The Drowned Man (23 page)

Peter was indulging himself in a full breakfast in the Willard restaurant when Henry Pastern caught him on his mobile. “Have you heard, Peter? Greenwell has resurfaced.”

“Deroche has him in custody?”

“Yup. What are your plans?”

He had yet to book a flight anywhere. He took a sip of tea. As a public citizen, he had the right to go wherever struck his fancy. He thanked Henry for the news.

He managed to book the last seat on the United Airlines noon shuttle to Montreal. As the small jet descended to Trudeau International he scanned the beautiful old city below. It struck him as more exotic, more classically European, than before. He recalled Pascal Renaud's recommendation that he visit Quebec City and its Citadel, the great bastion on the St. Lawrence.

He had called ahead to leave Pascal his flight number, and to ask if he could stay for three days at the condo, but he had no reason to expect the busy professor to pick him up. Yet, at the Arrivals lounge, there was Renaud with a broad smile, seeming to have all the time in the world.

Pascal came over to take his valise. “So, Peter, why are
you
back in town? Have you found the notorious letters of
JWB
? Have you been in contact with the slightly less fanatical Inspector Deroche?”

For a second, Peter wondered if staying with Renaud was a good idea. It occurred to him that the professor might be near the top of Deroche's list of suspects. As well, each contact between Deroche and Renaud increased the chances that Bartleben or Counter would learn of Peter's presence in the city. Perhaps it was naive to think that he could stay out of sight. But Peter's reasons for embracing Renaud's hospitality were both personal and professional. He wanted a friend, someone he could talk to, confide in. Pascal had opened up about his sister and had welcomed Peter's own confidences. Peter had developed several theories regarding the Carpenter case just at the moment when Bartleben had shunted him out of the game. He had homed in on two components: the whereabouts of the girl and the location of the letters. He valued Pascal's perspective on the letters more than anyone else's. He hated sitting on the sidelines, and he intended to impose on Renaud as long as the professor would have him, at least while he figured out a path back into the case.

But Peter did not directly respond to Pascal's aggressive question. “Thanks for meeting me, Pascal. What's on your agenda for today?”

“I lectured this morning. My students were more
ennuyés
than usual. Must be the fine weather. I'm yours for the afternoon, and the evening, too. We can exchange our findings.”

Peter grinned. Obviously Pascal was eager to disclose some new intelligence. Peter caught his mood of adventure; sometimes it was invigorating when no one knew where in the world you were.

Peter's mobile vibrated in his pocket. An email from Bartleben topped the index of messages; a paperclip icon indicated an attachment. “Do you have the capacity to download a text file from my cell to your desktop computer?” said Peter.

“Sure. No problem.”

“I'll make you a deal,” Peter said. “I have Nicola Hilfgott's latest draft of the three letters. Now, Pascal, strictly speaking, this is part of the murder investigation and confidential material. I'll review them with you, get your opinion on a number of things. But you have to respect the confidentiality of the evidence.”

Renaud took the exit at Atwater too fast, causing Peter to tilt to his left in the passenger seat. “Absolutely! I agree. . . . Of course, they are forgeries. . . . It happens, Peter, that I have news along that theme. A copy of one of the letters may be in the hands of a university colleague.”

“Which letter?”

“Williams's to Booth.”

When they reached Renaud's townhouse, without delay Pascal hooked up Peter's cell phone to his desktop computer through a
USB
link and loaded the file onto the hard drive, and then copied the original to a
USB
stick for Peter's convenience. Sir Stephen had forwarded Nicola Hilfgott's reconstructions of all three letters. Pascal printed out a copy, one letter per page.

He turned to Peter. “Can I print a copy for myself?”

“Sure.”

Pascal organized the printouts and retrieved two bottles of beer from the fridge. Peter caught him glancing at the text of the letter on top of the bundle. He had to smile. His friend was rabid to examine the replicated documents but hospitality came first. Also, Peter guessed that Pascal knew about Greenwell's resurfacing.

