"Reichs, Kathy - Temperance Brennan 02 - Death Du Jour" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichs Kathy)

and phrases.

"Elisabeth died in 1888?"

"C'est fa, 1888. Mere Aurelie in 1894."

It didn't make sense. Evidence of the graves should be there. It was
clear that artifacts from the 1840 burials remained. A test in that
area had produced wood fragments and bits of coffin hardware. In the
protected environment inside the church, with that type of soil, I
thought the skeletons should be in pretty good shape. So where were
Elisabeth and Aurelie?

The old nun shuffled in with a tray of coffee and sandwiches. Steam
from the mugs had fogged her glasses, so she moved with short, jerky
steps, never lifting her feet from the floor. Father Menard rose to
take the tray.

"Merci, Sister Bernard. This is very kind. Very kind."

The nun nodded and shuffled out, not bothering to clear her lenses. I
watched her as I helped myself to coffee. Her shoulders were about as
broad as my wrist.

"How old is Sister Bernard?" I asked, reaching for a croissant. Salmon
salad and wilted lettuce.

"We're not exactly sure. She was at the convent when I first started
coming here as a child, before the war. World War II, that is. Then
she went to teach in the foreign missions. She was in Japan for a long
time, then Cameroon. We think she's in her nineties." He sipped his
coffee. A sharper.

"She was born in a small village in the Saguenay, says she joined the
order when she was twelve." Slurp. "Twelve. Records weren't so good
in those days in rural Quebec. Not so good."

I took a bite of sandwich then rewrapped my fingers around the coffee
mug. Delicious warmth.

"Father, are there any other records? Old letters, documents, anything
we haven't looked at?" I wriggled my toes. No sensation.

He gestured to the papers littering the desk, shrugged. "This is
everything Sister Julienne gave me. She is the convent archivist, you
know."

"Yes."

Sister Julienne and I had spoken and corresponded at length. It was