Bury Your Dead

  “Okay, let’s suppose the treasure had nothing to do with the murder,” said the Chief Inspector. “Suppose the only thing of value the murderer wanted was the Hermit’s life and once taken he left.”

  “So,” said Beauvoir, slinging his leg over the side of the easy chair and burrowing into the wing. He was hidden from view of the rest of the bistro, only his casual leg visible. No one could see him, but neither could he see anyone. “Take away the treasure but that still leaves us with other clues. The repetition of the word ‘Woo’ whittled into that chunk of red cedar, and woven into the web. It must mean something. And Charlotte, that name kept popping up, remember?”

  Gamache did remember. It had sent him rushing across the continent to a mist-covered archipelago in northern British Columbia, on what now appeared to be a fool’s errand.

  “There’s something about your list of suspects,” said Gamache after going over each one again in his head.

  “Oui?”

  “They’re all men.”

  “Are you afraid the Equal Opportunity Bureau’s going to complain?” laughed Beauvoir.

  “I just wonder if we should be considering some of the women,” said Gamache. “Women have patience. Some of the most vicious crimes I’ve seen have been committed by women. It’s more rare than men, but women are more likely to bide their time.”

  “That’s funny, Clara was saying the same thing this afternoon.”

  “How so?” Gamache leaned forward. Anything Clara Morrow had to say was, in the Chief’s opinion, worth listening to.

  “She spent the morning with a bunch of women from the village. Apparently Old’s wife said something odd. She quoted some instruction manual that advised anti-terrorism squads to kill the women first.”

  “The Mossad,” said Gamache. “I’ve read it.”

  Beauvoir was silent. The Chief Inspector often surprised him. Sometimes it was with incomprehensible bits of Ruth’s poetry but mostly it was with things like this, with what he knew.

  “So you know what it refers to,” said Beauvoir. “A woman’s capacity to kill.”

  “Yes, but mostly it’s about her dedication. Once committed some women will never give up, they’ll be merciless, unstoppable.” Gamache was silent for a moment, staring out the window but no longer seeing the flow of people bundled against the biting cold. “In what context were they talking about this? Why did The Wife say it?”

  “They were talking about the case. Clara had asked Hanna Parra if she could kill.”

  “Clara needs to be more careful,” said the Chief. “Did anyone particularly respond to that?”

  “Clara said they all did, but after some discussion they reluctantly agreed the Mossad might have had it right.”

  Gamache frowned. “What else did the women talk about?”

  Beauvoir looked at his notes and told Gamache about the rest of the conversation. About fathers and mothers, about Alzheimer’s, about Charlie Mundin and Dr. Gilbert.

  “There was something else. Clara thinks Marc Gilbert is desperately jealous of Old Mundin.”

  “Why?”

  “Apparently his father’s spending a lot of time at the Mundins’. The Wife admitted Old has developed a sort of bond with Dr. Gilbert. A substitute father.”

  “Jealousy’s a powerful emotion. Powerful enough to kill.”

  “But the wrong victim. Old Mundin isn’t dead.”

  “So how could this play into the death of the Hermit?” the Chief asked and waited while there was a long pause. Finally Beauvoir admitted he didn’t see how it could.

  “Both Carole Gilbert and Old Mundin are originally from Quebec City. Could you ask around about them?” When the Chief agreed Beauvoir paused before asking his last question. “How are you?”

  He hated to ask, afraid that maybe the Chief would one day tell him the truth.

  “I’m at the Café Krieghoff with Émile Comeau, a bowl of nuts and a Scotch. How bad can it be?” Gamache asked, his voice friendly and warm.

  But Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew exactly how bad it could be and had been.

  Hanging up, an image stole into his mind, uninvited, unexpected, unwanted.

  Of the Chief, gun in hand, suddenly being lifted off his feet, twisting, turning. Falling. To lie still on the cold cement floor.

  Gamache and Émile hailed a cab and took the diaries home. As Émile prepared a simple supper of warmed-up stew Gamache fed Henri then took him for a walk to the bakery for a fresh baguette.

