“Bonjour,” the shopkeeper knelt in a totally involuntary movement and reached out to Henri. Gamache recognized it. He had it himself, as did Reine-Marie, when in the presence of a dog. The need to kneel, to genuflect.
“May I?” the man asked. It was the sign of an experienced dog owner, to always ask. Not only was it respectful, it was prudent. You never knew when a dog might not want to be approached.
“You run the risk of him never leaving, monsieur,” smiled Gamache as the shopkeeper produced a biscuit.
“Fine with me.” He fed Henri the treat and rubbed his ears to groans from the dog.
It was then Gamache noticed the cushions on the floor and the name “Maggie” on the side of a food bowl. But no dog.
“How long ago?” Gamache asked.
“Three days,” said the man, standing up and turning away. Gamache waited. He recognized this movement too.
“Now,” the man finally said, turning back to Gamache and Henri. “You said you wanted to talk about Augustin Renaud. Are you a reporter?”
Gamache looked as though he might be, but not for the television or radio or even a daily paper. Perhaps for an intellectual, monthly magazine. One of those obscure university presses or journals specializing in dying ideas and the dead people who’d championed them.
He wore a shirt and tie under a cardigan the color of butterscotch. His slacks were charcoal gray corduroy. If the shopkeeper noticed the scar above Gamache’s left temple he didn’t mention it.
“Non, I’m not a reporter, I’m helping the police but in a private capacity.”
Henri was now leaning against the little shopkeeper, whose hand was down by his side kneading the dog’s head.
“Are you Alain Doucet?” Gamache asked.
“Are you Armand Gamache?” Doucet asked.
Both men nodded.
“Tea?” Monsieur Doucet asked. Within minutes the two men were sitting at the back of the tiny store in a cave of books, of words, of ideas and stories. And Monsieur Doucet, after pouring them fragrant cups of tea and offering his guest a digestive cookie, was telling his own story.
“Augustin came in once a fortnight at least, sometimes more often. Sometimes I’d call if I got in a book I knew he’d be interested in.”
“What interested him?”
“Champlain, of course. Anything to do with the early colony, other explorers, maps. He loved maps.”
“Was there anything he found here that particularly excited him?”
“Well, now, that’s hard to say. Everything seemed to excite him, and yet he said almost nothing. I knew him for forty years but we never sat down like this, never had a conversation. He’d buy books and be animated and enthusiastic, but when I tried to ask him about it he’d get quiet, defensive. He was a singular man.”
“He was that,” said Gamache, taking a bite of his digestive cookie. “Did you like him?”
“He was a good client. Never argued about price, but then I never tried to take advantage.”
“But did you like him?” It was funny, Gamache had asked this question of all the used-bookstore owners and all had been evasive.
“I didn’t know him but I’ll tell you something, I had no desire to get to know him better.”
“Why not?”
“He was a fanatic and they scare me. I think he’d do just about anything if he thought it would get him an inch closer to Champlain’s body. So, I was civil, but kept my distance.”
“Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”
“He had a knack for annoying people, but you don’t kill someone just because they’re annoying. The place would be littered with bodies.”
Gamache smiled and took a leisurely sip of his strong tea, thinking.
“Do you know if Renaud had a current idea? Some new theory about where Champlain might be buried?”
“You mean the Literary and Historical Society?”
“I mean any place.”
Monsieur Doucet thought then shook his head.
“Did you buy books from them?”
“The Lit and His? Sure. Last summer. They had a big sale. I bought three or four lots.”
Gamache put his mug down. “What was in them?”
“Frankly? I don’t know. Normally I’d go through them but it was the summer and I was too busy with the flea market. Lots of tourists, lots of book collectors. I didn’t have time to go through the boxes, so I just put them out at my stall. Renaud came by and bought a couple.”
“Books?”
“Boxes.”
“Did he go through them before buying?”
