Bury Your Dead

NINETEEN

“Dr. Croix?”

Gamache saw the man’s back stiffen. It was an eloquent little movement, involuntary and habitual. Here was a man engrossed in what he was doing, not pleased with the interruption. That, Gamache knew, was understandable. Who didn’t feel that way occasionally?

What was even more telling, though, was the long pause. Gamache could almost see the armor going on, the plates snapping down the archeologist’s back, the spikes and prickles and chains clicking into place. And then, after the armor, the weapon.

Anger.

“What do you want?” the stiff back demanded.

“I’d like to speak with you, please.”

“Make an appointment.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Neither do I. Good day.” Serge Croix leaned further over the table, examining something.

There was a reason, Gamache knew, Québec’s Chief Archeologist chose to work with clay and shards of pottery, with arrowheads and old stone walls. He could question them and while they might, occasionally, contradict him it was never messy, never emotional, never personal.

“My name is Armand Gamache. I’m helping to investigate the murder of Augustin Renaud.”

“You’re with the Sûreté. You have no jurisdiction here. Go mind your own business.”

Still the stiff back refused to move.

Gamache contemplated him for a moment. “Do you not want to help?”

“I have helped.” Serge Croix turned round and glared at Gamache. “I spent an entire afternoon with Inspector Langlois digging in the basement of the Literary and Historical Society. Gave up my Sunday for that and you know what we found?”

“Potatoes?”

“Potatoes. Which is more than Augustin Renaud ever found when digging for Champlain. Now, I don’t mean to be rude but go away, I have work to do.”

“On what?” Gamache approached.

They were in the basement of the chapel of the Ursuline convent. It was lit with industrial lamps and long examination tables were set up in the center of the main room. Dr. Serge Croix stood beside the longest table.

“It’s an ongoing dig.”

Gamache looked into a hole by one of the rough stone walls. “Is this where Général Montcalm and his men were buried?”

“No, they were found over there.” Croix motioned into another part of the basement and went back to his work. Gamache took a few strides and peered in. He’d never been in that basement before, but had read about it since he was a schoolboy. The heroic Général riding up and down on his magnificent horse, inspiring the troops. Then the fusillade, and the Général was hit, but still he clung to his mount. When it was clear the battle was lost, when it was clear Bougainville was not going to arrive, the French forces had retreated into the old city. Montcalm had ridden there, supported on either side by foot soldiers. Taken to this very spot, to die in peace.

He’d hung on, remarkably, until the next day when he finally succumbed.

The nuns, afraid the English might desecrate the body, afraid of reprisals, had buried the Général where he’d died. Then, at some later date, the sisters had dug up his skull and a leg bone and put it into a crypt in the chapel, to be protected and prayed to privately.

A relic.

These things had power in Québec.

Général Montcalm had only recently been reunited with the men he’d died with. His remains had been reburied in a mass soldiers’ grave a few years ago, a grave that contained the bodies of all the men who died in one terrible hour on the fields belonging to the farmer Abraham.

French and English, together for eternity. Long enough to make peace.

Gamache watched the Chief Archeologist bend over a piece of metal, brushing the dirt free. Was this grave robbing? Could they never let the dead be? Why dig up the Général and rebury him with great ceremony and a huge monument a couple hundred yards away? What purpose was served?

But Gamache knew the purpose. They all did.

So that no one would ever forget, the deaths and the sacrifice. Who had died and who had done it. The city might have been built on faith and fur, on skin and bones, but it was fueled by symbols. And memory.

Gamache turned and saw that Dr. Croix was staring in the same direction, to where the Général had been buried and dug up.

“Dulce et Decorum est,” the archeologist said.

“Pro patria mori,” Gamache finished.

“You know Horace?” Croix asked.

“I know the quote.”

“It is sweet and right to die for your country. Magnificent,” said Croix, gazing beyond Gamache.

“You think?”

“Don’t you, monsieur?” Croix turned suspicious eyes on the Chief Inspector.

“No. It’s an old and dangerous lie. It might be necessary, but it is never sweet and rarely right. It’s a tragedy.”

The two men glared at each other across the dirt floor.

“What do you want?” Croix demanded.

He was tall and slender, hard and sharp. A hatchet. And he was aimed at Gamache.

“Why would Augustin Renaud be interested in some books belonging to Charles Chiniquy?”

Not surprisingly Dr. Croix looked at Gamache as though he was mad.

