Page 159 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

“Professor Lafrenière, who secured Miss Wolcott’s documents for the college, is not the one who took her papers,” said Jean-Guy. “He was an admirer of her work. He died shortly after the donation. It was another professor, Russell, who took the documents to London. Or was taking them, when the ship sank.”

He had a long cold glass of iced tea, with a wedge of lemon. The tea tasted better than booze ever did. It reminded him of kissing Annie shortly after getting sober. He’d whispered to her, “Kisses sweeter than wine.”

“Pay attention, numbnuts.”

“I am.”

“Then what’s the stupid expression on your face?” demanded Ruth.

But she knew perfectly well. She was sitting beside him and heard him softly humming the Weavers song.

He smiled. Ruth did not smile back, but Rosa did as Ruth softly kissed the top of her head.

“It was so long ago now,” said Myrna. “Wouldn’t you think anything that was new then would be old news by now?”

“Dr. Lagacé thinks the same thing,” said Isabelle.

“Suppose Miss Wolcott was wrong?” said Reine-Marie.

“You mean what she thought was of huge value was, in fact, worthless?” asked Clara. Like the rest, she’d grown fond of Miss Wolcott, if not her Ghost.

“I’m just wondering if maybe she exaggerated the importance of what she found,” said Reine-Marie. “Maybe, faced with being laughed at and dismissed all her life, she overstated her discoveries.”

“You mean she lied?” asked Lacoste.

“She wouldn’t be the first scientist who did. Or at least exaggerated.”

“Could be,” said Jean-Guy. He was remembering the letter Armand found in France, where a very angry Daisy Wolcott described her finding as of vital importance to all of humanity.

That certainly sounded like hurt pride talking.

“That professor who stole her findings and was taking them to London—”

“Professor Russell,” said Isabelle.

“—thought there was something important in her research,” Myrna pointed out.

“True,” said Ruth, grabbing Myrna’s glass of wine while she was distracted by the tzatziki. “But he was obviously not the brightest bulb.”

A few minutes later, as they walked back to the Incident Room, Isabelle couldn’t help but agree with Ruth. Professor Russell seemed singularly stupid. It was pretty clear to them now that Aldous Clybourne must’ve overheard him talking about his documents, left for safekeeping in the Empress of Ireland’s secure mail room.

If Miss Wolcott didn’t exaggerate their importance, he almost certainly did.

Of course, for the unfortunate professor, all that would become academic in a few hours.

What, Isabelle wondered, did Clybourne and Morrow make of the so-called vital documents they’d stolen from the lost ship? They must have been bitterly disappointed. Far from being secret government files, war plans, designs for a new weapon, they’d risked everything to recover a list of plants. On top of that, like them, they’d need a botanist to decipher it all. Unfortunately, their botanist was lying on the bottom of the St. Lawrence. Where they’d left him.

“I wonder if all of this is just a distraction,” said Jean-Guy, once back at his desk under the glare of Ruth.

“I’m beginning to wonder the same thing,” said Isabelle. “Does it matter to our case if whatever Miss Wolcott found was important or not? What matters is if Brian Fillmore and whoever killed him thought it was. We’re spending all this time trying to find out what it was Miss Wolcott discovered, when maybe it doesn’t matter.”

“And we might never know,” said Jean-Guy.

Isabelle looked out the window.

As fascinating as Miss Wolcott and her ghost were, as interesting as the Empress of Ireland tragedy was, did this running around bring them any closer to finding out who killed Brian Fillmore?

Isabelle had the sinking feeling it might not.