  Once home the men sat in the living room, a basket of crusty bread on the table, bowls of beef stew in front of them and the Chiniquy diaries piled on the sofa between them.

  They spent the evening eating and reading, making notes, occasionally reading each other a particularly interesting, moving or unintentionally amusing passage.

  By eleven Armand Gamache took off his reading glasses and rubbed his weary eyes. So far while historically fascinating the Chiniquy journals hadn’t revealed anything pertinent. There was no mention of the Irish laborers, Patrick and O’Mara. And while he did talk about James Douglas in the earlier diaries, the later ones mentioned him only in passing. Eventually there was an entry Émile read Gamache about Douglas packing up his three mummies and heading down to Pittsburgh, to live with his son.

  Gamache listened and smiled. Chiniquy had made it sound petty, like a kid picking up his marbles and going home. Had Father Chiniquy done that on purpose, to diminish Dr. Douglas? Had there been a falling out? Did it matter?

  An hour later he glanced at Émile and noticed the older man had fallen asleep, a journal splayed open on his chest. Gently raising Émile’s hand he removed the book, then put a soft pillow under Émile’s head and covered him with a comforter.

  After quietly placing a large cherry log on the fire Gamache and Henri crept to bed.

  The next day, before breakfast, he found an email from the Chief Archeologist.

  “Something interesting?” Émile asked.

  “Very. Sleep well?” Gamache looked up from his message with a smile.

  “Wish I could say that was the first time I’d nodded off in front of the fire,” Émile laughed.

  “So it wasn’t my stimulating conversation?”

  “No. I never listen to you, you know that.”

  “My suspicions confirmed. But listen to this,” Gamache looked back down to his email. “It’s from Serge Croix. I asked him to find out what digging work was being done in the old city in the summer of 1869.”

  Émile joined his friend at the table. “The year Chiniquy and Douglas met the Irish workers.”

  “Exactly, and the year covered in the missing journal. Dr. Croix writes to say there were three big digs. One at the Citadelle, to reinforce the walls, one to expand the Hôtel-Dieu hospital and the third? The third was to dig a basement under a local restaurant. The Old Homestead.”

  Émile sat for a moment then leaned back in the chair and brought a hand up to his face, thinking. Gamache got to his feet.

  “I think I’ll treat you to breakfast, Émile.”

  Comeau got up, his eyes bright now too. “I think I know where.”

  Within twenty minutes they’d climbed the steep and slippery slope of Côte de la Fabrique, pausing for breath and to stare at the imposing Notre-Dame Basilica. Where the original little church had stood, built by the Jesuit priests and brothers and supported by Champlain. A modest New World chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary to celebrate the return of Québec from the English in their see-saw battle for possession of the strategic colony.

  This was where the great man’s funeral had been held and where he’d been buried, albeit briefly. At one time Augustin Renaud had been convinced he was still there in the small chapel of St. Joseph, where the amateur archeologist had found a lead-lined coffin and some old coins. And had started digging without permission, igniting a storm that had engulfed even the church. Père Sébastien had sided with Renaud, to the fury of the Chief Archeologist.

  Still, nothing had bee
n found. No Champlain.

  Though, strangely, that coffin had never been opened. All had agreed it couldn’t possibly be Champlain. It was a rare show of respect for the dead, by the archeologists, by Renaud and by a church more than happy to dig up Général Montcalm but not this anonymous corpse.

  So, Gamache thought as he continued his walk, suppose Champlain hadn’t originally been buried in the chapel but in the graveyard. The records showing the exact resting place of the father of Québec had been lost in the fire, even the exact position of the cemetery was just a guess. But if it was beside the chapel that could put the cemetery right about—

  Here.

  Gamache stopped. Above him loomed the Château Frontenac and off to the side Champlain himself, imposing and impossibly heroic, staring out across the city.

  And in front of the Chief? The Old Homestead, now a restaurant.

  Taking off his gloves he reached into his jacket and took out the sepia photo taken in 1869.

