Bury Your Dead

EIGHT

Gamache awoke to the welcome smell of strong coffee. After showering he joined Émile for breakfast.

The elderly man poured Gamache a cup as they sat at the long wooden table. In the center was a plate of flaky croissants, honey and jams and some sliced fruit.

“Did you see this?” Émile put the morning copy of Le Soleil in front of Gamache. The Chief sipped and read the headline.

He skimmed the story. He knew enough not to be dismissive of media reports. They often got hold of people and information the police themselves might not have found. But there was nothing new there. Mostly a recap of Renaud’s startling hobby of looking for Champlain and the ancillary benefits of pissing people off. There were quotes from the Chief Archeologist of Québec, Serge Croix, speaking glowingly of Renaud’s achievements which, everyone knew, amounted to putting holes in the old city and perhaps spoiling some legitimate digs. There was no respect lost between Croix and Renaud, though you’d never know it by the tribute in today’s paper.

Except the reporter had been smart enough to also gather Croix’s previous comments about Renaud. And not just Croix but a host of other Champlain experts, historians and archeologists. All dismissive of Renaud, all derisive, all mocking his amateur status, while he was alive.

Without a doubt, Augustin Renaud alive had become a bit of a buffoon. And yet, reading the papers, there emerged today another Augustin Renaud. Not just dead, but something else. There seemed an affection for him as for a beloved, but nutty, uncle. Renaud was misguided, perhaps, but passionate. A man who loved his home, loved his city, loved his country. Québec. Loved and lived history, to the exclusion of all else, including it seemed, his sanity.

He was a harmless eccentric, one of many in Québec, and the province was the poorer for having lost him.

That was the dead Augustin Renaud. Finally respected.

The paper, Gamache was relieved to see, had been careful to simply report on where the body was found. While they mentioned it was a respected Anglophone institution they left it at that. There was no suggestion of Anglo involvement, of conspiracy, of political or linguistic motivation behind the crime.

But Gamache suspected the tabloids would be less reticent.

“That’s that library, isn’t it? The place you’ve been working?” Émile broke open a croissant and the flakes tumbled to the table. Émile had had dinner with friends the night before so he and Gamache hadn’t seen each other since the murder.

“The Lit and His, yes,” said Gamache.

Émile looked at him with mock seriousness. “You can tell me Armand. You didn’t—”

“Kill him? I could never kill a stranger. Now, a friend . . .”

Émile Comeau laughed then grew quiet. “Poor man.”

“Poor man. I was there you know. Inspector Langlois was good enough to let me sit in on the initial questioning.”

As they ate Gamache told Émile about his day, his mentor peppering him with succinct questions.

Finally Émile Comeau leaned back in his chair, his breakfast finished but another appetite piqued. “So what do you think, Armand? Are the English hiding something? Why ask for your help if they aren’t afraid?”

“You’re quite right, they are afraid, but not of the truth. I think they’re afraid of how this looks.”

“With good reason,” said Émile. “What was Renaud doing there?”

That was the big question, Gamache thought. Almost as big as who killed the man. Why was he at the Literary and Historical Society?

“Émile?” Gamache leaned forward, cupping his large hands round his mug. “You’re a member of the Champlain Society. You know a lot more about this than I do. Could Renaud have had something? Could Champlain possibly be buried there?”

“Come for lunch at the St-Laurent Bar.” Émile stood. “I’ll have some people there who can better answer that.”

Gamache left Henri at home, something he rarely did but the place he was going didn’t welcome dogs, though privately he thought they should. Dogs, cats, hamsters, horses, chipmunks. Birds.

And yet there were only people at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church for Sunday service, and quite a few. The benches were filling quickly. He recognized some as reporters, the rest were probably more interested in gossip than God. Most of the day’s congregants, he suspected, had never been inside this church, perhaps never even realized it was there. It had been discovered, along with the body.

English Quebec was on parade.

All the pews were built in a semi-circle facing the pulpit and Gamache found a seat on a curving bench near the side of the church. He sat quietly for a few minutes, marveling at his surroundings.

The church seemed filled with light. It streamed through the bright and cheerful stained glass windows. The thick walls were plastered and painted a cream color, but it was the ceiling he couldn’t help staring at. It was painted a fresh robin’s egg blue and rose above the sweeping, graceful semi-circular balcony.

Something else struck the Chief Inspector. There wasn’t a crucifix in sight.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

Gamache turned and noticed Elizabeth MacWhirter had slipped in beside him.