“Have you heard, Pascal, that Leander Greenwell has been arrested?”

Renaud nodded. “Yes! He's being held in the Bordeaux Prison.” He was unable to resist a history lesson. “That's the provincial detention centre for men, famous for over eighty executions, though of course we don't believe in capital punishment anymore. But it means Deroche can close down access to him, except for his lawyer.”

“Do you know if he's been charged? Has he applied for bail?”

“Yes. Charged, that is. I don't know how the bail process works.”

Renaud appeared nervous. It occurred to Peter that his new friend might have an inside source for information about Leander Greenwell.

“Peter,” Renaud said, “in the interests of complete honesty, I have to tell you that I once met Greenwell. It's not surprising, since academic historians sometimes need the services of antiquarians . . .”

“Is there something in particular I should know?”

“Yes. When I heard that Greenwell was back, I went to his store to see if I could talk to him, but he had already been taken into custody. I was just being nosey.”

Peter let it pass. He was in the mood to relax, in spite of Pascal's fervour to get at the letters. And so Peter launched into his own update, keeping it light and sanitizing the forensic details. The professor listened patiently, content to serve as Peter's sounding board. He felt privileged to be invited inside a police investigation.

Peter punctuated the end of his story with a swig of beer. “Okay, Pascal, who's this nefarious colleague of yours?”

Renaud swished the last ounce of his beer around the bottom of his glass before setting it on the table with a thump. “Professor Olivier Seep, and what I am telling you is no more than rumour and supposition. He lectures in history at
UQAM
, the University of Quebec at Montreal, and he aspires to be the academic champion of the separatist movement. To some extent, he placed this label on himself, which tells you about his ego. Everyone expects him to run for a seat in the Assemblée in the next provincial election. You must understand that he and I teach at different institutions. He is not my rival in the movement, though we despise each other, to say the least.”

“Why the hostility?” Peter said.

“In the separatist version of history, Peter, remember that everything is a grievance and nothing is forgotten. Professor Seep puts an intellectual gloss on the repetition of ancient grievances and that suits the purists in our movement just fine. As an academic, he should know better than to let old stories turn to engraved stone. But he musters up anger and false sincerity, and that plays well to the choir. Two nights ago Seep gave a speech to a small group — but not so small that the press refused to attend when he notified them — in which he asserted that the English government in Montreal in 1864 was prepared to summarily execute French-Canadian activists for treason,
la trahison
. He said that he had seen a letter. A colleague told me later that Seep claims to have seen three letters. The Booth correspondence?”

Peter shrugged, then smiled, knowing that Pascal couldn't wait any longer. “Okay, Pascal, shall we look at these imaginary letters?”

He ushered Peter to the dining room table. Each man sat with a copy of the reassembled letters in front of him. They read them in chronological order, although it soon became evident that it was the third one that Professor Seep had cited.

Number 1: October 23, 1864, John Wilkes Booth to Sir Fenwick Williams

Dear Sir:

My sincerest regards. As one who has traveled throughout the States, both North and the sovereign South, and is presently visiting Montreal . . . I write to you, this date, with important information. I am a son of the South dedicated to resist the oppressors from the North. Let me say, Sir, that there is yet time for Britain to honour its common ground with the Confederate States.

My attention has been drawn to certain agitators in your midst who have cultivated the seditious interests of illegitimate groups in the Canadas. I speak these truths as one representing the Government of the
CSA
in Richmond, Virginia. Please note that my brief has been to gather information only regarding sympathies in the Border States and in the Northwest, supplemented by reconnoitres of prisoner of war camps in New York.

While engaging certain figures in Montreal, which include Canadian patriots sympathetic to the aims of the Glorious South, I have been approached by French-Canadian “patriots” who claim to seek common cause with the Confederacy. These latter overtures interest neither me nor Jeff Davis, but they should concern your Office, as they are violent in their aims and executions . . . Plans are under way to launch violent . . . against your person, and to employ Greek Fire against militia barracks.