  The Chief Inspector backed up a few paces, walked a couple to the right, then stopped. Looking from the photo to the reality and back again. His bare fingers were red and burning from the cold, but still he held the photo, to be sure.

  Yes.

  This was it, this was the exact spot where Patrick and O’Mara had stood 150 years earlier, on a sweltering summer day.

  They’d been digging beneath the Old Homestead and something they found made the normally sullen men smile. Before it had been a restaurant the Homestead had been, as it sounded, a private home. And before that? It was a forest, or a field.

  Or maybe, a graveyard.

  The Old Homestead was now a greasy spoon. It had seen better days. Even bombardment by English cannons would have been better than what had become of it in recent years.

  Waitresses, gamely wearing vaguely period costume, poured weak coffee into mass-produced white mugs. Hard, uncomfortable wooden chairs, made to look olde worlde, held tourists who’d hoped the charming exterior was a promise of a charming interior.

  It wasn’t.

  Mugs with coffee slurping over the rims were placed in front of Émile and Gamache. They’d managed to get a banquette of worn red Naugahyde, rips and tears repaired with shiny silver duct tape.

  Gamache caught Émile’s eye. Both felt slightly ill as they looked at what had been done to a landmark. Old Quebec City had been fought over, the French valiantly defending their heritage, their patrimoine. They’d ripped it from the hands of the English time and again, only to ruin it themselves centuries later.

  Still, it wasn’t what was inside that mattered to them now. It wasn’t even what was outside. What mattered to them was what lay beneath it. After ordering a simple breakfast of bacon and eggs the two men talked about the various theories. Their breakfast arrived, with a side order of home fries and baked beans. Surprisingly, the eggs were perfectly cooked, the bacon crispy and the pain de ménage actually homemade, warm and tasty. Once they’d finished and paid the waitress Gamache called her over again.

  “I have one more request.”

  “What is it?”

  She was impatient. She had her tip and needed to go work for another, and another and enough to put a modest roof over her head and feed her children. And these well-off men were delaying her, with their nice clothes and aromas of soap and something else.

  Sandalwood, she recognized. It was a nice fragrance and the larger man had kind eyes, thoughtful eyes, and was smiling at her. Still, she couldn’t pay the landlord with smiles, though God knows she’d tried. Couldn’t feed her kids the kindness of strangers. She needed these men gone and new bums on the seats.

  “Can we speak to the manager, please.” Gamache saw her alarm and hastened to reassure her. “No complaints, not at all. We have a favor to ask. In fact, perhaps you could help too. Did you know Augustin Renaud?”

  “The Champlain guy, the one who was killed? Sure.”

  “But did you know him personally?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Did he ever come into the restaurant?”

  “A few times. Everyone knew him. I waited on him once, a few weeks ago.”

  “Was he alone, or was someone else with him?”

  “Always alone.”

  “Do you remember all your customers?” Émile asked and was treated to her scrutiny.

  “Not all,” she said dismissively. “Only the memorable ones. Augustin Renaud was memorable. A local celebrity.”

  “But he only started coming in recently?” asked Gamache.

  “Last few weeks I guess. Why?”

  “Did he ever speak to the manager?”

  “You can ask her yourself.” She pointed with the coffee pot to a young woman by the cash register.

  Gamache gave her a twenty-dollar tip then they walked over to introduce themselves. The manager, a polite young woman, answered their questions. Yes, she remembered Augustin Renaud. Yes, he’d asked to see their basement. She’d been afraid he’d wanted to dig down there.

  “Did you show it to him?” Émile asked.

  “I did.” Her eyes were wary, a naïve young woman afraid of doing the wrong thing and slowly realizing someone would always take exception.

  “When was this?” Émile asked, his voice relaxed, disarming.

  “A few weeks ago. Are you with the police?”

  “We’re helping with the investigation,” said Gamache. “May we see your basement, please?”

  She hesitated, but agreed. He was glad he didn’t need to get a search warrant, or ask Émile to fake a stroke while he snuck down unseen.