“What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t even understand the question.”

“Not long before he was murdered Renaud found two books that excited him. Books that came from the Literary and Historical Society, but that had once belonged to Father Chiniquy. You know who I mean?”

“Of course I know. Who doesn’t?”

The entire world out there, thought Gamache. It was funny how obsessed people believed others equally obsessed, or even interested. And for archeologists and historians, gripped by the past, it was inconceivable others weren’t.

For them, the past was as alive as the present. And while forgetting the past might condemn people to repeat it, remembering it too vividly condemned them to never leave. Here was a man who remembered, vividly.

“What connection could Charles Chiniquy have had to Champlain?” Gamache asked.

“None.”

“Think, please.” Gamache’s voice, while still pleasant, now held an edge. “Chiniquy possessed something that excited Augustin Renaud. We know Renaud had only one passion. Champlain. Therefore, in the late 1800s Charles Chiniquy must have found something, some books, about Champlain and when Renaud found them he felt they’d lead him to where Champlain is buried.”

“Are you kidding? Birds led him there. Little voices in his little head led him there, rice pudding led him there. He saw clues and certainties everywhere. The man was a lunatic.”

“I don’t say the Chiniquy books really did answer the mystery of Champlain,” Gamache explained. “Only that Renaud believed they did.”

Croix’s eyes narrowed but Gamache could see he was no longer dismissing the question. Finally he shook his head.

“I have another question,” said the Chief Inspector. “Chiniquy and James Douglas were friends, correct?”

Croix nodded, interested in where this might be going.

“Why would they meet two Irish immigrant laborers in 1869?”

“The workers were either drunk or insane or both. No big mystery there.”

“Except there is. They met at the Literary and Historical Society.”

That gave Croix pause.

“Now, that is a mystery,” he admitted. “The Irish hated the English. There’s no way they’d have gone to the Literary and Historical Society voluntarily.”

“You mean, it wouldn’t have been their idea?”

“I frankly doubt they could even read and write. Probably didn’t know the Literary and Historical Society existed and if they did, the last place they’d want to go is into the heart of the Anglo establishment.”

“And yet they did. To meet with Father Chiniquy and Dr. James Douglas. Why?”

When no answer came Gamache fished into his breast pocket and brought out the old photograph.

“These are the workers, the ones smiling. Shortly after this was taken that man,” Gamache placed his finger on the figure of Sean Patrick, “bought a home in the Upper Town, just around the corner from here on des Jardins.”

“Impossible.”

“Fact.”

Croix searched Gamache’s face then returned to the photograph.

“Do you know what digging work was going on at the time?”

“In 1869? Lots I’d imagine.”

“It would be the summer, judging by what they’re wearing and probably in the old city. Look at the stonework.”

Croix examined the grainy photo and nodded.

“I can try to find out.”

“Bon,” said Gamache, holding out his hand for the picture. Croix seemed reluctant to let it go but eventually gave it back.

“How did you find out about this meeting between Chiniquy, Douglas and the laborers?” Croix asked.

“From Renaud’s diary. I have no idea how he knew about it. Presumably it’s in one of the books he found. He bought the Chiniquy collection from the Literary and Historical Society. There was something in them, but we can’t find the books. Renaud seems to have hidden them. What could hundred-year-old books contain that someone was willing to kill for them?” Gamache wondered.

“You’d be surprised. Not everything buried is actually dead,” said the archeologist. “For many the past is alive.”

What putrid piece of history was walking among them? Gamache wondered. What had Augustin Renaud disturbed?

He remembered an entry in Renaud’s diary. Not the one circled and exclaimed over but a quieter entry, a meeting he would never make. With an SC.

The Chief Inspector slowly returned the photograph to his pocket, watching Croix, who was walking back to his work table.

“Were you going to meet Augustin Renaud?”

Croix stopped, then turned and stared.

“What?”

“Thursday at one o’clock. Augustin Renaud had an appointment with an SC.”

“SC? That would be anyone.”

“With the initials SC, yes. Was it you?”

“Me, have lunch with Renaud? I wouldn’t be seen in the same room with the man if I could help it. No. He was always asking, demanding, to meet with me, but I never agreed. He was a nasty little piece of work who thought he knew better than anyone else. He was vindictive and manipulative and stupid.”

