Bury Your Dead (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #6)

Bury Your Dead (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #6) Page 26

But today, on his watch, the French force had moved in and were occupying the Lit and His.

“Please,” said Inspector Langlois, swiftly standing and indicating a seat. He spoke in his best, highly accented, English. “Join us.”

As though Mr. Wilson had a choice. They were the hosts and he was the guest. With an effort he swallowed a retort, and sat, though not in the seat indicated.

“We have some questions,” said Inspector Langlois, getting down to business.

Over the course of the next hour they interviewed everyone there. They learned from Porter Wilson that the library was locked every evening at six, and had been locked that morning when he’d arrived. Nothing was out of place. But Langlois’s people had examined the large, old lock on the front door and while it showed no signs of tampering a clever six-year-old could have unlocked it without a key.

There was no alarm system.

“Why would we bother with an alarm?” Porter had asked. “No one comes when we’re open, why would anyone come when we’re closed?”

They learned this was the only place in old Quebec City English books could be found.

“And you seem to have a lot of them,” said Gamache. “I couldn’t help but notice as I walked through the back corridors and rooms that you have quite a few books not displayed.”

That was an understatement, he thought, remembering the boxes of books piled everywhere.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just an observation.”

“It’s true,” said Porter, reluctantly. “And more coming every day. Every time someone dies they leave us their books. That’s how we find out someone’s dead. A box of worthless books appears. More accurate than the Chronicle-Telegraph obits.”

“Are they always worthless?” asked Langlois.

“Well, we found a nice book of drawings once.”

“When was that?”

“1926.”

“Can you not sell some?” Gamache asked.

Porter stared at the Chief Inspector. Gamache stared back, not certain what had caused this sudden vitriolic look.

“Are you kidding?”

“Non, monsieur.”

“Well, we can’t. Tried once, members didn’t like it.”

“In 1926?” Langlois asked.

Wilson didn’t answer.

Winnie Manning came in next and confirmed that the night was indeed a strawberry, but added that the English were good pumpkins and that the library had a particularly impressive section on mattresses and mattress warfare.

“In fact,” she turned to Gamache. “I think that’s an area you’re interested in.”

“It is,” he admitted, to the surprise of both Langlois and his assistant. After Winnie left, saying she had to launch a new line of doorknobs, Gamache explained.

“She meant ‘naval’, not ‘mattress’.”

“Really?” asked the assistant, who’d made notes but had decided to burn them in case anyone thought he was stoned when he’d taken them down.

Mr. Blake took Winnie’s place.

“Stuart Blake,” the elderly man said, sitting in the chair offered and looking at them with polite interest. He was immaculately dressed, shaved, his face smooth and pink and soft. His eyes bright. He looked at Gamache and smiled.

“Monsieur l’inspecteur,” he inclined his head. “Désolé. I had no idea who you were.”

“You knew what mattered,” said Gamache. “That I was a man in need of this magnificent library. That was enough to know.”

Mr. Blake smiled, folded his hands, and waited. At ease.

“You spend a lot of time in the library, I believe,” said Inspector Langlois.

“I do. For many years, since my retirement.”

“And what was your profession?”

“I was a lawyer.”

“So it’s Maître Blake,” said Langlois.

“No, please, I’ve been retired for years. Plain ‘Mister’ will do.”

“How long have you been involved with the Literary and Historical Society?”

“Oh, all my life in one way or another, and my parents and grandparents before that. It was the first historical society in the country, you know. Pre-dates the national archives. Been around since 1824, though not in this building.”

“This building,” said Gamache, picking up on the opening. “It has an interesting history?”

“Very.” Mr. Blake turned to face the Chief Inspector. “It didn’t become the Literary and Historical Society until 1868. This was originally the Redoubt Royale, a military barracks. It also housed prisoners of war, mostly American. Then it became a regular prison. There were public hangings, you know.”