Death Du Jour

6

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 Universitie, 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.

The last office on the left was open but unoccupied. A plaque above the door said “Jeannotte” in delicate script. Compared with my office, the room looked like St. Joseph’s Oratory. It was long and narrow, with a bell-shaped window at the far end. Through the leaded glass I could see the administration building and the drive leading up to the Strathcona Medical-Dental Complex. The floor was oak, the planks buffed yellow by years of studious feet.

Shelves lined every wall, filled with books, journals, notebooks, videotapes, slide carousels, and stacks of papers and reprints. A wooden desk sat in front of the window, a computer workstation to its right.

I looked at my watch. Twelve forty-five. I was early. I moved back up the hall and began to examine the photos lining the corridor. School of Divinity, Graduating Class of 1937, and 1938, and 1939. Stiff poses. Somber faces.

I had worked my way to 1942 when a young woman appeared. She wore jeans, a turtleneck, and a wool plaid shirt that hung to her knees. Her blond hair was cut blunt at the jawline, and thick bangs covered her eyebrows. She wore no makeup.

“May I help you?” she asked in English. She tipped her head and the bangs fell sideways.

“Yes. I’m looking for Dr. Jeannotte.”

“Dr. Jeannotte’s not here yet, but I expect her any time. Can I do something for you? I’m her teaching assistant.” With a quick gesture, she tucked hair behind her right ear.

“Thank you, I’d like to ask Dr. Jeannotte a few questions. I’ll wait, if I may.”

“Uh, oh, well. O.K. I guess that’s O.K. She’s just, I’m not sure. She doesn’t allow anyone in her office.” She looked at me, glanced through the open door, then back at me. “I was at the copy machine.”

“That’s fine. I’ll wait out here.”

“Well, no, she could be a while. She’s often late. I . . .” She turned and scanned the corridor behind her.

“You could sit in her office.” Again the hair gesture. “But I don’t know if she’ll like that.”

She seemed unable to make a decision.

“I’m fine here. Really.”

Her eyes moved past me, then back to my face. She bit her lip and did another hair tuck. She didn’t seem old enough to be a college student. She looked about twelve.

“What did you say your name is?”

“Dr. Brennan. Tempe Brennan.”

“Are you a professor?”

“Yes, but not here. I work at the Laboratoire de Médecine Légale.”

“Is that the police?” A crease formed between her eyes.

“No. It’s the medical examiner.”

“Oh.” She licked her lips, then checked her watch. It was the only jewelry she wore.

“Well, come in and sit down. I’m here, so I think it’s O.K. I was just at the copy machine.”

“I don’t want to cause . . .”

“No. It’s no problem.” She gave a follow-me jerk of her head and entered the office. “Come in.”

I entered and took a seat on the small sofa she indicated. She moved past me to the far end of the room and began reshelving journals.

I could hear the hum of an electric motor, but couldn’t see the source. I looked around. I’d never seen books take up so much space in a room. I scanned the titles immediately across from me.

The Elements of Celtic Tradition. The Dead Sea Scrolls and the New Testament. The Mysteries of Freemasonry. Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy. The Kingship Rituals of Egypt. Peake’s Commentary on the Bible. Churches That Abuse. Thought Reform and the Psychology of Totalism. Armageddon in Waco. When Time Shall Be No More: Prophecy Belief in Modern America. An eclectic collection.

Minutes dragged by. The office was uncomfortably warm, and I felt a headache begin at the base of my skull. I removed my jacket.

Hmmmmmm.

I studied a print on the wall to my right. Naked children warmed themselves at a hearth, skin glowing in firelight. Below was written After the Bath, Robert Peel, 1892. The picture reminded me of one in my grandmother’s music room.

I checked the time. One-ten.

“How long have you worked for Dr. Jeannotte?”

She was bending over the desk but straightened quickly at the sound of my voice.

“How long?” Bewildered.

“Are you one of her graduate students?”

“Undergraduate.” She stood silhouetted by the light from the window. I couldn’t see her features, but her body looked tense.

“I hear she is very involved with her students.”

“Why are you asking me?”

Strange answer. “I was just curious. I never seem to have enough time to see my students outside the classroom. I admire her.”

That seemed to satisfy her.

“Dr. Jeannotte is more than a teacher to many of us.”

“How did you come to major in religious studies?”