“And maybe, finally, he was right,” said Gamache. “Maybe he found Champlain. Was that what you were afraid of? That he might actually succeed? Is that why you tried to stop him at every turn?”

“I tried to stop him because he was a bumbling idiot who was ruining perfectly good and valuable archeological digs with his fantasies. He was a menace.”

Serge Croix’s voice had risen so that the harsh words bounced and throbbed off the hard stone walls, coming back at the two men. Filling the space with rage that echoed and grew.

But the last sentence was rasped out. Barely audible, it scraped along the dirt floor and gave Gamache a chill.

“You tried to stop him. Did you finally succeed?”

“You mean did I kill him?”

They glared at each other.

“I didn’t arrange to meet him, and I certainly didn’t kill him.”

“Do you know where Champlain is buried?” Gamache asked.

“What did you just ask?”

“Do you know where Samuel de Champlain is buried?”

“What do you mean by that?” Croix’s voice was low and his look filthy.

“You know what I mean. The question is clear.”

“You think I know where Champlain is buried and am keeping it a secret?”

Croix invested each and every word, every syllable, with scorn.

“I think it’s almost inconceivable that we know where minor clerics, where war heroes, where farmers are buried,” said Gamache, not taking his eyes off the archeologist. “But not the founder of this country, the father of this country. I think you and the archeological establishment heaped derision onto Augustin Renaud, not because he was so laughable, but because he wasn’t. Was he getting close? Had he actually found Champlain?”

“Are you mad? Why would I hide the greatest archeological find in the nation? It would make my career, make my reputation. I’d be forever remembered as the man who gave the Québécois the one piece missing in their history.”

“That piece isn’t missing, monsieur, just the body. Why?”

“There was a fire, the original church burned, documents burned—”

“I know the official history but that doesn’t explain it and you know that. Why hasn’t his body been found? It makes no sense. So I ask myself the other question. Not why hasn’t he been found, but suppose he has? Why cover it up?” Gamache moved closer to the Chief Archeologist with each word until they were almost nose to nose. And Gamache whispered, “To the point of murder.”

They stared and finally Croix leaned back.

“Why would someone want to do that?” asked Croix.

“There’s only one reason, isn’t there,” said Gamache. “Champlain wasn’t what he seemed. He wasn’t quite the hero, the father figure, the great man. Champlain’s become a symbol of the greatness of the Québécois, a potent symbol for the separatists of what the settlement might have been, had the English not taken over. Champlain hated the English, derided them as brutes. On every level Champlain is the perfect tool for Québec separatists. But suppose this wasn’t true?”

“What’re you saying?”

“A lot of what we know to be history isn’t,” said Gamache. “You know that, I know that. It serves a purpose. Events are exaggerated, heroes fabricated, goals are rewritten to appear more noble than they actually were. All to manipulate public opinion, to manufacture a common purpose or enemy. And the cornerstone of a really great movement? A powerful symbol. Take away or tarnish that and everything starts to crumble, everything’s questioned. Can’t have that.”

“But what could be so bad about Champlain?” Croix asked.

“When was he born?”

“We don’t really know.”

“What did he look like?”

Croix opened his mouth then shut it again.

“Who was his father?”

Now Croix was silent, not even trying.

“Was he a spy? He was an expert mapmaker and yet many of the maps showed ridiculous creatures and claimed events that were clearly lies.”

“It was the style of the time.”

“To lie? Is that ever a style? We know who would want him found, Dr. Croix, but who wants him to remain buried?”

As Gamache left he wished the meeting with the Chief Archeologist could have been more cordial, if such a thing was possible with Serge Croix. He’d have loved to poke around that storied basement, loved to ask about the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, about the cannonballs still found in trees in old Quebec City.

He’d have loved to ask him about the strange coincidence of Captain Cook and Bougainville fighting in the same battle, on opposite sides, and Bougainville’s almost inconceivable decision not to help his Général.

But those were questions that would have to wait and for which there might be no answer.

Just before plunging back into the Québec winter he called Inspector Langlois and made an appointment. Ten minutes later he was walking through the corridors of police headquarters looking for Inspector Langlois’s offices, a visiting professor perhaps, an academic called in to consult.

“Chief Inspector.” Langlois advanced, his hand out. Others in the large room got to their feet as Gamache entered. He nodded to them and smiled briefly then Langlois showed him into his private office.

“You must be used to it by now,” said Langlois.

