by Louise Penny
“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.
NINE
Armand Gamache walked briskly up the slippery sidewalk and into the park known as Place d’Armes, the bitter wind full in his face. Foot paths were worn through the deep snow criss-crossing the park. Horse-drawn carriages, the calèches, waited at the top of the park to take visitors around the old city. Behind Gamache was a row of small, picturesque stone buildings, all turned into restaurants. To his right rose the magnificent Anglican Cathedral of the Holy Trinity. Gamache knew this, from experience. But he didn’t look at it. Like everyone else, he kept his head down against the wind, only glancing up now and then to make sure he wasn’t about to hit a person or a pole. His eyes watered and the tears froze. Everyone else looked just like him, their faces round and red and glowing. Like mobile stoplights.
Losing his footing on some ice hidden under a dusting of snow he righted himself just in time, then turned his back to the wind and caught his breath. At the top of the hill, beyond the park and calèches, was the most photographed building in Canada.
The Château Frontenac hotel.
It was huge and gray, turreted and imposing, and rose as though expelled from the cliff face. Inspired by castles it was named for the first governor of Québec, Frontenac. It was both magnificent and forbidding.
Gamache walked toward the Château, past the large statue in the middle of the small park. The Monument de la Foi. A monument to Faith. For Québec had been built on Faith. And fur. But the city fathers preferred to raise a statue to martyrs than to a beaver.
Just ahead, the Château promised warmth, a glass of wine, a crusty bowl of French onion soup. Émile. But the Chief Inspector stopped just short of the shelter, and stared. Not at the Château, not at the gothic statue to Faith, but to another monument off to the left, much larger, even, than the one to Faith.
It was of a man looking out over the city he’d founded four hundred years earlier.
Samuel de Champlain.
Bare-headed, bold, stepping forward as though wanting to join them, to be a part of this city that existed only because he had. And at the base of the statue another, smaller, image. An angel, sounding a trumpet to the glory of the founder. And even Gamache, who was no great fan of nationalism, felt wonder, awe, at the unshakable vision and courage of this man to do what many had tried and failed.
To not just come to these shores to harvest furs and fish and timber, but live here. Create a colony, a community. A New World. A home.
Gamache stared until he could no longer feel his face and his fingers in his warm mitts were numb. But still he stared at the father of Québec and wondered.
Where are you? Where did they bury you? And why don’t we know?
Émile rose and waved him to their table by the window.
The two men with him also got up.
“Chief Inspector,” they said and introduced themselves.
“René Dallaire,” the tall, rotund man said, shaking Gamache’s hand.
“Jean Hamel,” the small, slim one said. Had René sported a cropped moustache the two men could have passed for Laurel and Hardy.
Gamache handed his coat to a waiter, shoving his hat, scarf and mitts into a sleeve. He sat and put his hands to his face, feeling the burning. Extreme cold left its ironic mark. It was indistinguishable from a sunburn. But within minutes it had subsided, and the circulation had returned to his hands, helped along by sitting on them.
They ordered drinks and lunch and chatted about Carnaval, about the weather, about politics. It was clear the three men knew each other well. And Gamache knew they’d all belonged to the same club for decades.
The Champlain Society.
Their drinks and a basket of rolls arrived. They sipped their Scotches and Gamache resisted the urge to take a warm roll in each hand. The men talked casually among themselves, Gamache sometimes contributing, sometimes just listening, sometimes glancing out the window.
The St-Laurent Bar was at the far end of the Château, down the gracious, wide, endless corridor, through the double doors and into another world. Unlike the rest of the mammoth hotel, this bar was modest in size and circular, being built into one of the turrets of the Château. Its curved walls were paneled in dark wood and fireplaces stood on either side. A round bar took up the center, with tables surrounding it.
That, for any normal place, would have been impressive enough but Quebec City was far from normal, and within it, the Château was unique.
For curving along the far wall of the bar were windows. Tall, framed in mahogany, wi
de and mullioned. Out of them opened the most splendid vista Gamache had ever seen. True, as a Québécois, no other view could ever match up. This was their Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, Everest. This was Machu Picchu, Kilimanjaro, Stonehenge. It was their wonder.
