolfe watched over them.
“Over here, sir. I think I’ve found it.”
They went down some steps and found a uniformed officer standing bored guard over a trap door. On seeing the Chief Inspector he stood straighter. Gamache nodded and watched his young guide leap down the metal ladder.
Gamache hadn’t been prepared for this.
At the bottom the officer stared up, waiting, his face going from eager to questioning. What could be keeping this man? Then he remembered. He walked a few rungs up the ladder and extended his hand.
“It’s all right, sir,” he said quietly. “I won’t let you fall.”
Gamache looked at the hand. “I believe you.” He carefully descended and took the strong young hand in his.