Page 130
The Asshole Saint had seen it all. Been close enough to reach out and knock the hand up. So that the shot missed.
“It’s not that you did no harm,” said Armand. “It’s that you did nothing.”
Chapter 30
On the drive into Montréal, Reine-Marie and Myrna had talked about the Osler while Jean-Guy drifted in and out of the conversation. Taking in some details.
Basically, what he heard was that the library was named after some long-dead prominent Anglo doctor who had donated his papers and books to McGill more than a century ago.
Blah, blah, blah.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir hadn’t much seen the use of libraries, though he’d never have said that to Annie or her parents, who saw les bibliothèques as sacred places.
He hadn’t grown up going to one, and now, with the internet and easy access to information, he couldn’t imagine why libraries still existed. That is, until he’d gone with Annie and Honoré to a children’s hour at their local library. He’d seen the wonder in his son’s eyes as the librarian read to them.
He’d seen Honoré’s excitement at getting to choose books himself to take out. How he clutched them to his chest, as though he could read with his heart.
Through his infant son, Jean-Guy discovered that libraries held treasures. Not just the written word, but things that couldn’t be seen. Like le Petit Prince said, in the book Jean-Guy had first read as he’d read it to Honoré.
What is essential is invisible to the eye.
Knowledge, ideas, thoughts. Imagination. All invisible. All lived in libraries.
But few knew better than the homicide investigator that not all ideas and thoughts, not everything imagined, should be held tight to the chest.
As the great doors to the great library swung open, Jean-Guy’s jaw actually dropped.
Dr. Mary Hague-Yearl stepped aside so he could take in the soaring ceiling and oak paneling. The tall glass-fronted bookcases and stained-glass windows and quiet corners, and long tables with reading lamps. They’d stepped out of the twenty-first century and into the 1800s.
“Sir William Osler was a McGill grad,” said Dr. Hague-Yearl, leading them through the vast room. “He’s considered the father of modern medicine. This’s been reconstructed from his original library.”
Beauvoir could believe it. It was like walking into a Victorian gentleman’s home.
Dr. Hague-Yearl nodded toward a long oak table.
“If you stay here, I’ll see what I can find on Vincent Gilbert. We should have some documents. He’s quite prominent.”
All three grinned, knowing how annoyed the Asshole Saint would be at the qualifying “quite.” Within minutes they each had a pile in front of them.
“All this?” asked Beauvoir.
“Yes.” Dr. Hague-Yearl seemed surprised herself. “We have some files going back a long way, to his residency. I didn’t bring those, but can if you’d like.”
“Non, merci,” said Beauvoir. “This is more than enough.”
He squirmed on the hard chair and resigned himself to a long, dull afternoon. Though he remained alert. In case something, unseen, emerged from the files.
Isabelle Lacoste had spoken to Dominique and been given a list of staff members.
She’d had a thought.
Édouard Tardif had a son and daughter, Simon and Félicité. They’d been interviewed, along with Tardif’s wife. All had alibis for the day of the event, and could add nothing to the investigation. According to the investigator conducting the interviews, they seemed stunned and naturally upset.
Both Tardif kids were in their early twenties. As Isabelle Lacoste had looked around the Inn, she realized almost all the employees were also in their early twenties. The chambermaids, the waiters, the front desk clerks.
Suppose . . .
But there was no Tardif on the list.
