‘ Good book?’
Myrna leaned over Gamache’ s shoulder. He’ d been so absorbed in his book he hadn’ t even seen her coming.
‘ I don’ t know,’ he admitted, and handed it to her. He’ d emptied his pockets of the books he’ d gathered. He felt like a mobile library. Where other investigators gathered fingerprints and evidence, he gathered books. Not everyone would agree it was a move in the right direction.
‘ Terrible storm.’ Myrna flopped into the large chair opposite and ordered a red wine. ‘ Thank heaven I don’ t have to go outside. In fact, if I wanted I’ d never have to go outside again. Everything I need is here.’
She opened her arms happily, her colorful caftan draping over the arms of her chair.
‘ Food from Sarah and Monsieur Beliveau, company and coffee here—’
‘ Your red wine, your highness,’ said Gabri, lowering the bulbous glass to the dark wood table.
‘ You may go now.’ Myrna inclined her head in a surprisingly regal gesture. ‘ I have wine and Scotch and all the books I could want to read.’
She lifted her glass and Gamache lifted his.
‘ Sante.’ They smiled at each other, sipped, and stared at the torrential rain streaming down the leaded glass windows.
‘ Now, what have we here?’ Myrna put on her reading glasses and examined the small leather volume Gamache had given her. ‘ Where’ d you find this?’ she finally asked, letting her glasses drop on their rope to land on the plateau of her bosom.
‘The room where Madeleine died. It was in the bookcase.’
Myrna immediately put the book down, as though wickedness was communicable. It sat between them, its cover simple and striking. A small hand outlined in red. It looked like blood, but Gamache had satisfied himself it was ink.
‘It’s a book on magic,’ said Myrna. ‘Couldn’t see a publisher or ISBN number. Probably vanity printed in small numbers.’
‘Any idea how old it is?’
Myrna leaned over, but didn’t touch it again.
‘Leather’s cracking a bit at the spine and some pages look loose. Glue must have dried. I’d say it was made before the First World War. Is there an inscription?’
Gamache shook his head.
‘Ever seen anything like it in your store?’ he asked.
Myrna pretended to think but knew the answer. She’d remember something that macabre. She loved books. All books. She had some on the occult and some on magic. But if anything came in like the one sitting between them she’d give it away quick. To someone she didn’t like.
‘Nope, never.’
‘How about this one?’ Gamache reached into his inside pocket and brought out the book he’d recently read from cover to cover, and was loath to give up.
He’d expected a polite, curious look. Perhaps even amusement and recognition. He hadn’t expected horror.
‘Where’d you find that?’ She grabbed it out of his hand and shoved it down the side of the chair.
‘What is it?’ Gamache asked, astonished by her reaction.
But Myrna wasn’t listening. Instead her eyes scanned the room, resting on Monsieur Beliveau standing at the door, befuddled. Then he moved away.
Reaching down she brought out the book and placed it on the table. Now a small stack of books sat there. The strange leather-bound volume with the red hand, a Bible, and this new one with the comic cover that had created such turmoil.
‘Who is Sarah Binks?’ He tapped the top book.
‘She’s the Sweet Songstress of Saskatoon,’ said Myrna, as though that explained everything. Gamache had already searched the internet for Sarah Binks, and knew about the book, a supposed tribute to the worst poet ever born. It was big-hearted, warm and funny, and it had been hidden by Madeleine.
‘I found it in the back of a drawer in Madeleine’s bedroom.’
‘Madeleine had it?’
‘You expected someone else?’
‘I can never keep track of books. People lend them all over the place. Bane of a bookseller’s life. Instead of buying they borrow.’
And she did look put out, but not, he suspected, by rogue books. She was scanning the room, suddenly jumpy and ill at ease.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, then had his answer. Myrna’s eyes had stopped their travels and had settled back on the gaunt man at the bar. Monsieur Beliveau was looking sad and lost.
‘He’s always like that.’ She took a handful of nuts, spilling a bunch of cashews onto the table. Gamache absently picked them up and popped them into his mouth.
