“Need a crowbar?” Lisa stood in the doorway.
Since this was not an LML case, I was to work alone, but I was getting a lot of offers. Apparently I was not the only one fascinated by Élisabeth.
“Please.”
It took less than a minute to remove the cover. The wood was soft and crumbly, and the nails gave easily. I scooped dirt from the interior to reveal a lead liner containing another wood coffin.
“Why are they so little?” asked Lisa.
“This isn’t the original casket. Élisabeth Nicolet was exhumed and reburied around the turn of the century, so they just needed enough space for her bones.”
“Think it’s her?”
I drilled a look at her.
“Let me know if you need anything.”
I continued scooping dirt until I had cleared the lid of the inner casket. It bore no plaque, but was more ornate than the outer, with an elaborately carved border paralleling the hexagonal outside edge. Like the exterior coffin, the one inside had collapsed and filled with dirt.
Lisa returned in twenty minutes.
“I’m free for a while if you need X-rays.”
“Can’t do it because of the lead liner,” I said. “But I’m ready to open the inner casket.”
“No problem.”
Again the wood was soft and the nails slipped right out.
More dirt. I’d removed only two handfuls when I spotted the skull. Yes! Someone was home!
Slowly, the skeleton emerged. The bones were not in anatomical order, but lay parallel to one another, as though tightly bound when placed into the coffin. The arrangement reminded me of archaeological sites I’d excavated early in my career. Before Columbus, some aboriginal groups exposed their dead on scaffolds until the bones were clean, then bundled them for burial. Élisabeth had been packed like this.
I’d loved archaeology. Still did. I regretted doing so little of it, but over the past decade my career had taken a different path. Teaching and forensic casework now occupied all my time. Élisabeth Nicolet was allowing me a brief return to my roots, and I was enjoying the hell out of it.
I removed and arranged the bones, just as I had the day before. They were dry and fragile, but this person was in much better shape than yesterday’s lady from St-Jovite.
My skeletal inventory indicated that only a metatarsal and six phalanges were missing. They did not show up when I screened the soil, but I did locate several incisors and a canine, and replaced them in their sockets.
I followed my regular procedure, filling out a form just as I would for a coroner case. I started with the pelvis. The bones were those of a female. No doubt there. Her pubic symphyses suggested an age of thirty-five to forty-five years. The good sisters would be happy.
In taking long-bone measurements I noted an unusual flattening on the front of the tibia, just below the knee. I checked the metatarsals. They showed arthritis where the toes join the feet. Yahoo! Repeated patterns of movement leave their marks on the skeleton. Élisabeth was supposed to have spent years in prayer on the stone floor of her convent cell. In kneeling, the combination of pressure on the knees and hyperflexion of the toes creates exactly the pattern I was seeing.
I remembered something I’d noticed as I removed a tooth from the screen, and picked up the jaw. Each of the lower central incisors had a small but noticeable groove on the biting edge. I found the uppers. Same grooves. When not praying or writing letters, Élisabeth sewed. Her embroidery still hung in the convent at Lac Memphrémagog. Her teeth were notched from years of pulling thread or holding a needle between them. I was loving this.
Then I turned the skull faceup and did a double take. I was standing there, staring at it, when LaManche entered the room.
“So, is this the saint?” he asked.
He came up beside me and looked at the skull.
“Mon Dieu.”
* * *
“Yes, the analysis is going well.” I was in my office, speaking with Father Ménard. The skull from Memphrémagog sat in a cork ring on my worktable. “The bones are remarkably well preserved.”
“Will you be able to confirm that it’s Élisabeth? Élisabeth Nicolet?”
“Father, I wanted to ask you a few more questions.”
“Is there a problem?”
Yes. There may be.
“No, no. I’d just like a little more information.”
“Yes?”
“Do you have any official document stating who Élisabeth’s parents were?”
