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“Wolcott? Yes, I do know that name. Let me think.”
He ran his hands through his long grey hair, making it stand up on end. The effect was to make the already slightly disheveled prof look even more shambolic.
The professor had shoved a pile of papers off the only other chair in his tiny office and indicated Armand should sit. He left Gamache alone in the warm and stuffy room. Despite his interest and his hopes, Armand felt his eyelids grow heavy.
My God, I’m going to fall asleep.
Fight it as he might, he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. Just as his eyes began to roll and his head to drop forward, the professor returned holding a file.
“Success! Not everything has been put on computer. Thankfully, our librarian has been around for ages and has a special fondness for orphans.”
“Orphans?”
“Files no one wants. They’re pretty much abandoned. Though the librarian said someone was asking for this same file a while back. That’s how she was able to find it so quickly—”
Armand was on his feet. “Does she remember who it was?”
His visitor’s sudden urgency surprised and infected the professor. “I didn’t ask. Would you like to—”
“Speak to the librarian. Yes, please.”
Armand followed the professor into a vast library, with a balcony running all the way around, and double height bookshelves.
A middle-aged woman came forward. “You’re with the Sûreté du Québec? My nephew works for the Mounties in Calgary. His father’s Canadian.”
“It’s a beautiful area, not unlike the Savoie.”
“True. But you haven’t traveled all this way to discuss geography. More history, am I right?”
He held up the dossier she’d recently given to the professor. “I’m told someone else asked for this.”
“Yes. And tried to leave with it. I stopped her, of course. To my knowledge, and for as long as I’ve been here, no one else has shown interest in Miss Wolcott. And now two of you?”
“Is this the woman?” Gamache showed her a photo of Jeanette Bouchard he’d gotten from Réunion.
“Yes. She was here about six weeks ago. Not more than two months ago, I’d say. That”—she pointed to the file again—“is all that’s left of what appears to have been quite a substantial donation of papers on the part of Miss Wolcott.”
“How do you know that?”
“I looked it up when the woman was here. She asked about the Wolcott collection. From what I can tell, it was extensive but not considered of value.”
“And where is it today?”
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea. Could have been donated somewhere else or destroyed. I don’t even know when it left here, but it was certainly not in my time.”
“If it was donated, could it have gone to the horticultural society?”
“If it did, it’s no longer there,” said the professor. “I know every plant and every document in our possession. Most are alpine.”
“Have you heard of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost?”
That brought a chuckle from both the botanist and the librarian.
“Oh, you’re serious,” said the librarian. “Sorry.”
Armand turned to the professor. “It’s a plant.”
He raised his brows and hands. “Never heard of it. Though I understand from my friend at the archives that you said Miss Wolcott was a botanist herself.”