“The staring? Goes with the position, so yes, I’m used to it.” Gamache handed Langlois his coat. “But it’s changed of course, since the kidnapping and the other events.”

No use pretending otherwise.

Inspector Langlois hung up the Chief’s parka.

“I’ve been following the fall-out from it all, of course. The main question seems to be why we didn’t realize the attack was coming.”

Langlois searched Gamache’s face, anxious for an answer. But he’d find none there.

“The people who did this were patient. The plan a long time in the making,” said the Chief at last. “It moved so slowly as to be invisible.”

“But something that big—” Inspector Langlois’s question was the same as everyone else’s. How could they have missed it?

Misdirection. And cunning. And the ability of the attackers to adapt. That was how, thought Gamache.

He accepted the chair indicated but said nothing.

Langlois sat across from him. “When did you realize it was more than a simple kidnapping?”

Gamache was quiet. He saw again Inspector Beauvoir returning from seeing Agent Nichol in the basement of Sûreté headquarters. Where Chief Inspector Gamache had placed her a year or more ago. A job he knew she’d hate, but needed to learn. Listening to other people. And not talking.

She needed to learn to be quiet.

Beauvoir had not been happy at bringing Agent Nichol in. Neither had he, for that matter. But he could see no other option. Chief Superintendent Francoeur was off chasing the kidnappers, down paths Gamache was more and more convinced were being laid out by the kidnappers themselves. Leading the Sûreté here and there. Morin’s transmissions appearing to pop up all over the vast province. The trace a farce.

No. They needed help. And the embittered young agent in the basement was the only one he could turn to.

Chief Superintendent Francoeur would never think of her. No one ever did. And so Gamache could operate quietly, through her.

She says she needs the password for your computer, Beauvoir scrawled longhand. So that nobody else will see our messages. She also wants you to pause as long as possible when speaking with Morin so she can get some ambient sound.

Gamache nodded and without hesitation handed over his private password. He knew he was giving her access to everything. But he also knew he had no choice. They were blind. Not even Morin could help them. He was tied up facing a wall, and a clock. He’d done the best he could, describing his surroundings. The concrete floors, the dirt, the impression he had that wherever he was, it was abandoned. Paul Morin described the silence.

But he’d been wrong. The place wasn’t abandoned. Nor was it silent. Not quite. He’d been fooled by the headset, which made clear Gamache’s voice from miles away, but muffled any sound just feet away.

But Agent Nichol had found it. Slight sounds in the silence.

“The premier seems relieved it hasn’t reached the political level, yet,” said Langlois, crossing his legs. “The damage has been contained.”

Seeing Gamache’s blank face he immediately regretted his comment.

“Désolé, I didn’t mean that. I was in the funeral cortege. Far behind you, of course.”

Gamache smiled slightly. “It’s all right, it’s hard to know what to say. I suspect there’s no right thing. Don’t worry about it.”

Langlois nodded then, making up his mind, he leaned forward. “When did you realize what was going on?”

“You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you?” It was said with some humor, just enough to cut the edge off the words.

“I suppose not. Forgive me. I know you’ve given your depositions but as a cop I’m just curious. How did we all miss it? Surely it was obvious? The planned attack was so,” Langlois searched for a word.

“Primitive?” asked Gamache at last.

Langlois nodded. “So simple.”

“And that’s what made it effective,” said Gamache. “We’ve spent years looking for a high-tech threat. The latest bomb. Bio-industrial, genetic, nuclear. We searched the Internet, used telecommunication. Satellites.”

“But the answer was right there all along,” said Langlois, shaking his head in amazement. “And we missed it.”

I’ll find you. I won’t let anything happen to you.

I believe you, sir.

In the brief pauses Gamache provided in his conversation with Paul Morin they’d picked up distant sounds, like the whispers of ghosts deep in the background.

Agent Morin wasn’t alone. The “farmer” hadn’t abandoned him after all. Others were there, speaking softly, softly. Walking softly, softly. Making almost no noise. But some. Enough for the delicate equipment and surprisingly sensitive ears to find.

And the words they’d spoken? It had taken hours, precious hours, but Nichol had finally isolated one crucial phrase.

La Grande.

Over and over she’d played it for Beauvoir, examining each syllable, each letter. The tone, the breath. Until they’d reached a conclusion.

La Grande. The power dam that held back trillions of tons of water. The giant dam that was ten times the size of any other in North America. That provided hydroelectricity for millions, hundreds of millions, of people.