From the bar he could see up and down the great river, the view so distant it broke into the past. From there, Gamache could see four hundred years in the past. The ships, surprisingly small and fragile, sailing down from the Atlantic, dropping anchor at the narrowest spot.
Kebek. An Algonquin word. Where the river narrows.
Gamache could almost see the sails being furled, men pulling ropes, securing lines, crawling up and down the masts. He could almost see the boats lowered into the water, and the men rowing ashore.
Did they know what they were in for? What the New World held?
Almost certainly not, or they’d never have come. Most never left, but were buried right below them, on the shores. Dying of scurvy, of exposure.
Unlike Gamache they had no Château to duck into. No warm soup and amber Scotch. He’d barely survived ten minutes in the biting, bitter wind, how had they survived days, weeks, months, with no warm clothing and barely any shelter?
Of course, the answer was obvious. They hadn’t. Most had died, slow, agonizing, dreadful deaths those first winters. What Gamache saw as he glanced out the window to the river with its gray water and ice floes, was history. His history, flowing by.
He also saw a dot in the distance. An ice canoe. Shaking his head Gamache turned his attention back to his companions.
“Why’re you looking so puzzled?” Émile asked.
The Chief Inspector nodded out the window. “An ice canoe team. The settlers had to do it. Why would someone choose to?”
“I agree,” said René, breaking up a roll and smearing butter on it. “I can barely watch them, and yet, I can’t seem to look away either.” He laughed. “I sometimes think we’re a rowboat society.”
“A what?” asked Jean.
“A rowboat. It’s why we do things like that.” He jerked his head toward the window and the dot on the river. “It’s why Québec is so perfectly preserved. It’s why we’re all so fascinated with history. We’re in a rowboat. We move forward, but we’re always looking back.”
Jean laughed and leaned away as the waiter placed a huge burger and frites in front of him. A bubbling French onion soup sat in front of Émile and Gamache was given a hot bowl of pea soup.
“I met a fellow this morning who’s training for the race,” said Gamache.
“Bet he’s in good shape,” said Émile, lifting his spoon almost over his head, trying to get the stringy, melted cheese to break.
“He is. He’s also the minister at the Presbyterian church. St. Andrews.”
“Muscular Christianity,” René chuckled.
“There’s a Presbyterian church?” asked Jean.
“And a congregation to go with it,” said Gamache. “He was saying he has a teammate for the race who’s over sixty.”
“Sixty what?” asked René. “Pounds?”
“Must be IQ,” said Émile.
“I’m hoping to meet him this afternoon. Name’s Ken Haslam. Do you know him?”
They looked at each other, but the answer was clear. No.
After lunch, over espressos, Gamache turned the conversation to the reason they were together.
“As you know, Augustin Renaud was murdered on Friday night, or early yesterday morning.”
They nodded, their good cheer subsiding. Three shrewd faces stared back at him. They were of an age, late seventies, all successful in their fields, all retired. But none had lost their edge. He could see that clearly.
“What I want to know from you is this. Could Champlain be buried beneath the Literary and Historical Society?”
They looked at each other, and finally, silently, it was decided that René Dallaire, the large, Hardy-esque man, would take the lead. The table had been cleared of all but their demi-tasses.
“I brought this along when Émile told us what you wanted to talk about.” He spread out a map, pinning it down with their cups. “I’m embarrassed to say I had no idea there was a Literary and Historical Society.”
“That’s not quite true,” said Jean to his friend. “We’re familiar with the building. It’s quite historic you know. Originally a redoubt, a military barracks in the 1700s. Then in the latter part of the century it housed prisoners of war. Then another prison was built somewhere else and the building must have fallen into private hands.”
“And now you say it’s called the Literary and Historical Society?” René spoke the English words with a heavy accent.
“Quite magnificent,” said Gamache.
René placed his substantial finger on the site of the building, by rue St-Stanislas. “That’s it, right?”
Gamache bent over the map, as did they all, narrowly avoiding knocking heads. He nodded agreement.
“Then there can be no doubt. You agree?” René Dallaire looked at Jean and Émile.
They agreed.
“I can guarantee you,” René looked Gamache in the eye. “Samuel de Champlain is not buried there.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“When you arrived at the Château, did you happen to notice the statue of Champlain out front?”
