“Why would a Champlain scholar want books collected by a lapsed priest?” he asked, but got no answer. “Chiniquy showed no interest in Champlain?”
émile shook his head and shrugged, flummoxed. “But I don’t know much about the man and what I just told you might be wrong. Would you like me to look further?”
Gamache got up. “Please. But first, I’m going back to Renaud’s apartment. Maybe the books are there. Would you like to come?”
“Absolument.”
As they put on their heavy winter parkas émile realized how natural it felt to follow this man. Chief Inspector émile Comeau had seen Gamache arrive, an eager young agent in homicide. Had watched his wavy dark hair thin and turn gray, his body thicken, his marriage, his children, his rise through the ranks. He’d promoted him to Inspector, had seen the young man take command, naturally. Had watched as older, more experienced agents ceded their place, turning to him for his opinion, his leadership.
But émile knew something else. Gamache wasn’t always right. No one was.
As they walked up the hill, their breaths puffing into the crisp air, émile glanced at Armand, Henri walking at his side. Did he seem better? Was he getting better? émile thought so, but he also knew it was the internal injuries that did the most damage. The worst was always hidden.
A few minutes later they were once again in the cramped and stuffy apartment, negotiating their way between piles of magazines, stacks of correspondence, and furniture littered with books and journals.
The two men got to work quickly, taking off their coats and boots and each taking a room.
Two hours later émile wandered into the dining room, which almost certainly had never seen a dinner party. The walls were lined with shelves, packed two and three books deep. Gamache was halfway around the room, having taken down each book, examined and replaced it.
He was exhausted. An activity he could have done easily two months earlier was now almost too much for him, and he could see émile was also flagging. He was leaning against the back of a chair, trying not to look done in.
“Ready for a break?” Gamache asked.
émile turned a grateful face to him. “If you insist. I could go on all day but if you’d like to stop I guess I could.”
Gamache smiled. “Merci.”
Still, it surprised him how weak he still felt. He’d managed to fool himself into believing he was back to full strength. And he had improved, his energy was better, his strength was returning, even the trembling seemed to have diminished.
But when pushed, he faded faster than he’d expected.
They found a table by the window at Le Petit Coin Latin and ordered beers and sandwiches.
“What did you find?” Gamache asked, biting into a baguette stuffed with pheasant terrine, arugula and cranberry sauce. A micro-brewery beer was in front of him with a slight head of foam.
“Nothing I didn’t expect to find. There were a couple rare books on Champlain the Society would love to get its hands on, but since you were there I chose not to steal them.”
“How wise.”
émile inclined his head and smiled. “You?”
“The same. There was nothing that didn’t relate directly to Champlain or the early 1600s. There was nothing on Chiniquy, on temperance, on anything to do with the 1800s. Still, we need to keep looking. I wonder where he got all his books.”
“Probably from used bookstores.”
“That’s true.” Gamache brought Renaud’s diary out of his satchel and flipped through it. “He made regular visits to the local secondhand bookstores and the flea markets in the summer.”
“Where else do you find old books? What is it?” asked émile.
Armand Gamache had tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “Where do those used bookstores get their books?”
“From people who’re moving or cleaning house. From estate sales, buying them in lots. Why?”
“I think when we’re finished in the apartment we need to visit a few shops.”
“What’re you thinking?” asked émile, and took a long sip of his beer.
“I’m remembering something Elizabeth MacWhirter told me.” But now it was his turn to look at his companion. émile Comeau was staring at the diary. Reaching out he turned it around so that it was right-side up for him. His slim finger rested on the page, below Augustin Renaud’s clear printing. Below the words circled and underlined, below an assignation he had with a Patrick, and O’Mara, a JD and—
“Chin,” said Gamache. “But there’re no Chins in Quebec City. I thought I might ask at the Chinese restaurant on rue de Buade and find out if it’s a—”
Gamache stared into the beaming eyes of his mentor. He closed his own eyes almost in pain. “Oh, no.”
Opening them he looked down at the diary. “Is that it? Chin? Chiniquy?”
émile Comeau was smiling and nodding. “What else?”
Jean-Guy Beauvoir took a soapy dish from Clara and dried it. He was standing in their large, open kitchen, doing the dishes. Something he rarely did at home, though he’d helped the Chief and Madame Gamache clean up a few times. It didn’t seem like a chore with them. And it didn’t, to his surprise, seem like a chore now. It was restful, peaceful. Like the village itself.
After lunch together, Peter Morrow had returned to his studio to work on his latest painting, leaving Clara and Jean-Guy to clean up after the soup and sandwiches.
“Did you get a chance to read the dossier?”
“I did,” said Clara, handing him another dripping dish. “I have to say, it’s a convincing case against Olivier. But let’s say he didn’t kill the Hermit, then someone else must have known the Hermit was hiding in the woods. But how would someone find him? We know he approached Olivier himself, to sell his things and because he wanted some companionship.”
“And needed someone to do his errands, get things he needed from town,” said Beauvoir. “He used Olivier and Olivier used him.”
“A good relationship.”
“People taking advantage of each other seems good to you?”
“Depends how you see it. Look at us. Peter’s supported me financially all our married life, but I support him emotionally. Is that taking advantage of each other? I suppose it is, but it works. We’re both happy.”
Beauvoir wondered if that was true. He suspected Clara would be happy just about anywhere but her husband was another matter.
“Didn’t seem equal to me,” said Beauvoir. “Olivier brought the Hermit some groceries every two weeks and in exchange the Hermit gave Olivier priceless antiques. Someone was getting boned.”
They carried their coffees into the bright living room. Unfiltered winter light streamed through the windows as they sat in large easy chairs by the hearth.
Her brow wrinkled as she looked into the mumbling fire. “But it seems to me the big issue, the only issue, is who else knew the Hermit was there? He’d been hiding in the forest for years, why was he suddenly killed?”
“Our theory was that Olivier killed him because the horse trail was getting close to the cabin. The Hermit and his treasure were about to be found.”
Clara nodded. “Olivier didn’t want anyone else discovering and maybe stealing the treasure, so he killed the Hermit. It was a spur of the moment thing, not planned. He picked up a menorah and hit him.”
She’d heard it all at the trial and read it again last night.
She tried to imagine her friend doing that, and while her mind spun away from the image the truth was she could believe it. She didn’t think Olivier would ever plan to kill someone, but she could see him doing it in a fit of rage and greed.