Without it much of Canada and the States would be plunged into a dark age.

The La Grande dam was in the middle of nowhere, near impossible to get to without official permission.

Gamache had looked at his watch at that moment, when Beauvoir and Nichol had written him from the basement. Sent him the sound bite so he could hear what they’d found.

It was three in the morning. Eight hours left. He and Morin had been discussing paint samples and names. Banbury Cream. Nantucket Marine. Mouse Hair.

In a few strides Gamache was over at the huge ordinance map of Québec on his wall. His finger quickly found the La Grande River, and the slash across it that had diverted and dammed the flow, killing thousands of acres of old-growth forest, herds of caribou and deer and moose. Had stirred up mercury and poisoned native communities.

But it had also been a miracle of engineering and continued to provide power decades later. And if it was suddenly removed?

Chief Inspector Gamache’s finger made its dreadful way south, tracing the torrent that would be created when all that water was suddenly released, all that energy suddenly released. It would be like nuclear bombs tumbling down the length of the province.

His finger hit Cree villages then larger and larger towns and cities. Val-d’Or. Rouyn-Noranda.

How far down would the water get before it petered out, before it dissipated? Before all its energy was spent? How many bodies would be swept down with it?

Now Paul Morin was talking about the family cat peeing in his father’s printer.

Had Morin been taken there? Was he being held at the dam?

I’ll find you.

I believe you, sir.

“Sir?”

Gamache looked up into the face of Inspector Langlois.

“Are you all right?”

Gamache smiled. “Just fine. My apologies.”

“What can I do for you?”

“It’s about the Renaud case. Have you found any boxes of books that might have belonged to Renaud that weren’t in his apartment?”

“His ex-wife has some. He’d taken them over to her basement a few weeks ago. What is it?”

Gamache sat forward and brought out his notebook. “May I have her address please?”

“Certainly.” He wrote the address down and handed it to the Chief Inspector. “Anything else?”

“No, this is perfect. Merci.” Gamache folded the note, put on his coat, thanked the Inspector and left, his boots echoing with purpose down the long corridor and out the door.

Hopping into a cab he called Émile then had the cab swing by his home and together they drove out the old gates, along Grande-Allée with its merrily lit bars and restaurants. The cab turned right onto Avenue Cartier then right again onto a small side street. Rue Aberdeen.

From the taxi Gamache had called Madame Renaud to make sure she was home. A moment later she opened the door and the two men entered. It was a main-floor flat in the gracious old row houses, each with wrought-iron stairs outside, leading to the apartments above.

Inside, the floors were dark wood and the rooms were generous and beautifully proportioned. Wide original crown molding swept around where the walls met the high ceiling. Each chandelier had a plaster rosette. These were genteel homes in a much sought-after quartier of Québec. Not everyone wanted to live within the walls, where life tended to be cramped and dictated by planners long dead. Here the streets were wider, planted with soaring old trees and each home had a modest front garden, when not buried under feet of snow.

Madame Renaud was short and cheerful. She took their coats and offered them a cup of coffee which both men declined.

“We’re sorry for your loss, madame,” said Gamache, taking a seat in the inviting living room.

“Merci. He was unbearable, of course. A pig-headed man, totally self absorbed. And yet—”

Gamache and Émile waited while she composed herself.

“And yet now that he’s gone life feels emptier, less vibrant. I envied him his passion. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that strongly about anything. And he wasn’t a fool, you know, he knew the price he paid, but he was willing to pay it.”

“And what was that price?” Émile asked.

“He was mocked and ridiculed, but more than that, no one liked him.”

“Except you,” said Gamache.

She said nothing. “He was lonely, you know, in the end. But still he couldn’t stop, couldn’t trade a dead explorer for living friends.”

“When did he bring these books to you?” Gamache asked.

“About three weeks ago. There’re four boxes. He said his apartment was too crowded.”

Émile and Gamache exchanged a quick glance. Renaud’s apartment was certainly cramped, but it was already a disaster, four more boxes would have made no difference.

No. He’d brought them to his wife for another reason. For safekeeping.

“Did he bring you anything else?” Émile asked.

She shook her head. “He was secretive by nature, some might say paranoid,” she smiled. She was a woman of good cheer and Gamache wondered at Augustin Renaud, who’d chosen her as his wife. For a few bright years had he known happiness? Had that been his one shining attempt to change course? And find a place on the shore with this jovial, kind woman? But he couldn’t, of course.

