“Yes. The first was in the summer, then we had a smaller, quieter one later. That was mostly to bookstores and people who seemed sympathetic to what we were doing.”
“The books donated by Mrs. Claude Marchand back in 1899 were among the ones you sold,” said Gamache.
“Is that right?” said Elizabeth.
“Is it significant?” asked Mr. Blake.
“We think so. Mrs. Marchand was Charles Chiniquy’s housekeeper in Montreal. After his death they must have divided up his things and given her some of the books, or perhaps he asked that they be sent here. Either way, she must have known he had a relationship with the Literary and Historical Society and so sent them on. It seems when they arrived they were kept in boxes and probably put in your basement. People either didn’t bother looking at them or didn’t see their value.”
“Are you saying we had a collection of Chiniquy’s books and never even knew it?” asked Mr. Blake, getting quite agitated. “This is the very thing people were afraid of. That in our rush we’d sell off treasures. What were they?”
“We don’t know,” admitted Gamache. “But some were bought by Augustin Renaud and two books interested him in particular.”
“Which ones?”
“Again, we don’t know. We have the catalog numbers, but that’s all. No titles, no idea what was in them.”
“What could Father Chiniquy possibly have that Augustin Renaud would want?” Elizabeth asked herself. “Chiniquy wasn’t interested in Champlain, at least not that we know of.”
There were actually two questions, thought Gamache. What were those books? And why can’t we find them?
émile and Gamache paused outside the Lit and His.
“So, what do you think?” émile asked, putting on his mitts and hat.
“I think if Chin is Chiniquy in Augustin Renaud’s diary then JD must be James Douglas.”
“And Patrick and O’Mara are long dead too,” said émile, his breath coming in puffs and his mouth already growing numb in the cold. Still the two men stood and talked.
Gamache nodded. “Renaud wasn’t planning to meet those four men, he was making a note of a meeting they had. Here. More than a hundred years ago.”
The men looked up at the building, rising behind them.
“And 18 whatever? The number in his diary?” émile asked. “A time? A date?”
Gamache smiled. “We’ll find out.”
“We will,” agreed émile. It felt good to be working together again. “Coming?”
“I have a quick stop to make first. Can you take Henri home?”
Gamache watched Henri and émile stepping carefully down rue St-Stanislas, making sure not to slip on the ice and snow.
The Chief Inspector walked the few meters to St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church. Trying the door he was somewhat surprised to find it unlocked. He poked his head into the church. The robin’s egg blue ceiling was softly lit but the rest was in twilight.
“Hello,” he called and his voice rattled round and finally disappeared. His intention was to speak to the young minister but he found himself drawn into the calm space. Taking his coat off he sat quietly for a few minutes, occasionally taking a deep breath and a long exhale.
Now there is no more loneliness.
Closing his eyes he let the voice loose, to play. To run around in his head, to laugh and tell him once again about breaking his first violin, a tiny one lent by the school. Worth more money than they had and his mother mending it and handing it back to the distraught boy reassuring him.
Things are strongest where they’re broken. Don’t worry.
“What a kind thing to say,” Gamache said and meant.
“To a clumsy boy,” Morin agreed. “I broke everything. Violins, vacuums, glasses, plates, you name it. I once broke a hammer. If I didn’t break it I lost it.”
Morin laughed.
Gamache felt himself almost nodding off in the warmth and the peace and the soft laughter in his head, and when he opened his eyes he was surprised to find he was no longer alone. The young minister was sitting quietly at the other end of the pew, reading.
“You seemed amused just now,” Tom Hancock said.
“Did I? Something came to me. What’re you reading?” Gamache asked, his voice not more than a whisper.
Tom Hancock looked down at the book in his hand.
“Steer toward the third tall oak from the tip of Fischer’s Point,” he read. “Once halfway across you must adjust your course, taking into account the current, the winds, the ice. And always steer for the ice floes, never to open water.”
“A little known Gospel,” said Gamache.
“Well, after the reforms they’re harder to recognize,” said the Reverend Mr. Hancock. He put a bookmark in, closed it and handed the old volume to his companion. Gamache accepted it and looked at the title.