“And what was that price?” Emile asked.
“He was mocked and ridiculed, but more than that, no one liked him.”
“Except you,” said Gamache.
She said nothing. “He was lonely, you know, in the end. But still he couldn’t stop, couldn’t trade a dead explorer for living friends.”
“When did he bring these books to you?” Gamache asked.
“About three weeks ago. There’re four boxes. He said his apartment was too crowded.”
Emile and Gamache exchanged a quick glance. Renaud’s apartment was certainly cramped, but it was already a disaster, four more boxes would have made no difference.
No. He’d brought them to his wife for another reason. For safekeeping.
“Did he bring you anything else?” Emile asked.
She shook her head. “He was secretive by nature, some might say paranoid,” she smiled. She was a woman of good cheer and Gamache wondered at Augustin Renaud, who’d chosen her as his wife. For a few bright years had he known happiness? Had that been his one shining attempt to change course? And find a place on the shore with this jovial, kind woman? But he couldn’t, of course.
Gamache watched Madame Renaud chat with Emile. She still loved him, despite all that, thought Gamache. Was that a blessing or a curse?
And he wondered if that would go away, with time. Would the voice fade, the features blur? Would the memories recede and take their place with other pleasant, but neutral events from the past?
“Do you mind if we go through the boxes?” Gamache asked.
“Not at all. The other officers took a look but didn’t seem very interested. What are you looking for exactly?”
“Two books,” said Gamache. They’d walked to the back of the apartment, into the large, old-fashioned kitchen. “Unfortunately we don’t know what they are.”
“Well, I hope you find them here.” She opened a door and turned on a light.
Gamache and Emile saw wooden steps going straight down into a dark cellar with a dirt floor. A slight musky aroma met them, and as they headed down the stairs it felt a bit like wading into water. Gamache could feel the cool air creep up his legs until it was at his chest, his head and he was submerged in the dank and the chill.
“Watch your heads,” she called but both men were familiar with these old homes and had already ducked. “The boxes are over by the far wall.”
It took a moment for Gamache’s eyes to adjust, but finally they did and he saw the four cardboard boxes. Walking over he knelt at one while Emile took another.
Gamache’s box contained a variety of books in different sizes. First he checked their catalog numbers. All were from the Literary and Historical Society, a few even had the name Charles Chiniquy written in but none matched the numbers in the diary. He moved to another box.
That box was filled with bound sermons, reference books and old family bibles, some Catholic, some Presbyterian. He opened the first book and checked the number. 9-8495. His heart quickened. This was the box. Opening the next book and the next, the numbers mounted. 9-8496, 8497, 8498. Gamache brought out the next book, a black leather collection of sermons and opened it. 9-8500.
He stared at it, willing the numbers to change, then he carefully, slowly opened again and replaced each of the twenty books in the box. One was indeed missing.
9-8499.
It had sat between that book of sermons and Chiniquy’s confirmation bible.
“Any luck?” He turned to Emile.
“Nothing. The damned book should be right here,” Emile shoved a finger between two volumes. “But it’s gone. 9-8572. Do you think someone got here first?”
“Madame Renaud said only Langlois’s team has been.”
“Still, what is here might be helpful,” said Emile.
Gamache peered into the box. It contained a series of black leather volumes, spine out, all the same size. Gamache took one out and examined it. It was a diary. Emile’s box contained the diary and journals of Charles Paschal Telesphore Chiniquy.
“Each book is a year,” said Emile. “The missing one is for 1869.”
Gamache sat back on his haunches and looked at his mentor, who was smiling.
Even in the dim light of the basement Gamache could see Emile’s eyes were bright. “Well, Chief?” said Emile, straightening up. “What next?”
“There’s only one thing to do now, Chief,” smiled Gamache. He picked up the box of Chiniquy journals. “Go for a drink.”
The two men returned upstairs and with Madame Renaud’s permission they left with the box. Just around the corner was the Cafe Krieghoff and a chilly minute later they were there, sitting at a corner table by the window, away from other patrons. It was six in the evening and the work crowd was just arriving. Civil servants, politicians from the nearby government offices, professors, writers and artists. It was a bohemian hangout, a separatist haunt, and had been for decades.