“Her father was Alain Nicolet, and her mother was Eugénie Bélanger, a well-known singer at that time. Her uncle, Louis-Philippe Bélanger, was a city councilman and a very distinguished physician.”
“Yes. Is there a birth certificate?”
He was silent. Then,
“We have not been able to locate a birth certificate.”
“Do you know where Élisabeth was born?”
“I think she was born in Montreal. Her family was here for generations. Élisabeth is a descendant of Michel Bélanger, who came to Canada in 1758, in the last days of New France. The Bélanger family was always prominent in city affairs.”
“Yes. Is there a hospital record, or a baptismal certificate, or anything that officially records her birth?”
More silence.
“She was born more than a century and a half ago.”
“Were records kept?”
“Yes. Sister Julienne has searched. But things can be lost over such a long time. Such a long time.”
“Of course.”
For a moment we were both silent. I was about to thank him when,
“Why are you asking these questions, Dr. Brennan?”
I hesitated. Not yet. I could be wrong. I could be right but it meant nothing.
“I just wanted a bit more background.”
I’d hardly replaced the receiver when the phone rang.
“Oui, Dr. Brennan.”
“Ryan.” I could hear tension in his voice. “It was arson all right. And whoever planned it made sure the place went up. Simple but effective. They hooked a heat coil to a timer, same kind you use to turn on your lamps when you go off to the spa.”
“I don’t go to spas, Ryan.”
“Do you want to hear this?”
I didn’t answer.
“The timer turned on the hot plate. That set off a fire which ignited a propane tank. Most of the timers were destroyed, but we recovered a few. Looks like they were set to go off at intervals, but once the fire spread it was bombs away.”
“How many tanks?”
“Fourteen. We found one undamaged timer out in the yard. Must have been a dud. It’s the kind you can buy in any hardware store. We’ll try for prints, but it’s a long shot.”
“The accelerant?”
“Gasoline, as I suspected.”
“Why both?”
“Because someone friggin’ wanted the place destroyed big time and didn’t want a screw-up. Probably figured there wouldn’t be a second chance.”
“How do you know that?”
“LaManche was able to draw fluid samples from the bodies in the bedroom. Toxicology found celestial levels of Rohypnol.”
“Rohypnol?”
“I’ll let him tell you about it. It’s called the date rape drug or something because it’s undetectable to the victim and knocks you flat on your ass for hours.”
“I know what Rohypnol is, Ryan. I’m just surprised. It’s not so easy to come by.”
“Yeah. That could be a break. It’s banned in the U.S. and Canada.”
So is crack, I thought.
“Here’s another weird thing. It wasn’t Ward and June Cleaver up in that bedroom. LaManche says the guy was probably in his twenties, the woman closer to fifty.”
I knew that. LaManche had asked my opinion during the autopsy.
“Now what?”
“We’re heading back out there to take the other two buildings apart. We’re still waiting for word from the owner. He’s some kind of
hermit buried in the Belgian boonies.”
“Good luck.”
Rohypnol. That kindled something way down in my memory cells, but when I tried to bring it up the spark went out.
I checked to see if the slides for Pelletiér’s malnourished baby case were finished. The histology tech told me they’d be ready tomorrow.
I then spent an hour examining the cremains. They were in a jelly jar with a handwritten label stating the name of the decedent, the name of the crematorium, and the date of cremation. Not typical packaging for North America, but I knew nothing of practices in the Caribbean.
No particle was over a centimeter in size. Typical. Few bone fragments survive the pulverizers used by modern crematoriums. Using a dissecting scope, I was able to identify a few things, including a complete ear ossicle. I also located some small bits of twisted metal that I thought might be parts of a dental prosthesis. I saved them for the dentist.
Typically, an adult male will be reduced by firing and pulverization to about 3,500 cc’s of ash. This jar contained about 360. I wrote a brief report stating that the cremains were those of an adult human, and that they were incomplete. Any hope at personal identification would lie with Bergeron.
At six-thirty I packed up and went home.
