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 Ma?tre Blake,” said Langlois.
“No, please, I’ve been retired for years. Plain ‘Mister’ will do.”
“How long have you been involved with the Literary and Historical Society?”
“Oh, all 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 originally 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 telling 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. Finally 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 still and quiet conscience.”
Or none at all, 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. “Tell 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’ll be digging?”
“Right now it’s still 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.
Finally Elizabeth MacWhirter entered and sat.
“What is your job, exactly?” Langlois asked.
“Well, ‘job’ is a loose term. We’re all 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.