“No, just bought. People are like that, especially collectors. They want to go through them privately. I think that’s part of the fun. I got another couple of lots from the Lit and His later, sometime this past fall, before they decided to stop the sale. I called Renaud and asked if he was interested. At first he said no then he showed up about three weeks ago asking if I still had them.”
“Hmm.” The Chief Inspector sipped and thought. “What does that tell you?”
Alain Doucet looked surprised. He had clearly thought nothing of it but now he did.
“Well, I guess it might mean he found something in that first lot and thought there might be more.”
“Why the delay, though? If he bought the first couple boxes in the summer, why wait until after Christmas to contact you?”
“He’s probably like most collectors. Buys loads of books meaning to go through them but they just sit there for months until he gets around to it.”
Gamache nodded, remembering the rabbit warren that was Renaud’s home.
“Do these numbers mean anything to you?” He showed Doucet the catalog numbers found in Renaud’s diary. 9-8499 and 9-8572.
“No, but used books come in with all sorts of strange things written on them. Some are color-coded, some have numbers, some have signatures. Screws up their value, unless the signature is Beaudelaire or Proust.”
“How’d he seem when he came by for the other lot?”
“Renaud? As always. Brusque, anxious. He was like an addict before a fix. Book freaks are like that, and not just old guys. Look at kids lining up for the latest installment of their favorite books. Stories, they’re addictive.”
Gamache knew that was true. But what story had Augustin Renaud stumbled on? And where were the two books? Not in his apartment, not on his body. And what happened to the other books in the lot? They weren’t in the apartment either.
“Did he bring any books back?”
Doucet shook his head. “But you might ask the other used bookstores. I know he went to all of us.”
“I’ve asked. You’re the last, and the only one who bought the Literary and Historical Society books.”
“Only one stupid enough to try to sell English books in old Quebec City.”
The Chief’s phone vibrated and he took it out. It was a call from Émile.
“Do you mind?” he asked and Doucet shook his head. “Salut, Émile. Are you at home?”
“No, I’m in the Lit and His. Amazing place. I can’t believe I’ve never been before. Can you meet me here?”
“Have you found something?”
“I found Chiniquy.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Gamache rose and Henri rose with him, ready to go wherever Gamache went.
“Does the name Chiniquy mean anything to you?” he asked as they walked to the front of the store. It was almost four P.M. and the sun had set. Now the shop looked cozy, lit by lamps, the books merely suggestions in the shadows.
Doucet thought about it. “No, sorry.”
Time, thought Gamache as he stepped once more into the darkness, it covered over everything eventually. Events, people, memory. Chiniquy had disappeared beneath Time. How long before Augustin Renaud followed?
And yet Champlain had remained, and grown.
Not the man, Gamache knew, the mystery. Champlain missing was so much more potent than Champlain foun
d.
Picking up his pace, he and Henri wove between the revelers carrying their hollow plastic canes filled with Caribou, wearing their Bonhomme pins on their down-filled parkas. They wore smiles and huge mittens and joyful fluffy, warm toques, like exclamation marks on their heads. In the distance he heard the almost haunting blast on a plastic horn. A call to arms, a call to party, a call to youth.
Gamache heard it, but the call wasn’t for him. He had another calling.
Within minutes he and Henri were standing outside the brightly lit Literary and Historical Society. The small crowd of gawkers had given up, perhaps called away by the horns to something more interesting. Called to life, not to death.
Gamache entered and found his old mentor in the library surrounded by small stacks of books. Mr. Blake had emigrated from his armchair to the sofa and the two elderly men were chatting. They looked over as the Chief Inspector entered, and waved.
Mr. Blake stood and indicated his place.
“No, please,” said Gamache, but it was too late. The courtly man was already standing next to his habitual chair.
“We’ve been having a terrific talk, you know,” said Mr. Blake. “All about Charles Chiniquy. Remarkable man. But then, we’re likely to think that,” he said with a laugh.