ÉLISABETH’S SKELETON TROUBLED ME. WHAT I’D seen just couldn’t be, but even LaManche had spotted it. I was anxious to resolve the question, but the next morning a set of tiny bones by the sink in the histo lab commanded my attention. The slides were also ready, so I spent several hours on Pelletiér’s baby case.
Finding no other requisition on my desk, at ten-thirty I phoned Sister Julienne to find out as much as I could about Élisabeth Nicolet. I asked her the same questions I’d posed to Father Ménard, with similar results. Élisabeth was “pure laine.” Pure-wool québécoise. But no papers directly establishing her birth or parentage.
“What about outside the convent, Sister? Have you checked other collections?”
“Ah, oui. I’ve researched all the archives in the archdiocese. We have libraries throughout the province, you know. I’ve gotten materials from many convents and monasteries.”
I’d seen some of this material. Most was in the form of letters and personal journals containing references to the family. A few were attempts at historical narrative, but were not what my dean would call “peer reviewed.” Many were purely anecdotal accounts, made up of hearsay on top of hearsay.
I tried a different tack. “Until recently, the church was responsible for all birth certificates in Quebec, correct?” Father Ménard had explained that.
“Yes. Until just a few years ago.”
“But none can be found for Élisabeth?”
“No.” There was a pause. “We’ve had some tragic fires over the years. In 1880 the Sisters of Notre Dame built a beautiful motherhouse on the side of Mount Royal. Sadly, it burned to the ground thirteen years later. Our own motherhouse was destroyed in 1897. Hundreds of priceless documents were lost in those fires.”
For a moment neither of us spoke.
“Sister, can you think of anywhere else I might find information on Élisabeth’s birth? Or on her parents?”
“I . . . well, you could try the secular libraries, I suppose. Or the historical society. Or perhaps one of the universities. The Nicolet and Bélanger families have produced several important figures in French Canadian history. I’m certain they are discussed in historical accounts.”
“Thank you, Sister. I’ll do that.”
“There’s a professor at McGill who’s done research in our archives. My niece knows her. She studies religious movements, but she’s also interested in Quebec history. I can’t remember if she’s an anthropologist, or a historian, or what. She might be able to help.” She hesitated. “Of course, her references would be different from ours.”
I was certain of that, but said nothing.
“Do you remember her name?”
There was a long pause. I could hear others on the line, far away, like voices carrying across a lake. Someone laughed.
“It’s been a long time. I’m sorry. I could ask my niece if you wish.”
“Thank you, Sister. I’ll follow up your lead.”
“Dr. Brennan, when do you think you’ll finish with the bones?”
“Soon. Unless something comes up, I should be able to complete my report on Friday. I’ll write up my assessments of age, sex, and race, and any other observations I’ve made, and comment on how my findings compare to the facts known about Élisabeth. You can include whatever you feel is appropriate with your application to the Vatican.”
“And you will call?”
“Of course. As soon as I’m done.” Actually, I was done, and I had little doubt what my report would say. Why didn’t I just tell them now?
We exchanged good-byes, then I disconnected, waited for the tone, and dialed again. A phone rang across town.
“Mitch Denton.”
“Hi, Mitch. Tempe Brennan. Are you still head honcho at your place?”
Mitch was the anthropology chair who’d hired me to teach part-time when I first came to Montreal. We’d been friends ever since. His specialty was the French Paleolithic.
“Still stuck. Want to do a course for us this summer?”
“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 Élisabeth 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 Université, 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. Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. Good job, Tom. John Bunyan, Immortal Dreamer. Times had changed. When I was a student abstract reverie in class, if detected, got you called on and humiliated for being inattentive.
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.
At the top of the stairs I paused to get my bearings. It was strangely quiet and gloomy. On my left I could see an alcove with double doors opening on to the chapel balcony. Two corridors flanked the alcove, with wooden doors set at intervals along each hall. I passed the chapel and started up the far corridor.