Death Du Jour

saint. Well, she wasn’t really a saint. But that was the point. Elisabeth Nicolet had been proposed for beatification. I was to find her grave and verify that the bones were hers. The saint part was up to the Vatican.

Sister Julienne had assured me that there were good records. All graves in the old church were cataloged and mapped. The last burial had taken place in 1911. The church was abandoned and sealed in 1914 following a fire. A larger one was built to replace it, and the old building was never used again. Closed site. Good documentation. Piece of cake.

So where was Elisabeth Nicolet?

“It might not hurt to ask. Perhaps there’s something Sister Julienne didn’t give you because she thought it unimportant.”

He started to say something, changed his mind. “I’m quite sure she’s given me everything, but I’ll ask. Sister Julienne has spent a great deal of time researching this. A great deal.”

I watched him out the door, finished my croissant, then another. I crossed my legs, tucked my feet under me, and rubbed my toes. Good. Feeling was returning. Sipping my coffee, I lifted a letter from the desk.

I’d read it before. August 4, 1885. Smallpox was out of control in Montreal. Elisabeth Nicolet had written to Bishop Edouard Fabre, pleading that he order vaccinations for parishioners who were well, and use of the civic hospital by those who were infected. The handwriting was precise, the French quaint and outdated.

The Convent Notre-Dame de l’Immaculee-Conception was absolutely silent. My mind drifted. I thought of other exhumations. The policeman in St-Gabriel. In that cemetery the coffins had been stacked three deep. We’d finally found Monsieur Beaupre four graves from his recorded location, bottom position, not top. And there was the man in Winston-Salem who wasn’t in his own coffin. The occupant was a woman in a long floral dress. That had left the cemetery with a double problem. Where was the deceased? And who was the body in the coffin? The family never was able to rebury Grandpa in Poland, and the lawyers were girding for war when I left.

Far off, I heard a bell toll, then, in the corridor, shuffling. The old nun was heading my way.

“Serviettes,” she screeched. I jumped, rocketing coffee onto my sleeve. How could so much volume come from so small a person?

“Merci.” I reached for the napkins.

She ignored me, closed in, and began scrubbing my sleeve. A tiny hearing aid peeked from her right ear. I could feel her breath and see fine white hairs ringing her chin. She smelled of wool and rose water.

“Eh, voila. Wash it when you get home. Cold water.”

“Yes, Sister.” Reflex.

Her eyes fell on the letter in my hand. Fortunately, it was coffee-free. She bent close.

“Elisabeth Nicolet was a great woman. A woman of God. Such purity. Such austerity.” Purete. Austerite. Her French sounded as I imagined Elisabeth’s letters would if spoken.

“Yes, Sister.” I was nine years old again.

“She will be a saint.”

“Yes, Sister. That’s why we’re trying to find her bones. So they can receive proper treatment.” I wasn’t sure just what proper treatment was for a saint, but it sounded right.

I pulled out the diagram and showed it to her. “This is the old church.” I traced the row along the north wall, and pointed to a rectangle. “This is her grave.”

The old nun studied the grid for a very long time, lenses millimeters from the page.

“She’s not there,” she boomed.

“Excuse me?”

“She’s not there.” A knobby finger tapped the rectangle. “That’s the wrong place.”

Father Menard returned at that moment. With him was a tall nun with heavy black eyebrows that angled together above her nose. The priest introduced Sister Julienne, who raised clasped hands and smiled.

It wasn’t necessary to explain what Sister Bernard had said. Undoubtedly they’d heard the old woman while in the corridor. They’d probably heard her in Ottawa.

“That’s the wrong place. You’re looking in the wrong place,” she repeated.

“What do you mean?” asked Sister Julienne.

“They’re looking in the wrong place,” she repeated. “She’s not there.”

Father Menard and I exchanged glances.

“Where is she, Sister?” I asked.

She bent to the diagram once again, then jabbed her finger at the southeast corner of the church. “She’s there. With Mere Aurelie.”

“But, Sis—”

“They moved them. Gave them new coffins and put them under a special altar. There.”

Again she pointed at the southeast corner.

“When?” we asked simultaneously.

Sister Bernard closed her eyes. The wrinkled old lips moved in silent calculation.

“Nineteen eleven. The year I came here as a novice. I remember, because a few years later the church burned and they boarded it up. It was my job to go in and put flowers on their altar. I didn’t like that. Spooky to go in there all alone. But I offered it up to God.”