“Found another one, Monsieur Comeau,” Elizabeth MacWhirter called down from the balcony, then spying Gamache she waved.
Gamache caught Émile’s eye and smiled. He’d made a few conquests here.
Soon all four were sitting round the coffee table.
“So,” said Gamache, looking at the three eager, elderly faces. “Tell me what you know.”
“The first thing I did was call Jean,” Émile said. “You remember him? He had lunch with us a few days ago at the Château Frontenac.” Gamache remembered. The Laurel to René Dallaire’s Hardy.
“A member of your Champlain Society.”
“That’s right, but he’s also a student of Québec history in general. Most of the members are. He knew of Chiniquy, but not much more than I’d heard. Chiniquy was some sort of fanatic about temperance and had quit the Catholic Church and joined the Protestants. He’s considered a bit of a nut. Did some good work then messed it up by going off the deep end himself.
“I was on my way home and just passing the Lit and His when I suddenly thought they might know Chiniquy here. After all, it is a Literary and Historical Society and presumably has links to Protestantism. So I came in.”
Elizabeth picked up the thread. “He asked about Chiniquy. It’s not a name I’m familiar with but I did find some books in our collection. He wrote quite a few. Then Mr. Blake came in and I directed Monsieur Comeau to him.”
Mr. Blake leaned forward. “Charles Chiniquy was a great man, Chief Inspector. Much maligned and misunderstood. He should be considered one of the great heroes of Québec instead of forgotten or remembered only for his eccentricities.”
“Eccentricities?”
“He was, it must be admitted, a bit of a showboat. Quite extravagant in his lifestyle and speeches. Charismatic. But he saved a lot of lives, built a sanatorium. At the height of his popularity tens of thousands took the pledge after listening to him speak. He was indefatigable. Ummm.” Mr. Blake struggled a bit with the next part. “Then he went a bit far for the comfort of the Catholic Church. To be fair, they did give him a lot of warnings but finally he was stripped of his church. He quit in a rage and joined the Presbyterians.”
“Didn’t he claim Rome was conspiring to take over North America and had sent the Jesuits to kill Lincoln?” asked Émile.
“He might have mentioned that,” said Mr. Blake. “Still, he did a great deal of good too.”
“What happened to him?” asked Gamache.
“He moved to Illinois but annoyed so many people he soon left and ended his days in Montreal. Got married you know, and had two children, daughters I think. Died at the age of ninety.”
“In 1899,” said Gamache and when she looked surprised he explained. “I looked it up last night, but the file had just his dates, no real information about the man.”
“There was a huge obituary in the New York Times,” said Mr. Blake. “He was considered a hero by many people.”
“And a nut by many too,” admitted Elizabeth.
“Why would Augustin Renaud be interested in Chiniquy?”
All three shook their heads. Gamache thought some more.
“The big Presbyterian church is right next door, and the Lit and His has a number of his books, is it fair to assume there might have been a connection? A relationship?”
“Between Charles Chiniquy and the Lit and His?” asked Elizabeth.
“Well, there was James Douglas, he’d be a connection,” said Mr. Blake.
“And who is that?” asked Gamache. Both Elizabeth and Mr. Blake turned in their seats and looked out a window. Gamache and Émile also looked but in the dark they saw only their own reflections.
“That’s James Douglas,” said Mr. Blake. Still they stared, and still all they saw were their own baffled faces.
“The window?” asked Gamache finally, after waiting long enough for Émile to ask the nonsensical question.
“Not the window, the bust,” said Elizabeth with a smile. “That’s James Douglas.”
Sure enough, on the deep windowsill there stood a white alabaster bust of a Victorian gentleman. They always looked disturbing to Gamache. It was the white, empty eyes, as though the artist had sculpted a ghost.
“He was one of the founders of the Literary and Historical Society,” said Mr. Blake.
Elizabeth leaned forward and said to Émile beside her, “He was also a grave robber. Collected mummies, you know.”
