“No, thanks. I’ve got a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you remember the historic case I told you about? The one I’m doing for the archdiocese?”
“The saint wanna-be?”
“Right.”
“Sure. Beats the hell out of most of the stuff you work on. Did you find her?”
“Yes. But I’ve noticed something a bit odd, and I’d like to learn more about her.”
“Odd?”
“Unexpected. Listen, one of the nuns told me someone at McGill does research involving religion and Quebec history. Does that ring a bell?”
“Dong! That would be our own Daisy Jean.”
“Daisy Jean?”
“Dr. Jeannotte to you. Professor of Religious Studies and students’ best friend.”
“Back up, Mitch.”
“Her name is Daisy Jeannotte. Officially she’s on the Faculty of Religious Studies, but she also teaches some history courses. ‘Religious Movements in Quebec.’ ‘Ancient and Modern Belief Systems.’ That sort of thing.”
“Daisy Jean?” I repeated the question.
“Just an in-house endearment. It’s not for direct address.”
“Why?”
“She can be a bit . . . odd, to use your expression.”
“Odd?”
“Unexpected. She’s from Dixie, you know.”
I ignored that. Mitch was a transplanted Vermonter. He never let up on my Southern homeland.
“Why do you say she’s the students’ best friend?”
“Daisy spends all her free time with students. She takes them on outings, advises them, travels with them, has them to the house for dinner. There’s a constant line of needy souls outside her door seeking solace and counseling.”
“Sounds admirable.”
He started to say something, caught himself. “I suppose.”
“Would Dr. Jeannotte know anything about Elisabeth Nicolet or her family?”
“If anyone can help you it will be Daisy Jean.”
He gave me her number and we promised to get together soon.
A secretary told me Dr. Jeannotte would be holding office hours between one and three, so I decided to drop in after lunch.
It takes analytical skills worthy of a degree in civil engineering to understand when and where one is allowed to leave a car in Montreal. McGill University lies in the heart of Centre-Ville, so even if one is able to comprehend where parking is permitted, it is almost impossible to find a space. I found a spot on Stanley that I interpreted to be legal from nine to five, between April 1 and December 31, except from 1 to 2 P.M. on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It did not require a neighborhood permit.
After five reversals of direction and much manipulation of the steering wheel, I managed to wedge the Mazda between a Toyota pickup and an Oldsmobile Cutlass. Not a bad job on a steep grade. When I got out I was sweating despite the cold. I checked the bumpers. I had at least twenty-four inches to spare. Total.
The weather was not as frigid as it had been, but the modest rise in temperature had come with an increased dampness. A cloud of cold, moist air pressed down on the city, and the sky was the color of old tin. A heavy, wet snow began to fall as I walked downhill to Sherbrooke and turned east. The first flakes melted when they touched the pavement, then others lingered and threatened to accumulate.
I trudged uphill on McTavish and entered McGill through the west gate. The campus lay above and below me, the gray stone buildings climbing the hill from Sherbrooke to Docteur-Penfield. People hurried about, shoulders rounded against the cold and damp, books and packages shielded from the snow. I passed the library and cut behind the Redpath Museum. Exiting the east gate, I turned left, and headed uphill on rue Universitie, my calves feeling as though I’d done three miles on a Nordic Track. Outside Birks Hall I nearly collided with a tall young man walking head down, his hair and glasses coated with snowflakes the size of luna moths.
Birks is from another time, with its Gothic exterior, carved oak walls and furniture, and enormous cathedral windows. It is a place that inspires whispering, not the chatting and swapping of notes that occurs in most university buildings. The first-floor lobby is cavernous, its walls hung with portraits of grave men looking down in scholarly self-importance.
I added my boots to the row of footwear trickling melted snow onto the marble floor, and stepped over for a closer look at the august artworks.
I climbed a winding staircase, past two sets of wooden doors on the second floor, one to the chapel, the other to the library, and continued to the third. Here the elegance of the lobby gave way to signs of aging. Patches of paint peeled from walls and ceiling, and here and there a tile was missing.
