“What does that number mean?” Gamache asked.
There was silence as they took turns looking at it. Finally Winnie answered him.
“I think it’s the old cataloging system, don’t you, Elizabeth?”
“I think you’re right,” said Porter, who clearly didn’t have a clue.
“What old system?” asked the Chief Inspector.
“From the 1800s. We don’t use it anymore,” said Elizabeth, “but back when the Literary and Historical Society was first established this is how they marked items.”
“Go on.”
Elizabeth gave an embarrassed little laugh. “It wasn’t actually much of a system. The Literary and Historical Society was founded in about 1820—”
“1824, actually,” said Mr. Blake. “There’s a charter somewhere around here.”
He searched for it while Elizabeth talked.
“A call went out to the English community at the time to send in memorabilia, whatever people considered of historic importance,” she laughed. “Apparently people took it as an excuse to empty their attics and basements and barns. They were given stuffed lizards, ball gowns, armoirs. Letters, shopping lists. Finally the Society refined its mandate so that it became mostly a library, and even then it was overwhelmed.”
Gamache could imagine mountains of old, leather-bound books and even loose papers.
“As books came in they put on the year it arrived.” She picked up the Scottish grasses volume and pointed. “That’s the number 6 and the other was the number of the book. This one was the five thousandth, nine hundred and twenty-third.”
Gamache was beyond baffled. “Alors, the first number, 6, means the year. But what decade? And was it the five thousandth book that year to arrive, or ever? I’m afraid I’m confused.”
“Ridiculous system,” sniffed Winnie. “Shocking. They obviously had no idea what they were doing.”
“They were probably overwhelmed,” said Elizabeth.
“And this sort of thing would just add to the confusion.” Winnie turned to the Chief Inspector. “It takes hard work and some guessing to figure out the code. Since this book was published in 1845 we can assume it was donated in 1846. Or ’56, or ’66 and so on.”
“But what about the 5923?” Gamache asked.
“That’s even worse,” admitted Winnie. “They started at number 1 and just kept adding.”
“So this was the five thousandth, nine hundred and twenty-third book?”
“That would make too much sense, Chief Inspector, so no. When they got up to 10,000 they started back at 1,” she sighed. This seemed painful for her to admit.
“They cataloged everything. Some ended up on shelves and some were eventually given Dewey Decimal numbers, some not,” said Elizabeth. “It was and is, a mess.”
“Found it,” said Mr. Blake, holding a worn folder. “This is the wording of the original mandate.” He read, “To discover and rescue from the unsparing hand of time the records which yet remain of the earliest history of Canada. To preserve, while in our power, such documents as may be found amid the dust of yet unexplored depositories, and which may prove important to general history and to the particular history of this province.”
Gamache listened to the old voice reading the old words and was deeply moved by the simplicity and the nobility of them. He suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to help these people, to help save them from the unsparing hand of time.
“What might these mean?” He showed them the numbers found in Augustin Renaud’s diary.
9-8499 and 9-8572.
“Was there a Dewey Decimal number too?” Winnie asked. He had the impression if she could snort Dewey numbers she’d get high. But he had to disappoint her.
“Just those. Do they tell you anything?”
“We could look them up in the catalog.”
Gamache turned and stared at Mr. Blake.
“There’s a catalog?” he asked.
“Well, yes. That’s what a catalog number’s for,” said Mr. Blake with a smile. “It’s over here.”
The “it” turned out to be eight huge volumes, handwritten, collected by decade. They each took one and began looking. The first “hit” was in 1839. There Porter found both a 9-8499 and a 9-8572.
“The first is a travel journal around the horn of Africa, written by a Colonel Ephram Hoskins, and the 9-8572 is a book of sermons, donated by Kathleen Williams.”
It didn’t seem promising.
Gamache closed one catalog book and turned to another, his finger working down the long pages with the precise writing.
“Found one,” said Elizabeth a few minutes later. “It’s 9-8466 to 9-8594. Donated in 1899 by Madame Claude Marchand of Montreal.”
“Nothing more specific?” Gamache asked, his heart sinking. Those were the only entries that might be what Augustin Renaud was interested in but he found it hard to believe a trip in the 1830s around Africa was of interest to the Champlain expert, or a collection of sermons. Even less promising was a lot of more than one hundred books given by a woman in Montreal. Still, it was the only lead.
“Are those books still in the library?”
“Let’s see,” said Winnie, taking the information over to their “modern” system. A card catalog. After a few minutes she looked up.
“The sermon book is in the library, though it hasn’t been given a Dewey number yet. The horn of Africa one must still be in a box somewhere.”
“And the Montreal lot?” Gamache asked.
“I don’t know. All we have here is the lot number. It doesn’t say what happened to the specific books.”
“May I have the book of sermons, please?”
Winnie found it in the library and signed it out to him. He was the first to ever take it out. Gamache thanked them and left, walking with Henri back down the hill, their feet making prints side-by-side in the fluffy snow.
Once home he went onto his laptop and started searching. émile returned and made a simple dinner of clay pot chicken and vegetables. After dinner Gamache went back to work, trying to track down Colonel Ephram Hoskins and Kathleen Williams. Colonel Hoskins died of malaria and was buried in the Congo. His book was considered important at the time then quickly fell into obscurity.
There was absolutely no connection to Champlain, Québec or Renaud.
Kathleen Williams turned out to be a steadfast benefactor of the Anglican Cathedral of Holy Trinity in old Québec. Her husband was a prosperous dry goods merchant and her son became a ship’s captain. Gamache stared at the scant information, willing something to jump out at him, some connection he was missing.
Still sitting at the desk he scanned the book of sermons, a collection of stern Victorian lectures. Nothing about Québec, Champlain, or God as far as Gamache could tell.