Death Du Jour

I was poking the logs when recall kicked in.

Newspapers!

I’d forgotten about the microfilm!

I went to the bedroom, pulled out the pages I’d copied at McGill, and took them back to the sofa. It took only a moment to locate the article in La Presse.

The story was as brief as I remembered it. April 20, 1845. Eugenie Nicolet was sailing for France. She would sing in Paris and Brussels, summer in the south of France, and return to Montreal in July. The members of her entourage were listed, as were her upcoming concert dates. There was also a brief summary of her career, and comments as to how she would be missed.

My coins had taken me through April 26. I skimmed everything I’d printed, but Eugenie’s name did not reappear. Then I went back through, strip-searching every story and announcement.

The article appeared on April 22.

Someone else would appear in Paris. This gentleman’s talent lay not in music, but in oratory. He was on a speaking tour, denouncing the selling of human beings and encouraging commerce with West Africa. Born in the Gold Coast, he’d been educated in Germany and held a professorship in philosophy at the University of Halle. He’d just completed a series of lectures at the McGill School of Divinity.

I backpedaled through history. Eighteen forty-five. Slavery was in full swing in the United States, but had been banned in France and England. Canada was still a British colony. Church and missionary groups were begging Africans to stop exporting their brothers and sisters, and encouraging Europeans to engage in legal commerce with West Africa as an alternative. What did they call it? The “legitimate trade.”

I read the passenger’s name with growing excitement.

And the name of the vessel.

Eugenie Nicolet and Abo Gabassa had made the crossing on the same ship.

I got up to poke the fire.

Was that it? Had I stumbled on the secret hidden for a century and a half? Eugenie Nicolet and Abo Gabassa? An affair?

I slipped on shoes, went to the French doors, flipped the handle, and pushed. The door was frozen shut. I leaned hard with my hip and the seal cracked.

My woodpile was frozen, and it took me some time to hack a log free with a garden trowel. When I finally got back inside I was shivering and covered with tiny pellets. A sound stopped me dead as I crossed to the hearth.

My doorbell doesn’t ring, it twitters. It did so now, then stopped abruptly, as if someone had given up.

I dropped the log, raced to the security box, and hit the video button. On the screen I saw a familiar figure disappearing through the front door.

I grabbed my keys, ran to the lobby, and opened the door to the vestibule. The outer door was settling into place. I depressed the tongue and pulled it wide.

Daisy Jeannotte lay sprawled across my steps.

31

BEFORE I COULD REACH HER, SHE MOVED. SLOWLY, SHE DREW IN her hands, rolled, and pushed to a sitting position, her back to me.

“Are you hurt?” My throat was so dry my words came out high and stretched.

She flinched at the sound of my voice, then turned.

“The ice is treacherous. I slipped, but I’m quite fine.”

I reached out and she allowed me to help her up. She was trembling, and didn’t look fine at all.

“Please, come inside and I’ll make some tea.”

“No. I can’t stay. There’s someone waiting for me. I shouldn’t be out on such a dreadful night but I had to speak to you.”

“Please come in where it’s warmer.”

“No. Thank you.” Her tone was as cold as the air.

She retied her scarf, then looked directly into my eyes. Behind her, bullets of ice sliced through a cone of streetlight. The tree limbs looked shiny black through the sodium vapor.

“Dr. Brennan, you must leave my students alone. I’ve tried to be helpful to you, but I do believe you are abusing my kindness. You cannot pursue these young people in this manner. And to give my number to the police for the purpose of harassing my assistant is simply unthinkable.”

A gloved hand wiped her eye, leaving a dark smear trailing across her cheek.

Anger flared like a kitchen match. My arms were wrapped around my midriff, and through the flannel I felt my nails dig into my flesh.

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m not pursuing Anna.” I spat the word back at her. “This isn’t some goddam research project! People are dead! Ten for certain, God knows how many others.”

Pellets bounced off my forehead and arms. I didn’t feel them. Her words enraged me, and I vented all the anguish and frustration that had built in me over the past few weeks.