ELEVEN
It wasn’t quite five in the afternoon and the sun was down. Elizabeth MacWhirter looked out the window. A small crowd had been milling outside the Literary and Historical Society all day. A bold few had come inside, almost daring the members to toss them out. Instead Winnie had greeted them, given them the bilingual brochures and invited them to join.
She’d even given some of the more brazen a brief tour of the library, pointing out the fine pillows on the walls, the collection of figs on the shelves and asking if any of them would like to become umlauts.
Not surprisingly few did. But three people actually paid twenty dollars and joined, shamed into it by Winnie’s obvious kindness and handicap.
“Did you mention that the night is a strawberry?” Elizabeth asked when Winnie returned with a membership payment.
“I did. They didn’t disagree. Ready?”
Before turning out the lights and locking up they checked the main library. More than once they’d locked poor Mr. Blake in, but his chair was empty. He’d already gone across to the rectory.
The crowd had disappeared, the dark and cold having killed curiosity. The two women walked cautiously over the path of hardened snow, planting their feet firmly and carefully. Watching their own steps, watching each other’s.
In winter the very ground seemed to reach up and grab the elderly, yanking them to earth as though hungry for them. Shattering a hip or wrist, or neck. Best to take it slow.
Their destination wasn’t far. They could see the lights through the windows of the rectory. It was a lovely stone building, gracious in proportions with tall windows to catch every ray of a miserly winter sun. Walking slowly, side by side, Elizabeth could feel her cheeks freeze in just this short stroll. Their feet squeaked on the snow, making a sound she’d heard for almost eighty years. A sound she’d never trade for waves lapping on a Florida shore.
Lights were appearing in homes and restaurants, reflecting off the white snow. It was a city that lent itself to winter, and to darkness. It became even cozier, more inviting, more magical, like a fairy-tale kingdom. And we’re the peasants, thought Elizabeth with a wry smile.
As they crept up the walk they could see through the window the fire in the hearth and Tom handing around drinks. Mr. Blake and Porter were already there and Ken Haslam was sitting in an armchair, reading a newspaper.
He missed nothing, Elizabeth knew. It was a mistake to underestimate Ken, as people had all his life. People always dismissed the quiet ones, which was ironic in Ken’s case, Elizabeth knew. She also knew why he was quiet. But she’d never tell a soul.
Elizabeth MacWhirter knew everything, and forgot nothing.
The two women entered the rectory without knocking, took off their coats and boots and before long they too were in front of the roaring fire in the large living room. Porter handed a Scotch to Winnie and a sherry to Elizabeth and the two women sat beside each other on the sofa.
It was a room they knew well from the intimate chamber music concerts, from the tea parties and cocktail parties. From the lunches and bridge parties and dinners. Larger community events were held in the church hall just across the way, but this home had become the center of their more intimate gatherings.
Elizabeth noticed Ken’s lips were moving. He smiled and she smiled.
Being with Ken was like being with a permanently foreign friend. It was impossible to understand them, but all you really needed to do was reflect back their own expressions. When Ken looked sad, they looked sad. When he looked happy, they smiled. It was actually very relaxing to be around him. Not much was expected.
“Well, I’ve had quite a day,” said Porter, rocking on his feet in front of the fire. “Spent most of it giving interviews. Taped Jacquie Czernin’s show for CBC Radio. It’ll be on any minute. Want to hear it?”
He walked over to the stereo and turned on the CBC.
“I must’ve done ten interviews today,” Porter said, guarding the radio.
“I did the crossword puzzle,” said Mr. Blake. “Very satisfying. What’s a six-letter word for ‘idiot’?”
“Do proper names count?” asked Tom with a smile.
“Oh, here it comes.” Porter turned up the volume.
“As we heard in the news,” a melodious woman’s voice said, “the amateur archeologist Augustin Renaud was found dead yesterday morning at the Literary and Historical Society. Police confirm he was murdered though they haven’t made any arrests yet.
“Porter Wilson is the President of the Lit and His and he joins me now. Hello, Mr. Wilson.”
“Hello Jacquie.”
Porter looked around the rectory living room, expecting applause for his brilliance so far.
“What can you tell us about the death of Mr. Renaud?”
“I can tell you that I didn’t do it.”
Porter on the radio laughed. Porter in the rectory laughed. No one else did.
“But why was he there?”
“Frankly, we don’t know. We’re shocked, as you can imagine. It’s tragic. Such a respected member of the community.”
Porter, in the rectory, was nodding in agreement with himself.
“For God’s sake, Porter, turn it off,” said Mr. Blake, struggling out of his chair. “Don’t be a horse’s ass.”
“No, wait,” Porter stood before the stereo, blocking it. “It gets better. Listen.”
“Can you describe what happened?”
“Well, Jacquie, I was in the office of the Lit and His when the telephone repairman arrived. I’d called him because the telephones weren’t working. They should have been because, as you know, we’re in the middle of a huge restoration of the library. In fact, you’ve helped us with the fundraisers.”
What followed were five excruciating minutes of Porter plugging the fundraising and the interviewer desperately trying to get him to talk about anything other than himself.
Finally she cut off the interview and went to music.
“Is it over?” Tom asked. “Can I stop praying now?”
“What were you thinking?” Winnie asked Porter.
“What d’you mean? I was thinking this was a great chance to get more donations for the library.”
“A man was murdered,” snapped Winnie. “Honestly, Porter, this wasn’t a marketing opportunity.”
As they argued Elizabeth went back to reading the press. The papers were full of the Renaud murder. There were photographs of the astonishing-looking man, there were tributes, eulogies, editorials. He was barely cold and already he’d risen, a new man. Respected, beloved, brilliant and on the verge of finding Champlain.
In the Literary and Historical Society, apparently.
One paper, La Presse, had discovered that Renaud had approached the board shortly before his death and been turned down. Something that had seemed so reasonable, just following procedure, now seemed ominous, suspicious.
But the most disconcerting of all was the astonishment in all the French papers. Just as shocking as the discovery of Augustin Renaud’s dead body was the discovery of so many live bodies, so many Anglo bodies, among them all this time.
Quebec City seemed to only now be awakening to the fact that the English were still there.
“How could they not know we’re here?” said Winnie, reading over Elizabeth’s shoulder.