Within minutes he and Henri were standing outside the brightly lit Literary and Historical Society. The small crowd of gawkers had given up, perhaps called away by the horns to something more interesting. Called to life, not to death.
Gamache entered and found his old mentor in the library surrounded by small stacks of books. Mr. Blake had emigrated from his armchair to the sofa and the two elderly men were chatting. They looked over as the Chief Inspector entered, and waved.
Mr. Blake stood and indicated his place.
“No, please,” said Gamache, but it was too late. The courtly man was already standing next to his habitual chair.
“We’ve been having a terrific talk, you know,” said Mr. Blake. “All about Charles Chiniquy. Remarkable man. But then, we’re likely to think that,” he said with a laugh.
“Found another one, Monsieur Comeau,” Elizabeth MacWhirter called down from the balcony, then spying Gamache she waved.
Gamache caught émile’s eye and smiled. He’d made a few conquests here.
Soon all four were sitting round the coffee table.
“So,” said Gamache, looking at the three eager, elderly faces. “Tell me what you know.”
“The first thing I did was call Jean,” émile said. “You remember him? He had lunch with us a few days ago at the Chateau Frontenac.” Gamache remembered. The Laurel to René Dallaire’s Hardy.
“A member of your Champlain Society.”
“That’s right, but he’s also a student of Québec history in general. Most of the members are. He knew of Chiniquy, but not much more than I’d heard. Chiniquy was some sort of fanatic about temperance and had quit the Catholic Church and joined the Protestants. He’s considered a bit of a nut. Did some good work then messed it up by going off the deep end himself.
“I was on my way home and just passing the Lit and His when I suddenly thought they might know Chiniquy here. After all, it is a Literary and Historical Society and presumably has links to Protestantism. So I came in.”
Elizabeth picked up the thread. “He asked about Chiniquy. It’s not a name I’m familiar with but I did find some books in our collection. He wrote quite a few. Then Mr. Blake came in and I directed Monsieur Comeau to him.”
Mr. Blake leaned forward. “Charles Chiniquy was a great man, Chief Inspector. Much maligned and misunderstood. He should be considered one of the great heroes of Québec instead of forgotten or remembered only for his eccentricities.”
“Eccentricities?”
“He was, it must be admitted, a bit of a showboat. Quite extravagant in his lifestyle and speeches. Charismatic. But he saved a lot of lives, built a sanatorium. At the height of his popularity tens of thousands took the pledge after listening to him speak. He was indefatigable. Ummm.” Mr. Blake struggled a bit with the next part. “Then he went a bit far for the comfort of the Catholic Church. To be fair, they did give him a lot of warnings but finally he was stripped of his church. He quit in a rage and joined the Presbyterians.”
“Didn’t he claim Rome was conspiring to take over North America and had sent the Jesuits to kill Lincoln?” asked émile.
“He might have mentioned that,” said Mr. Blake. “Still, he did a great deal of good too.”
“What happened to him?” asked Gamache.
“He moved to Illinois but annoyed so many people he soon left and ended his days in Montreal. Got married you know, and had two children, daughters I think. Died at the age of ninety.”
“In 1899,” said Gamache and when she looked surprised he explained. “I looked it up last night, but the file had just his dates, no real information about the man.”
“There was a huge obituary in the New York Times,” said Mr. Blake. “He was considered a hero by many people.”
“And a nut by many too,” admitted Elizabeth.
“Why would Augustin Renaud be interested in Chiniquy?”
All three shook their heads. Gamache thought some more.
“The big Presbyterian church is right next door, and the Lit and His has a number of his books, is it fair to assume there might have been a connection? A relationship?”
“Between Charles Chiniquy and the Lit and His?” asked Elizabeth.
“Well, there was James Douglas, he’d be a connection,” said Mr. Blake.
“And who is that?” asked Gamache. Both Elizabeth and Mr. Blake turned in their seats and looked out a window. Gamache and émile also looked but in the dark they saw only their own reflections.
“That’s James Douglas,” said Mr. Blake. Still they stared, and still all they saw were their own baffled faces.
“The window?” asked Gamache finally, after waiting long enough for émile to ask the nonsensical question.
“Not the window, the bust,” said Elizabeth with a smile. “That’s James Douglas.”
Sure enough, on the deep windowsill there stood a white alabaster bust of a Victorian gentleman. They always looked disturbing to Gamache. It was the white, empty eyes, as though the artist had sculpted a ghost.
“He was one of the founders of the Literary and Historical Society,” said Mr. Blake.
Elizabeth leaned forward and said to émile beside her, “He was also a grave robber. Collected mummies, you know.”
Neither Gamache nor émile did know. But they wanted to.