Chapter Fourteen

Two hours later Rachel was in a low-slung white chair in the Bibliothèque’s public lounge, which was now being used as an impromptu conference room and waiting area. In a far corner Capitaine Boussicault and Alan conferred, while here on the other side of the room she waited. In the background various police officers came and went, talking among themselves and making notes on little pads.

Libraries and bodies, Rachel thought. Bodies and libraries. Was this her fate now, to encounter dead bodies in or near libraries? First she had organized Edgar’s library and discovered his son’s corpse in a nearby room, and now there was Giles dead amid the medieval Miracles. Of the two events, she preferred the first—there had been blood everywhere then, too, but it hadn’t been fresh. It hadn’t been moving. She shuddered at the memory of Giles’s blood oozing across the floor.

A shadow fell across her, and she looked up to find Capitaine Boussicault with a plastic cup in his hand.

She smiled. “I hear hot drinks aren’t really a good idea for people in shock.” She knew he’d recognize this reference to their previous case.

Indeed, he lifted the corners of his lips before he responded, “They find drinking difficult, or often they drink too quickly and burn their mouths.” He handed her the cup. “You remember unexpected things.”

“Well, you did say that to me in pretty memorable circumstances.”

“Vraiment.” He bent his head. “But in this case, like the last, I think a cup of tea might be good for you. At the very least, its familiarity will soothe you.” He crouched beside her, his trench coat brushing the floor. He had also dressed for rain, Rachel noticed. Or did he always wear that coat? He’d certainly been wearing it the last time he’d squatted next to her, which was also the last time she’d found a body. Substitute an expensive carpet for the marble floor, and it could have been a year and a half ago all over again.

“You are very brave, Rachel.” Boussicault shook his head. “I know many policemen who wouldn’t run toward a scream.”

“Oh, well.” She felt proud for a moment, then remembered the blood again. She took a gulp of the tea. It was only tepid, but it did soothe her. “Never mind me. How is LouLou?”

He dragged over a chair and sat down, facing her. “At the moment Madame Fournier is resting. She has been sedated.”

“Was she able to tell you what happened?”

He cleared his throat. “According to Madame Fournier, she arrived late for work and was making her way toward the reading room when she encountered Monsieur Morel’s body.”

“That makes s—wait. According to Madame Fournier?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Madame Fournier was found alone at the scene with Morel’s body, holding a knife. She must therefore be treated as a suspect.”

“Oh, no.” Rachel shook her head vehemently. She kept shaking it. “No, no, no. Not LouLou.”

“You yourself told me she was angry at and scared of men, and you told me she complained about Monsieur Morel’s advances.”

“I didn’t say advances.” But she remembered how LouLou had flinched when she’d passed by Giles on the way through the door the previous week. She’d been angry at even the hint of contact with him. Encountering him in the dimness of the stacks, with him perhaps saying or doing something unwelcome … But still, she thought. Slap Giles, yes, maybe even punch him, maybe even scream as she had. But do something savage enough to produce all that blood? She couldn’t believe it. “There must be another explanation, surely. An accident, or …”

“Monsieur Morel was stabbed twice in the chest. That does not suggest an accident.”

“Well, then, maybe … You said Laurent’s death could have been an attack by a stranger, so why not this one, too?” She began to warm to this scenario that might clear LouLou. “Maybe there’s some kind of serial killer on the loose. Someone with a grudge against librarians, or libraries, or rare book research!”

“S’il vous plait.” The capitaine leaned in and put up a hand. “Be calm. A good detective goes slowly.” Go slowly? When a man had been killed and an angry woman was the prime suspect? Maybe Boussicault didn’t know, but Rachel was well aware of how society reacted to female anger.

But the capitaine remained calm. “Don’t try to guess the answer before you are sure you have all the available evidence. Par exemple, I would like to question all those who were at the scene when the murder was discovered.”

“But that’s just LouLou. And me. And you’ve—” Then she got it. “The people in the reading room?”

“And la bonne Docteure Dwamena. My scene-of-the-crime médecin légiste estimates that Morel was killed shortly before the Bibliothèque opened. Those using the reading room could easily have slipped in and out of the group of patrons waiting for the doors to open—or they may have seen someone else do so. These people are our best possible witnesses, and also possible suspects.”

Rachel saw his point, but she was surprised by what he said next.

“And here I hope you will be willing to help again. You know the reading room and the area behind it, and you are the only person I can be sure didn’t kill Monsieur Morel. I think it might be useful if you were to sit in on my interviews. You could spot any logistical inconsistencies in the stories I’m told. And at the same time you could assist with any translation difficulties I might have.”

First a consultant and now a participant! She could hardly wait to tell Magda. Then she remembered they were in a fight. Well, Alan would be interested, too.

She opened her mouth to say yes to Boussicault’s offer, but he again held up a hand. “Tiens. You need to be aware that this would mean abandoning your current role. Docteure Dwamena and all the patrons of the reading room would learn that you are working with the police, and this means you won’t be able to act the part of a library volunteer anymore.” He smiled. “Your cover will be blown.” He said this in flawless and unaccented English. Rachel suspected that he didn’t really want her translation skills. Perhaps he was just hesitant to admit he wanted a second mind on the case. He continued in French, “But in any case, I think we are beyond using subtle means to gather clues. We seem to have left the realm of subtlety.”

Alan appeared behind the capitaine. “How are you feeling?” He sat down and put his arm around her.

“Better. Much better.” Still, she rested her head on his shoulder.

“This is the second time in a month that the police have telephoned to call me away from the office. I think I’m starting to get quite a reputation.”

She smiled feebly. If they had been at home, she would have asked to sit on his lap, then burrowed her face in his shirt to smell its clean, familiar scent, but here there was no place for such calming rituals. If she was going to persevere with Boussicault’s interviews after this conversation, she suspected, she’d need all the adrenaline she could get. She firmed her smile and straightened up. “The capitaine was just asking if I’d be willing to sit in when he interviews the people who were using the reading room. He thinks I might be able to help spot if anyone’s lying about aspects related to the library, and I could help with any translation problems.”

“Surely n—” Then Alan stopped; he knew his wife. He sighed. “How long might this take?”

The capitaine gave one of his Gallic shrugs: it’s in the lap of the gods. “A few hours, perhaps?”

Alan looked searchingly in her face. He was trying to decide if he was satisfied with her condition, she knew; he’d done it before when she’d been ill or hurt. At last he said, “I’ll wait for you to finish. I couldn’t get any more work done at the office anyway. So I’ll be right here when you’re done, and we can go straight home.”

Rachel nodded. “It’s a deal.” She knew she should probably just go home right then, but she couldn’t bring herself to miss the opportunity Boussicault was offering. She stood up and rolled her shoulders back. “Just let me get another tea, and then we can start.”

Alan was still looking at her. Now his face was expectant.

“What?”

“Don’t you want to—” He stopped and shook his head. “Nothing, never mind. Get your tea.”

Rachel knew he meant, Do you want to call Magda? But again she steeled herself against it. Instead, she focused on gathering her mental strength. Shelving books and eavesdropping were one thing, but with the interviews she was getting to the meat of the matter. She was moving toward the center of the investigation, and she would need to pay attention.