Gamache watched Madame Renaud chat with Émile. She still loved him, despite all that, thought Gamache. Was that a blessing or a curse?

And he wondered if that would go away, with time. Would the voice fade, the features blur? Would the memories recede and take their place with other pleasant, but neutral events from the past?

Avec le temps. Do we love less?

“Do you mind if we go through the boxes?” Gamache asked.

“Not at all. The other officers took a look but didn’t seem very interested. What are you looking for exactly?”

“Two books,” said Gamache. They’d walked to the back of the apartment, into the large, old-fashioned kitchen. “Unfortunately we don’t know what they are.”

“Well, I hope you find them here.” She opened a door and turned on a light.

Gamache and Émile saw wooden steps going straight down into a dark cellar with a dirt floor. A slight musky aroma met them, and as they headed down the stairs it felt a bit like wading into water. Gamache could feel the cool air creep up his legs until it was at his chest, his head and he was submerged in the dank and the chill.

“Watch your heads,” she called but both men were familiar with these old homes and had already ducked. “The boxes are over by the far wall.”

It took a moment for Gamache’s eyes to adjust, but finally they did and he saw the four cardboard boxes. Walking over he knelt at one while Émile took another.

Gamache’s box contained a variety of books in different sizes. First he checked their catalog numbers. All were from the Literary and Historical Society, a few even had the name Charles Chiniquy written in but none matched the numbers in the diary. He moved to another box.

That box was filled with bound sermons, reference books and old family bibles, some Catholic, some Presbyterian. He opened the first book and checked the number. 9-8495. His heart quickened. This was the box. Opening the next book and the next, the numbers mounted. 9-8496, 8497, 8498. Gamache brought out the next book, a black leather collection of sermons and opened it. 9-8500.

He stared at it, willing the numbers to change, then he carefully, slowly opened again and replaced each of the twenty books in the box. One was indeed missing.

9-8499.

It had sat between that book of sermons and Chiniquy’s confirmation bible.

“Maudits,” Gamache swore under his breath. Why wasn’t it there?

“Any luck?” He turned to Émile.

“Nothing. The damned book should be right here,” Émile shoved a finger between two volumes. “But it’s gone. 9-8572. Do you think someone got here first?”

“Madame Renaud said only Langlois’s team has been.”

“Still, what is here might be helpful,” said Émile.

Gamache peered into the box. It contained a series of black leather volumes, spine out, all the same size. Gamache took one out and examined it. It was a diary. Émile’s box contained the diary and journals of Charles Paschal Télesphore Chiniquy.

“Each book is a year,” said Émile. “The missing one is for 1869.”

Gamache sat back on his haunches and looked at his mentor, who was smiling.

Even in the dim light of the basement Gamache could see Émile’s eyes were bright. “Well, Chief?” said Émile, straightening up. “What next?”

“There’s only one thing to do now, Chief,” smiled Gamache. He picked up the box of Chiniquy journals. “Go for a drink.”

The two men returned upstairs and with Madame Renaud’s permission they left with the box. Just around the corner was the Café Krieghoff and a chilly minute later they were there, sitting at a corner table by the window, away from other patrons. It was six in the evening and the work crowd was just arriving. Civil servants, politicians from the nearby government offices, professors, writers and artists. It was a bohemian hangout, a separatist haunt, and had been for decades.

The waitress, clad in jeans and a sweater, brought them a bowl of nuts and two Scotches. They sipped, nibbled the nuts, and read from Chiniquy’s journals. It was fascinating stuff, insight into a mind both noble and mad. A mind with absolutely no insight into itself, a mind filled with purpose and delusion.

He would save souls and screw his superiors.

Gamache’s phone vibrated and he took the call.

“Chief?”

“Salut Jean-Guy. How are you?”

The question was no longer simply politesse but was asked with sincerity.

“I’m actually doing well. Better.”

And he sounded it. There was an energy to the younger man’s voice Gamache hadn’t heard in months.

“You? Where are you? I hear lots of noise.”

“Café Krieghoff.”

Beauvoir’s laugh came down the telephone line. “Deep into a case, I see.”

“Bien sûr. And you?” He could hear sounds as well.

“The bistro. Research.”

“Of course. Poor one.”

“I need your help,” said Beauvoir. “About the murder of the Hermit.”