Still sitting at the desk he scanned the book of sermons, a collection of stern Victorian lectures. Nothing about Québec, Champlain, or God as far as Gamache could tell.

Finally he searched Madame Claude Marchand of Montreal. It took him a while, even with the aid of the Sûreté computers but he finally found her.

“Coming to bed?” asked Émile.

Gamache looked up. It was almost midnight. “Not just yet. Soon.”

“Don’t strain your eyes.”

Gamache smiled and waved good night, then went back to the search.

Madame Marchand was married to Claude Marchand. He died in 1925, she in 1937.

So why did they donate more than a hundred books back in 1899? Was it part of an estate? Had one of their parents died?

But why send the books to Québec? Surely that was a lot of trouble. And why to this little library? An English library when presumably the Marchands were French?

It was curious, Gamache had to admit.

After more searching through genealogical records he discovered neither Monsieur Marchand’s parents nor Madame Marchand’s parents died around 1899. So where did these books come from?

It had been a long time since the Chief Inspector had had to do research of this type. He generally assigned searches to agents or inspectors. It was the sort of thing Inspector Beauvoir in particular excelled at. Order, information.

They’d bring the facts to Gamache, scattered, disjointed often, and he’d try to make sense of it. See threads and connections, put them in order.

The Chief Inspector had almost forgotten the thrill of the information hunt, but as he tried this, then that, then the other lead he found himself getting lost in it, so that all else receded.

How did this couple come by the books? And why go to the effort and expense of having them shipped to Québec?

Gamache leaned back and stared at the screen, thinking.

The books were donated by her, not him, but he was alive at the time. What did that say? Gamache rubbed his still unfamiliar beard and stared.

What did it say?

It said that the books were hers to donate. They belonged not to them, but to her specifically. The census showed her as a housekeeper, though it didn’t list her employer. But it did give her address.

A housekeeper, thought Gamache, in the late 1800s. There couldn’t be that many who were literate, never mind owned a hundred books or more.

He leaned forward again and tapped on the keyboard, going here and there, trying to get information more than a century old on people who almost certainly had done nothing extraordinary. There was no reason for a record of them.

He tried down one route, then down another. The address wasn’t very helpful. There were no phone books at the time, no electrical bills. Almost no paper trail, except, perhaps.

He started typing again. Insurance company records. And there he found it, the man who owned the home Madame Claude Marchand, housekeeper, had listed as an address in the census form.

Chiniquy. Charles Paschal Télesphore Chiniquy.

Who died in 1899.

Gamache threw himself back in the chair and grinned broadly.

He had it, he’d done it.

But what did it mean?

FIFTEEN

“You were up late last night.”

Émile Comeau found Armand setting a pot of coffee on the table along with a plate of croissants and jams. He was looking happy, Émile noticed. A spring in his step.

“I was.”

“What were you up to?” Émile sipped the strong, aromatic coffee and reached for a croissant. A few flakes hit the wooden table as he broke it in two.

“I think I’ve figured out what those numbers in Renaud’s journal mean.”

“Is that so? What?”

“You were right, he wasn’t looking for Champlain’s body in the Literary and Historical Society. I think he was looking for books. Those are catalog numbers. They refer to books given to the Lit and His in 1899.”

Émile lowered his croissant, his eyes gleaming. Once an investigator it never left the blood. The need to know.

“What books?”

“I don’t know.” Gamache took a sip of his coffee. “But I do know they were in a lot donated to the Literary and Historical Society by a Madame Claude Marchand. She was a housekeeper for a family named Chiniquy. Charles Paschal Télesphore Chiniquy. He died in 1899. It seems likely the books belonged to him.”

“Chiniquy,” said Émile slowly. “An unusual name.”

Gamache nodded. “Extremely. I looked it up. There’re no Chiniquys here now. Right after breakfast I’m going to access the census information, see if there were Chiniquys in Quebec City in the past.”