Neither Gamache nor Émile did know. But they wanted to.
SEVENTEEN
“I’m afraid you’ll have to explain yourself, madame,” said Émile, with a smile. “Mummies?”
“Now, there was an original,” Mr. Blake jumped in, warming to the subject. “James Douglas was a doctor, by all accounts a gifted physician. He could amputate a limb in less than ten seconds.” On seeing their faces he continued, chastising them slightly. “It mattered back then. No anesthetic. Every moment must have been agony. Dr. Douglas saved a lot of people a lot of agony. He was also a brilliant teacher.”
“Which is where the bodies come in,” said Elizabeth, with more relish than they’d have expected. “He started off somewhere in the States—”
“Pittsburgh,” said Mr. Blake.
“But was run out of town after he was caught grave robbing.”
“It wasn’t like it is today,” said Mr. Blake. “He was a doctor and they needed bodies for dissection. It was common practice to take them from paupers’ graves.”
“But probably not common practice for the doctors themselves to dig them up,” said Gamache to Elizabeth’s muffled laugh.
Mr. Blake paused. “That is, perhaps, true,” he conceded. “Still, there was never any question of personal gain. He never sold them, only used the corpses to teach his students, most of whom went on to distinguished careers.”
“But he got caught?” Émile turned to Elizabeth.
“Made a mistake. He dug up a prominent citizen and the man was recognized by one of the students.”
Now everyone grimaced.
“So he came to Québec?” asked Gamache.
“Started teaching here,” said Mr. Blake. “He also opened a mental hospital just outside the city. He was a visionary, you know. This was at a time when the deranged were tossed into places worse than prisons, locked up for life.”
“Bedlam,” said Elizabeth.
Mr. Blake nodded. “James Douglas was considered more than a little strange because he believed the mentally ill should be treated with respect. His hospital helped hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. People no one else wanted.”
“Must have been an extraordinary man,” said Émile.
“He was, by most accounts,” said Mr. Blake, “a miserable, o
pinionated, arrogant man. Wretched. Except, when dealing with the poor and displaced. Then he showed remarkable compassion. Strange, isn’t it?”
Gamache nodded. It was what made his job so fascinating, and so difficult. How the same person could be both kind and cruel, compassionate and wretched. Unraveling a murder was more about getting to know the people than the evidence. People who were contrary and contradictory, and who often didn’t even know themselves.
“But where do the mummies come in?” asked Émile.
“Well, he apparently continued to take bodies from graves in and around Quebec City,” said Elizabeth. “Again, just for teaching. He seems to have stayed clear of digging up the premier minister or any archbishops but his fascination with bodies does seem to have spread beyond just teaching.”
“He was simply curious,” said Mr. Blake, a slight defensiveness in his voice.
“He was that,” agreed Elizabeth. “Dr. Douglas was on vacation in Egypt and brought back a couple of mummies. Used to keep them in his home and would give talks in this very room on them. Propped them up against that wall,” she waved to the far wall.
“Well,” said Gamache slowly, trying to imagine it, “a lot of people were robbing graves back then. Robbing might be too strong a word,” he said quickly, to assuage Mr. Blake’s agitation. “It was the age when they were discovering all those tombs. King Tut, Nefertiti,” he’d run out of Egyptian references. “And others.”
Émile gave him an amused look.
“Show me a museum,” said Mr. Blake, “and I’ll show you treasures taken from graves. The British Museum stinks of tombs but where would we be without it? Thank God they took the things, otherwise they’d just be looted or destroyed.”
Gamache remained silent. One civilization’s courageous action was another’s violation. Such was history, and hubris. In this case the famous Victorian ego that dared so much, discovered so much, desecrated so much.
“Whatever it was called,” said Elizabeth, “it was strange. My grandparents went to Egypt on their Grand Tour and came back with rugs. Not a single body.”
Bury Your Dead Page 24