“It is,” he whispered. “Has the church been here long?”

“Two hundred and fifty years. We just celebrated the anniversary. Of course, Holy Trinity Anglican is the big church. Most of the English community goes there, but we struggle along.”

“Is it affiliated with the Literary and Historical Society? It seems to be on the same grounds.”

“Only informally. The minister sits on the board, but that’s just coincidence. The Anglican archbishop used to be on the board but he moved a few years ago so we decided to ask the Presbyterian to join us.”

“Do you always get this sort of turnout?” Gamache nodded to the people now needing to stand at the back.

Elizabeth shook her head and smiled. “Normally we could stretch out and sleep in the pews, and don’t think a few of us haven’t done it.”

“It’ll be a good collection today.”

“Better be. The church needs a new roof. But I suspect this lot is only here to gawk. Did you see the article in Le Journalist this morning?”

The local rag, Gamache knew. He shook his head. “Only Le Soleil. Why? What did it say?”

“It didn’t actually say anything, but it did suggest that the English had murdered Renaud to keep our dark secret.”

“And that would be?”

“That Champlain is buried under the Lit and His, of course.”

“And is he?”

It was his impression Elizabeth MacWhirter had been startled by his question. But the organ had begun and the congregation rose and she was spared the need to answer. He knew what she would say.

Of course he isn’t.

He sang “Lord of All Hopefulness” from the hymnal and watched the congregants. Most seemed lost, not even trying to sing, some moved their mouths but he’d be surprised if any sound came out. And about a dozen, he guessed, raised their voices in song.

A young man climbed into the pulpit and the service began.

Gamache turned his attention to the minister. Thomas Hancock. He looked about twenty. His hair was dark blond, his face handsome though not classically so, more the handsome that went with robust health. Vitality. It was impossible, Gamache had noticed, to be both vital and unattractive. He looked a bit, Gamache thought, like Matt Damon. Intelligent and charming.

They prayed for Augustin Renaud.

Then Thomas Hancock did something Gamache would never have thought possible. While acknowledging that Renaud had been murdered only yards away he didn’t dwell on it, or on the curiosity of God’s Will.

Instead the Reverend Mr. Hancock, in his long blue cassock and his baby face, spoke of passion and purpose. Of Renaud’s obvious delight in life. He connected it to God. As a great gift of God.

The rest of the sermon was about joy.

It was an extremely risky strategy, Gamache knew. The pews were filled with Francophones curious about this subculture unearthed in the very center of their city. English. Most Québécois probably never even knew they were there, never mind so firmly ensconced.

They were an oddity, and most of the people in the church had come to stare, and come to judge. Including a number of reporters, notebooks out, ready and eager to report on the official reaction of the English community. By concentrating on joy instead of tragedy, the church, the Anglos, might be perceived as uncaring, as trivializing the tragedy of a life stolen. A man murdered a stone’s throw away.

And yet, instead of playing to the crowd, instead of offering a muted apology, of finding appropriately contrite biblical passages, this minister spoke of joy.

Armand Gamache didn’t know how it would sound when written up in tomorrow’s Le Journalist, but he couldn’t help but admire the man for not pandering. Indeed, for offering another, a more positive, perspective. Gamache thought if his church spoke more about joy and less about sin and guilt, he might be tempted to return himself.

The service ended with a hymn and the collection followed by a silent prayer, in which Agent Morin told Gamache about his late grandmother, who smoked incessantly without ever removing the cigarette from her mouth.

“Her right eye was always winking because of the smoke,” Morin explained. “And the cigarette just burned down. She never tapped off the ash. It hung there, this long tube of gray. We could watch her for hours. My sister thought she was disgusting but I kinda liked her. She drank too. She could eat and drink without once taking the cigarette out.”

He sounded impressed.

“Once when she was preparing breakfast the whole line of ash fell into the porridge. She just kept stirring. God knows how much ash and crap we ate.”

“Did the smoking kill her?” Gamache asked.

“No. She choked on a brussels sprout.”

There was a pause and despite himself, Gamache chuckled.

Elizabeth looked at him. “Thinking of joy?” she whispered.

“In a way, I suppose,” said Gamache and felt his chest constrict so fiercely he almost gasped.

After the service the congregation was invited back to the church hall for coffee and cookies, but Gamache hung back. Having shaken everyone’s hand the Reverend Hancock noticed the large man sitting in the pew and approached.