For a while she didn’t answer. When I thought she wasn’t going to, she spoke slowly.

“I met Dr. Jeannotte when I signed up for her seminar. She . . .” Another long pause. It was hard to see her expression because of the backlighting. “. . . inspired me.”

“How so?”

Another pause.

“She made me want to do things right. To learn how to do things right.”

I didn’t know what to say, but this time no prompt was necessary to keep her talking.

“She made me realize that a lot of the answers have already been written, we just have to learn to find them.” She took a deep breath, let it out. “It’s hard, it’s really hard, but I’ve come to understand what a mess people have made of the world, and that only a few enlightened . . .”

She turned slightly, and I could see her face again. Her eyes had widened and her mouth was tense.

“Dr. Jeannotte. We were just talking.”

A woman stood in the doorway. She was no more than five feet tall, with dark hair pulled tightly back from her forehead and knotted at the back of her head. Her skin was the same eggshell color as the wall behind her.

“I was at the copy machine before. I was only out of the office for a few seconds.”

The woman remained absolutely still.

“She wasn’t in here by herself. I wouldn’t allow that.” The student bit her lip and dropped her eyes.

Daisy Jeannotte never wavered.

“Dr. Jeannotte, she wants to ask you a few questions so I thought it would be O.K. if she came in to wait. She’s a medical examiner.” Her voice was almost trembling.

Jeannotte did not look in my direction. I had no idea what was going on.

“I . . . I’m shelving the journals. We were just making conversation.” I could see drops of sweat on her upper lip.

For a moment Jeannotte continued her gaze, then, slowly, she turned in my direction.

“You have chosen a slightly inconvenient time, Miss . . . ?” Soft. Tennessee, maybe Georgia.

“Dr. Brennan.” I stood.

“Dr. Brennan.”

“I apologize for coming unannounced. Your secretary told me that this is your time for office hours.”

She took a long time to look me over. Her eyes were deep-set, the irises so pale they were almost without color. Jeannotte accentuated this by darkening her lashes and brows. Her hair, too, was an unnatural, dense black.

“Well,” she said finally, “since you are here. What is it you are seeking?” She remained motionless in the doorway. Daisy Jeannotte was one of those people who possess an air of total calm.

I explained about Sister Julienne, and about my interest in Élisabeth Nicolet, without revealing the reasons for my interest.

Jeannotte thought a moment, then shifted her gaze to the teaching assistant. Without a word the young woman laid down the journals and hurried from the office.

“You’ll have to excuse my assistant. She’s very high-strung.” She gave a soft laugh and shook her head. “But she is an excellent student.”

Jeannotte moved to a chair opposite me. We both sat.

“This time of the afternoon I normally reserve for students, but today there seem to be none. Would you like some tea?” Her voice had a honeyed quality, like the country club ladies back home.

“No, thank you. I’ve just had lunch.”

“You are a medical examiner?”

“Not exactly. I’m a forensic anthropologist, on the faculty at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. I consult to the coroner here.”

“Charlotte is a lovely city. I’ve visited there often.”

“Thank you. Our campus is quite different from McGill, very modern. I envy you this beautiful office.”

“Yes. It is charming. Birks dates to 1931 and was originally called Divinity Hall. The building belonged to the Joint Theological Colleges until McGill acquired it in 1948. Did you know that the School of Divinity is one of the oldest faculties at McGill?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Of course, today we call ourselves the Faculty of Religious Studies. So, you are interested in the Nicolet family.” She crossed her ankles and settled back. I found the lack of color in her eyes unsettling.

“Yes. I’d particularly like to know where Élisabeth was born and what her parents were doing at the time. Sister Julienne has been unable to locate a birth certificate, but she’s certain the birth was in Montreal. She felt you might be able to lead me to some references.”

“Sister Julienne.” She laughed again, a sound like water running over rocks. Then her face sobered. “There’s been a great deal written about and by members of the Nicolet and Bélanger families. Our own library has a rich archive of historic documents. I’m sure you will find many things there. You could also try the Archives of the Province of Quebec, the Canadian Historical Society, and the Public Archives of Canada.” The soft, Southern tones assumed an almost mechanical quality. I was a sophomore on a research project.