“I did. Hard to miss.”
“C’est vrai. That’s not simply a monument to the man, but it marks the exact spot he died.”
“As exact as we can get, anyway,” said Jean. René shot him a small, annoyed look.
“How do you know that’s where he died?” Gamache asked. Now it was Émile’s turn to answer.
“There’re reports written by his lieutenants and the priests. He died after a short illness on Christmas Day, 1635, during a storm. It’s one of the few things we know about Champlain without a doubt. The fortress was right there, where the statue is.”
“But he wouldn’t have been buried right where he died, would he?” asked Gamache.
René unfolded another map or, at least, a reproduction and placed it on top of the modern city map. It was little more than an illustration.
“This was drawn in 1639, four years after Champlain died. It’s not much different than the Québec he would have known.” The map showed a stylized fort, a parade grounds in front, and a scattering of buildings around. “This is where he died.” His finger landed on the fort. “It’s where the statue now stands. And this is where they buried Champlain.”
René Dallaire’s thick finger pointed to a small building a few hundred yards from the fort.
“The chapel. The only one in Québec at the time. There’re no official records but it seems obvious Champlain would have been buried there, either right in the chapel or in a cemetery beside it.”
Gamache was perplexed. “So, if we know where he was buried, what’s the mystery? Where is he? And why aren’t there any official records of the burial of the most important man in the colony?”
“Ahh, but nothing is ever straightforward is it?” said Jean. “The chapel burned a few years later, destroying all the records.”
Gamache thought about that. “A fire would burn the records, yes, but not a buried body. We should still have found him by now, no?”
René shrugged. “Yes, we should have. There’re a number of theories, but the most likely is that they buried him in the cemetery, not the chapel, so the fire wouldn’t have disturbed him at all. Over time the colony grew—”
René paused but his hands were expressive. He opened them wide. The other two men were also silent, eyes down.
“Are you saying they put a building on top of Champlain?” Gamache asked.
The three men looked unhappy but none contradicted him until Jean spoke.
“There is another theory.”
Émile sighed. “Not that again. There’s no proof.”
“There’s no proof of any of this,” Jean pointed out. “I agree it’s a guess. You just don’t want to
believe it.”
Émile was silent. It seemed Jean had made a direct hit. The little man turned to Gamache. “The other theory is that as Quebec City grew there was a huge amount of building work, as René says. But along with it was excavation, digging down beneath the frost line before they put up the new buildings. The city was booming, and things went up in a hurry. They didn’t have time to worry about the dead.”
Gamache was beginning to see where this was going. “So the theory is that they didn’t build on top of Champlain.”
Jean shook his head slowly. “No. They dug him up along with hundreds of others and dumped him in a landfill somewhere. They didn’t mean to, they just didn’t know.”
Gamache was silent, stunned. Would the Americans have done that to Washington? Or the British to Henry the Eighth?
“Could that have happened?” He turned, naturally, to Émile Comeau who shrugged, then finally nodded.
“It is possible, but Jean’s right. None of us wants to admit it.”
“To be fair,” said Jean. “It is the least likely of the theories.”
“The point is,” said René, looking at the map again. “This is the limit of the original settlement in 1635.” He twirled his finger over the old map, then swept it aside and found the same place on the modern map. “Pretty much from where we’re sitting now, in the Château, to a radius of a few hundred yards. They’d keep it small. Easier to defend.”
“And what would the rest have been?” asked Gamache, beginning to understand what they were saying.
“Nothing,” said Jean. “Forest. Rock.”
“And where the Literary and Historical Society is now?”
“Woods.” René brought the old map out and placed his finger on a big blank space, far from any habitation.
Nothing.
There was no way they’d have buried Champlain that far from civilization.
There was no way the father of Québec could be in the basement of the Lit and His.
“So,” Gamache leaned back. “Why was Augustin Renaud there?”
“Because he was mad?” asked Jean.
“He was you know,” said Émile. “Champlain loved Québec, to the exclusion of everything else in his life. It was all he knew, all he lived for. And Renaud loved Champlain with the same devotion. A devotion bordering on madness.”