My reasons for this disclosure are honorable. The aim of the South has never been to undermine the stability of the Canadas, rather mine is to alert you to the impending threat from Separationists in your midst. I may be reached at the St. Lawrence Hall Hotel.

With Regards,

John Wilkes Booth

Renaud offered the first comment. “Many historians believe that Booth was plugged into the Confederate spy network but no one has ever suggested a formal mission from Jeff Davis. Otherwise, the tone is right: Booth is both arrogant and presumptuous.”

One discrepancy amused Peter. Booth coined the term “separationists.” In her first iteration of the letter, Nicola had used “separatists.” Either way, Nicola was determined to paint them as extremists, even back to 1864.

They proceeded to the next letter.

Number 2: October 24, 1864, Jacob Thompson to Sir Fenwick Williams

Dear Sir,

I thank you for seeking my advice on the letter, inst., from one John Wilkes Booth, actor.

Please be advised that said Mr. Booth does not speak for the Confederate States, either the offices of the Secretary of War, the Secretary of State, or President Davis. I and the other Commissioners from Richmond exclusively serve as the
CSA
's emissaries in Canada, as we have represented in . . . to Governor General Monck.

We do not encourage any division between England and any other legitimate country. Our instructions upon assuming our posts some months ago were to respect the neutrality of Britain in the continuing conflict, without abusing British and Canadian sovereignty. I will not treat with Separationists aiming to draw European powers into such factionalism.

Mr. Booth is a fanatical actor who is attending in Montreal for the first time. He is without a diplomatic mandate, and should be ignored.

Jacob C. Thompson

Peter pointed to the second-last paragraph and the historian picked up on his thought. “You can see how defensive Thompson has become. It's late 1864, the election is pending in the United States, and the Confederate commissioners have accomplished very little. The last thing Thompson cares about is French-Canadian revolutionaries. Certainly, Thompson's denunciation of French-Canadian national ambitions is hypocritical.”

They moved to the last letter.

Number 3: October 26, 1864, Sir Fenwick Williams to John Wilkes Booth

Sir,

Your letter of October 23 has reached me. Without commentary on the merits of your asserted cause, though I feel compelled to point out it is in a situation of martial decline, the position of the Canadas and Britain is clear: neutrality in the conflict. Her Majesty's Command will not tolerate insurrectionist actions of French radicals in Canada at any time . . . I can assure you that revolutionary acts against the government may amount to capital treason, if verified as active, and I will oversee the expression of such a French secessionist cause here.

Yours respectfully,

Sir Fenwick Williams

British Military Commander, N.A.

“What do you think, Pascal?” Peter said. “There's that word ‘secessionist' again.”

“The third letter, Peter? This is thinner stuff. The prose, as Hilfgott writes it, doesn't ring true. The presiding general in British North America merely states the official position of the colonial government. It's a short letter. He brushes off the actor. The comment on capital treason is an abstract statement, phrased in the conditional. I am surprised at Olivier for making so much of it. But he is a true believer, capable of anything.”

“I wonder if Seep might have seen the original of the Williams letter,” Peter said.

Pascal's grin broadened. He was slightly drunk. “What do
you
think of the letters, Inspector?”

It seemed that they had fallen into the habit of rhetorical repartee, and Peter did not answer directly. “I agree we should be careful about Hilfgott's precision. In the Williams letter, the last one, he states, ‘I shall oversee the expression' of the secessionist cause. Surely he said ‘suppression.' I question Hilfgott's accuracy there.”

“Madam Hilfgott's deliberate mistake?” Peter said.

Both Seep and Hilfgott were manipulating the letters, the words of dead men, for their opposing causes, the separatist and the federalist. How were these two connected to murder?

Peter began to pace the living room. It was time to face some tough questions. “The allegations by Booth of a terrorist plot aren't supported by real evidence. You give no indication in your book that he was knowledgeable about his host city. What could Hilfgott take from those unsubstantiated claims, Pascal? What agitators? What seditious interests? And what did Booth care about Canada's future, as you point out?”