  The basement was low and once again they had to duck. The walls were cinder block and the floor was concrete. Boxes of wine and cases of beer were piled in cool corners, broken furniture was stacked in the back rooms.

  Like skeletons, but not skeletons. There was no sign that this had ever been anything other than the basement of a dreary restaurant. Gamache thanked her and as she disappeared upstairs and Émile was halfway up, he paused.

  “What is it?” Émile asked.

  Gamache stood quietly. For all the fluorescent light, for the smell of beer and cardboard and cobwebs, for the weary feel of the place, Gamache wondered.

  Could this have been it? Was this where Champlain had been buried?

  Émile came back down the stairs. “What is it?” he repeated.

  “Can I speak to your Champlain Society?”

  “Of course you can. We’re meeting today at one thirty.”

  “Wonderful,” said Gamache and headed for the stairs, energized. At the top, just before turning off the lights he looked down into the basement again.

  “We meet in the room right beside the St-Laurent Bar, in the Château,” Émile said.

  “I didn’t know there was such a room.”

  “Not many do. We know all the secrets.”

  Perhaps not all, thought Gamache as he snapped off the lights.

  TWENTY–ONE

  The men split up just outside the Old Homestead, with Émile going about his errands and Gamache turning right toward the Presbyterian church. He was tempted to go inside, to be in the calm interior and to speak with the young minister who had more to offer than he realized.

  Gamache liked Tom Hancock. In fact, thinking about it as he walked, he liked everyone in this case. All the members of the Literary and Historical Society board, the members of the Champlain Society, he’d even liked, or at least understood, the Chief Archeologist.

  And yet, one of them was almost certainly a murderer. One of them had taken a shovel to the back of Augustin Renaud’s head, burying him in the basement in the hopes and expectation the body would be cemented over. If the phone line hadn’t been severed Augustin Renaud might have disappeared as completely as Champlain.

  Gamache paused for a moment to contemplate the façade of the Lit and His and think about the case.

  Motive and opportunity, Beauvoir had said, and of course, he was right. A murderer had to have both a reaso
n to kill and a chance to do it.

  He’d been wrong in the Hermit case, had been blinded by the treasure, had seen just the façade of the case and had failed to see what was hiding beneath it.

  Was he making the same mistake with this case? Was Champlain’s grave the big, shiny, obvious motive, that was wrong? Maybe this had nothing to do with the search for the founder of Québec. But if not, what else was there? Renaud’s life was consumed by only one thing, surely his death was too.

  Walking up the steps he tried the door to the Lit and His only to discover it locked. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t yet nine in the morning, of course it’d be locked. Now he was at a loss and, perversely, he felt even more strongly the need to get in.

  Pulling out his phone he dialed. After the second ring a woman answered, her voice strong and clear.

  “Oui allô?”

  “Madame MacWhirter, it’s Armand Gamache. Désolé, I hope I’m not disturbing you so early.”

  “Not at all, I was just sitting down to breakfast. What can I do for you?”

  Gamache hesitated. “Well, it’s a little embarrassing, but I’m afraid I’ve been overly ambitious with time. I’m outside the Literary and Historical Society but, of course, it’s locked.”

  She laughed. “We’ve never had a member so anxious to get in. It’s a novel experience. I have a key—”

  “I don’t want to disturb your breakfast.”

  “Well, you can’t just stand on the stoop waiting, you’ll freeze to death.”

  And Gamache knew that wasn’t just a figure of speech. Every winter scores of people did just that. They were out in the cold too long, had exposed too much of themselves. And it killed them.

  “Come over here, have a coffee and we’ll head back together in a few minutes.”

  Gamache recognized a command when he heard it. She gave him her address, a home just around the corner on rue d’Auteuil.

  When he arrived a couple minutes later he stood outside and marveled. It was as magnificent as he’d expected. In old Quebec City, “magnificent” wasn’t measured in square feet, but in details. The blocks of gray stone, the carving over the doors and windows, the simple, clean lines. It was a gracious and elegant row of homes.