“Can I help you?”

His eyes were a soft blue. Close up Gamache noticed he was older than he appeared. Closer to thirty-five than twenty-five.

“I don’t want to take you away from your congregation, Reverend, but I wondered if we might have a talk sometime today?”

“Why not now?” He sat down. “And please don’t call me Reverend. Tom will do.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Hancock examined him. “Then you may call me Your Excellency.”

Gamache stared at the earnest young man, then broke into a smile. “Perhaps I could call you Tom.”

Hancock laughed. “Actually, in very formal circumstances I’m called The Reverend Mr. Hancock, but just plain Mr. Hancock would do, if that makes you feel better.”

“It does. Merci.” Gamache extended his hand. “My name is Armand Gamache.”

The minister’s hand paused for a moment. “Chief Inspector,” he said finally. “I thought it might be you. Elizabeth said you’d helped yesterday. I’m afraid I was practicing for the canoe race. We haven’t a hope, but we’re having fun.”

Gamache could believe they didn’t have a hope. He’d seen the famous canoe race across the St. Lawrence River every Carnaval for decades, and every year he wondered what could possess a person to do such a thing. It took huge athleticism and more than a little insanity. And while the young minister looked fit enough Gamache knew from his notes that his teammate, Ken Haslam was in his sixties. It would be, not to put too fine a point on it, like dragging an anvil across the river. Haslam on the team certainly handicapped them.

One day he might ask this man why he, or anyone, would enter such a race. But not today. Today belonged to a different subject.

“I’m glad I was able to help a little,” said Gamache. “But I’m afraid it’s far from over, despite your sermon today.”

“Oh, my sermon wasn’t meant to dismiss what happened, but to accept and celebrate the man’s life. There are enough people out there,” he waved toward the beautiful stained glass windows and the genteel city beyond, “who’ll condemn us, I thought I might as well try to be uplifting. Do you not approve?”

“Would it matter?”

“It always matters. I’m not preaching at you, you know.”

“As a matter of fact I thought your sermon was inspired. Beautiful.”

The Reverend Mr. Hancock looked at Gamache. “Merci. It’s a risk. I just hope I haven’t done harm. We’ll see.”

“Are you a Quebecker by birth?”

“No, I was born in New Brunswick. Shediac. Lobster Capital of the World. It’s a regulation that when you say Shediac you must also say—”

“Lobster Capital of the World.”

“Thank you,” Hancock smiled and Gamache could see he spoke of joy for a reason. He knew it. “This is my first assignment. I came three years ago.”

“How long have you sat on the board of the Lit and His?”

“About eighteen months I guess. It’s not very onerous. My biggest job is to remember not to actually suggest anything. It takes a lot of effort to halt time, and for the most part they’ve done it.”

Gamache smiled. “Living history?”

“Sort of. They can be old and cranky, but they love Québec and they love the Literary and Historical Society. They’ve spent years trying to keep a low profile. They just want to be left alone, really. And now this.”

“The murder of Augustin Renaud,” said Gamache.

Hancock was shaking his head. “He came to speak to us, you know. Friday morning. But the board refused to see him. Quite right too. He can go through regular channels, like everyone else. He seemed unpleasant.”

“You saw him?”

Hancock hesitated. “No.”

“Why wasn’t Renaud’s visit mentioned in the minutes?”

Hancock looked nonplussed. “We just decided it didn’t matter.”

But Gamache had the impression this had been news to Hancock.

“I understand you and Monsieur Haslam left early?”

“We had a practice at noon so yes, we left.”

“Was Augustin Renaud still outside?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Who had access to the basement?”

Hancock thought for a moment. “Winnie would know better. She’s the head librarian, you know. I don’t think the basement doors were ever locked. It’s really more a question of who could find them. Did you go down?”

Gamache nodded.

“Then you know you have to go through a trap door and down a ladder. Not exactly the grand staircase. A casual visitor would never find that basement.”

“But renovations were being done and they included the sub-basement, where he was found. In fact, I understand it’s scheduled to be concreted over in the next couple of days.”

“That soon? I knew the work was being done but didn’t know when. Won’t happen now, I suppose?”

“Not for a while, I’m afraid.”

The Chief Inspector wondered if the Reverend Mr. Hancock realized he’d all but admitted only a member of the Literary and Historical Society could have killed Renaud. And not a casual user of the fine library, but someone intimately familiar with the old building. The Chief remembered wandering the labyrinthine corridors. It was a warren of hallways, staircases, back rooms.