“You could check journals such as the Report of the Canadian Historical Society, the Canadian Annual Review, the Canadian Archives Report, the Canadian Historical Review, the Transactions of the Quebec Literary and Historical Society, the Report of the Archives of the Province of Quebec, or the Transactions of the Royal Society of Canada.” She sounded like a tape. “And, of course, there are hundreds of books. I myself know very little about that period in history. ”

My face must have reflected my thoughts.

“Don’t look so daunted. It just takes time.”

I’d never find enough hours to wade through that volume of material. I decided to try another tack.

“Are you familiar with the circumstances surrounding Élisabeth’s birth?”

“Not really. As I said, that’s not a period for which I’ve done research. I do know who she is, of course, and of her work during the smallpox epidemic of 1885.” She paused a moment, choosing her words carefully. “My work has focused on messianic movements and new belief systems, not on the traditional ecclesiastical religions.”

“In Quebec?”

“Not exclusively.” She circled back to the Nicolets. “The family was well known in its day, so you might find it more interesting to go through old newspaper stories. There were four English language dailies back then, the Gazette, Star, Herald, and Witness.”

“Those would be in the library?”

“Yes. And, of course, there was the French press, La Minerve, Le Monde, La Patrie, L’Etendard, and La Presse. The French papers were a bit less prosperous and somewhat thinner than the English, but I believe they all carried birth announcements.”

I hadn’t thought of press accounts. Somehow that seemed more manageable.

She explained where the newspapers were stored on microfilm, and promised to draw up a list of sources for me. For a while we spoke of other things. I sated her curiosity about my job. We compared experiences, two female professors in the male-dominated world of the university. Before long a student appeared in the doorway. Jeannotte tapped her watch and held up five fingers, and the young woman disappeared.

We both stood at the same time. I thanked her, slipped on my jacket, hat, and scarf. I was halfway through the door when she stopped me with a question.

“Do you have a religion, Dr. Brennan?”

“I was raised Roman Catholic, but currently I don’t belong to a church.”

The ghostly eyes looked into mine.

“Do you believe in God?”

“Dr. Jeannotte, there are some days I don’t believe in tomorrow morning.”

After I left, I swung by the library and spent an hour browsing the history books, skimming indexes for Nicolet or Bélanger. I found several in which one or the other name was listed, and checked them out, thankful I still had faculty privileges.

It was growing dark when I emerged. Snow was falling, forcing pedestrians to walk in the street or follow narrow trails on the sidewalks, carefully placing one foot in front of the other to keep out of the deeper snow. I trudged behind a couple, girl in front, boy behind, his hands resting on her shoulders. Ties on their knapsacks swung back and forth as hips swiveled to keep feet inside the snow-free passage. Now and then the girl stopped to catch a snowflake on her tongue.

The temperature had dropped as daylight had faded, and when I got to the car, the windshield was coated with ice. I dug out a scraper and chipped away, cursing my migratory instincts. Anyone with any sense would be at the beach.

During the short drive home I replayed the scene in Jeannotte’s office, trying to figure out the curious behavior of the teaching assistant. Why had she been so nervous? She seemed in awe of Jeannotte, beyond even the customary deference of an undergraduate. She mentioned her trip to the copy machine three times, yet when I’d met her in the hall she had nothing in her hands. I realized I’d never learned her name.

I thought about Jeannotte. She’d been so gracious, so totally composed, as if used to being in control of any audience. I pictured the penetrating eyes, such a contrast to the tiny body and soft, gentle drawl. She’d made me feel like an undergraduate. Why? Then I remembered. During our conversation Daisy Jean’s gaze didn’t leave my face. Never once did she break eye contact. That and the eerie irises made a disconcerting combination.

I arrived home to find two messages. The first made me mildly anxious. Harry had enrolled in her course and was becoming a guru of modern mental health.

The second sent a chill deep into my soul. I listened, watching snow pile up against my garden wall. The new flakes lay white atop the underlying gray, like newborn innocence on last year’s sins.

“Brennan, if you’re there, pick up. This is important.” Pause. “There’s been a development in the St-Jovite case.” Ryan’s voice was tinged with sadness. “When we tossed the outbuildings we found four more bodies behind a stairway.” I could hear him pull smoke deep into his lungs, release it slowly. “Two adults and two babies. They’re not burned, but it’s grisly. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t want to go into details, but we’ve got a whole new ball game, and it’s a shitpot. See you tomorrow.”