“What was that?” whispered Ken Haslam. For him it was almost a shout.
“It’s the doorbell, I think,” said Winnie.
“The doorbell?” asked Porter. “I didn’t know we had one.”
“Put in in 1897 after the Lieutenant Governor visited and couldn’t get in,” said Mr. Blake, as though he’d been there. “Never heard it myself.”
But he heard it again. A long, shrill bell. Elizabeth had locked the front door to the Literary and Historical Society as soon as everyone had arrived. A precaution against being interrupted. Though since hardly anyone ever visited it was more habit than necessity. She’d also hung a sign on the thick wooden door.
The bell sounded again. Someone was leaning on it, finger jammed into the button.
Still they stared at each other.
“I’ll go,” said Elizabeth.
Porter looked down at his papers, the better part of valor.
“No,” Winnie stood. “I’ll go. You all stay here.”
They watched Winnie disappear down the corridor and heard her feet on the wooden stairs. There was silence. Then a minute later her feet on the stairs again.
They listened to the footsteps clicking and clacking closer. She arrived but stopped at the door, her face pale and serious.
“There’s someone there. Someone who wants to speak to the board.”
“Well,” demanded Porter, remembering he was their leader, now that the elderly woman had gone to the door. “Who is it?”
“Augustin Renaud,” she said and saw the looks on their faces. Had she said “Dracula” they could not have been more startled. Though, for the English, startled meant raised eyebrows.
Every eyebrow in the room was raised, and if General Wolfe could have managed it, he would have.
“I left him outside,” she said into the silence.
As if to underscore that the doorbell shrieked again.
“What should we do?” Winnie asked, but instead of turning to Porter she looked at Elizabeth. They all did.
“We need to take a vote,” Elizabeth said at last. “Should we see him?”
“He’s not on the agenda,” Mr. Blake pointed out.
“That’s right,” said Porter, trying to wrestle back control. But even he looked at Elizabeth.
“Who’s in favor of letting Augustin Renaud speak to the board?” Elizabeth asked.
Not a hand was raised.
Elizabeth lowered her pen, not taking note of the vote. Giving one curt nod she stood. “I’ll tell him.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Winnie.
“No, dear, you stay here. I’ll be right back. I mean, really?” She paused at the door, taking in the board and General Wolfe above. “How bad could it be?”
But they all knew the answer to that. When Augustin Renaud came calling it was never good.
TWO
Armand Gamache settled into the worn leather sofa beneath the statue of General Wolfe. Nodding to the elderly man across from him he pulled the letters out of his satchel. After a walk through the city with Emile and Henri, Gamache had returned home, picked up his mail, collected his notes, stuffed it all into his satchel, then he and Henri had walked up the hill.
To the hushed library of the Literary and Historical Society.
Now he looked at the bulging manila envelope on the sofa beside him. Daily correspondence from his office in Montreal sent on to Emile’s home. Agent Isabelle Lacoste had sorted his mail and sent it with a note.
Gamache lowered the note for a moment. Agent Lacoste would, of course, tell them the truth. As she knew it. She had no choice, by temperament and training. Before he left he’d ordered all of his department to cooperate.
As he had.
He went back to the note.
Too heavy to hold, the letter slowly lowered to his lap. He stared ahead and saw Agent Isabelle Lacoste in flashes. Images moved, uninvited, in and out of his mind. Of her staring down at him, seeming to shout though he couldn’t make out her words. He felt her small, strong hands gripping either side of his head, saw her leaning close, her mouth moving, her eyes intense, trying to communicate something to him. Felt hands ripping away the tactical vest from his chest. He saw blood on her hands and the look on her face.