Would Augustin Renaud have been able to find that trap door on his own?

Almost certainly not.

Someone guided him down there then killed him.

Someone who knew all about the Lit and His.

Someone who knew the sub-basement was about to be concreted over.

Beside him, the Reverend Mr. Hancock had risen. “I’m sorry, I really need to get in to coffee. I’m expected to make an appearance.” He paused and looked closely at the bearded man in front of him.

Like every other Quebecker, he was familiar with Chief Inspector Gamache. The head of homicide appeared on weekly talk shows and news reports trying to explain the decisions the Sûreté was making. Often giving information about a case.

He was always patient, thoughtful, clear in the face of questions shouted and not always civil. He never lost his temper, though Hancock had seen him mightily provoked.

But the man he saw now differed from the man he’d watched for the past three years, and it wasn’t just the beard or the scar. He was still thoughtful, civil, gentle almost.

But he seemed tired.

“The coffee will keep.” Hancock sat back down. The church was tranquil, cool and quiet. “Would you like to talk?”

Armand Gamache knew this young man didn’t mean about the case, and he was tempted. Tempted to tell him everything. But Thomas Hancock was a suspect in a murder case and as much as he longed to confide his sins to this young minister, he resisted.

“Go, please. We can talk another time.”

“I hope so,” said Hancock, rising. “Joy doesn’t ever leave, you know. It’s always with you. And one day you’ll find it again.”

“Merci,” said Gamache, and sat quietly in the church until the ringing of the man’s feet on the floor was silenced, and he was alone with the whispering in his head.

Over at the Literary and Historical Society the library was open again, as were the offices. A yellow police tape, though, was across one door, that led to the trap door that led to the ladder that led to the sub-basement.

And there Inspector Langlois stood.

His team had collected all the evidence, every inch had been gone over, every hair collected, every masticated rat, every bit of cloth. Soil samples had been put in vials. Photos taken, infrared, ultraviolet, black light. Everything.

They’d found, besides the body, a bloody shovel, a satchel with the map, and footprints. All sorts of footprints. Too many, he suspected, to be able to narrow it down.

He had investigators interviewing Renaud’s former wife, his friends, of which there were precious few, his neighbors. They were scouring his home, but it was so packed with books and papers and all sorts of crap it could take weeks.

They were all over this case. Because, like Gamache, Langlois knew a frenzy was just beginning. Whipped by the tabloids, and eventually picked up by the legitimate press. The case was being hijacked. It was no longer just about Renaud’s body, it had become about another, an older mystery, an older body.

Champlain.

Was he here?

Which was why instead of being at Renaud’s apartment sifting through clues, he was in the dim basement, staring at a bucket of potatoes. At least, he hoped that’s what they were.

Beside him Québec’s Chief Archeologist, Serge Croix, stooped.

Neither man was happy to be there. Both knew it to be a waste of time.

“Well, Inspector, I can tell you for certain, that is not Champlain.”

The two men continued to stare at the potatoes.

A trained excavator, brought by the Chief Archeologist, leaned against his shovel. Another held a device and was walking slowly over the dirt floor. Already they’d dug three holes, and in each they found a metal box or bucket with root vegetables. Probably hundreds of years old. Turnips, potatoes, parsnips. But no Samuel de Champlain.

“Bon,” said Croix. “That’s enough. We all know he isn’t here. In fact, if Augustin Renaud believed he was that’s just about a guarantee Champlain is somewhere else.”

“Wait, I have something over here,” said the woman with the device.

Croix sighed but they all trooped to the dark corner. The excavator repositioned the bright industrial lights.

Inspector Langlois felt his heart speed up and around him he could see the others looking expectant, hopeful. Even Croix.

Despite the fact he knew Champlain could not possibly be buried there, Croix could still get his hopes up. Like homicide inspectors, thought Langlois, archeologists dug and dug, and always believed it wasn’t in vain. Something important might lie just below the surface.

The excavator put his shovel into the hard earth and loosened it, nudging it deeper and deeper, an inch at a time so as not to destroy whatever was beneath.

And then they heard the tap and the slight scraping. They’d found something.

Once again, the Chief Archeologist for Québec stooped. Bringing out his tools, finer than the rest, he carefully, painstakingly, cleared away the dirt to reveal a box.

Opening it he shone a light inside.

Turnips. Though one did look a little like the premier ministre.