Bury Your Dead (21 page)

From the café he hadn’t far to go. Just across the street to the great monolith that was Notre-Dame Basilica, the magnificent gilded church that wed, christened, chastised, guided and buried the highest officials and the lowest beggars.

While Québec never lacked for churches they were the satellites and Notre-Dame the sun.

As he walked through the gates and up the steps he stopped at the board listing the Sunday services. One had just ended and the next wasn’t until 6
P.M
. Opening the heavy doors he walked in and felt the warmth and smelled the years and years of sacred ritual. Of candles and incense, and heard the echoing of feet on the slate floors.

The church was dim, the chandeliers and wall sconces sending a feeble light into the vast space. But at the far end, past near empty pews, there was a glow. The entire altar appeared dipped in gold. It shone and beckoned, angels pranced, stern saints stood and stared, a model of St. Peter’s in Rome, like a spoiled child’s doll house sat in the very center.

It was both glorious and vaguely repulsive. Gamache crossed himself, a habit unbroken and sat quietly for a few moments.

“My family wanted me to become a priest, you know,” said the young voice.

“Having built up a tolerance for ash and smoke, I suppose,” said Gamache.

“Exactly. And I think they figured anyone who could tolerate my grandmother was either a saint or demented. Either way, good material for a life with the Jesuits.”

“But you decided against it.”

“I never seriously considered it,” Agent Morin spoke in Gamache’s ear. “I’d fallen in love with Suzanne when she was six and I was seven. I figured that was God’s plan.”

“You’ve known each other that long?”

“All my life, it seems. We met in confirmation class.”

Gamache could see the young man and tried to imagine him at seven. It wasn’t hard. He looked far younger than his twenty-five years. He had a curious knack for looking like an imbecile. It wasn’t something Morin tried to do, but he succeeded. He often had his mouth slightly open and his thick lips moistened as though he was about to drool. It could be either disconcerting or disarming. One thing it never was was attractive.

But it had grown on Gamache and his team as they realized what his face was doing had nothing to do with his brain or his heart.

“I like to just sit in our village church after everyone’s left. Sometimes I go in in the evening.”

“Do you talk to your priest?”

“Father Michel? Sometimes. Mostly I just sit. These days I imagine my wedding next June. I see the decorations and picture all my friends and family there. Some of the people I work with.” He hesitated. “Would you come?”

“If I’m asked, I’d definitely be there.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“Wait ’til I tell Suzanne. When I sit in the church mostly I see her coming down the aisle to me. Like a miracle.”

“Now there is no more loneliness.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s a blessing Madame Gamache and I had at our wedding. It was read at the end of the ceremony.
Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be shelter for the other,
” Gamache quoted.

Now you will feel no cold

For each of you will be warmth for the other

Now there is no loneliness for you

Now there is no more loneliness

Now there is no more loneliness.

Gamache stopped. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

But Gamache thought the young agent was lying. It was early December, cold and damp and he was immobile.

“Can we use that blessing at our wedding?”

“If you’d like. I can send it to you and you can decide.”

“Great. How does it end? Can you remember?”

Gamache gathered his thoughts, remembering his own wedding. Remembering looking out and seeing all their friends and Reine-Marie’s huge family. And Zora, his grandmother, the only one of his family left, but she was enough. There was no bride’s side and no groom’s side. Instead they all mixed in together.

And then the music had changed and Reine-Marie appeared and Armand knew then he’d been alone all his life, until this moment.

Now there is no more loneliness.

And at the end of the ceremony, the final blessing.

“Go now to your dwelling place,”
he said to Morin.
“To enter into the days of your togetherness. And may your days be good and long upon the earth.”

There was a pause. But not too long. Gamache was about to speak when Agent Morin broke the silence.

“That’s how I feel, that I’m not really alone. Not since I met Suzanne. You know?”

“I do.”

“The only thing wrong with my image of our wedding is that Suzanne always faints or throws up in church.”

“Really? How extraordinary. Why do you think that is?”

“The incense, I think. I hope. Either that or she’s the antichrist.”

“That would mess up the wedding,” said Gamache.

“Not to mention the marriage. I’ve asked and she assures me she isn’t.”

“Well, good enough. Have you considered a pre-nup?”

Paul Morin laughed.

May your days be good and long upon this earth,
thought Gamache.

“You asked to speak with me?”

Gamache’s eyes flew open, jolted. A middle-aged man in a cassock was staring down at him.

“Père Sébastien?”

“That’s right.” The voice was clipped, efficient, officious.

“My name is Armand Gamache. I was hoping for some of your time.”

The man’s beady eyes were hard, wary. “It’s a busy day.” He looked closely at Gamache. “Do I know you?”

Since the priest showed no interest in sitting Gamache stood. “Not personally, no, but you might have heard of me. I’m the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec.”

The man’s face cleared of annoyance and he smiled. “Of course, Chief Inspector.” Now he put out a slender hand and greeted him. “I’m sorry. It’s dark in here, and, do you normally wear a beard?”

“No, I’m incognito,” smiled Gamache.

“Then you might not want to be telling people you’re the head of homicide.”

“Good suggestion.” Gamache looked around. “It’s been a while since I was in the basilica. Not since the
premier
’s funeral a few years ago.”

“I was one of the celebrants,” said Père Sébastien. “Beautiful service.”

Gamache remembered it as formal, stilted, and very, very long.

“Now,” Father Sébastien sat and patted the wood next to him. “Tell me what you’d like to know. Unless it’s the confessional you need?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” the young voice repeated, over and over. Gamache had reassured him it wasn’t his fault, and assured Morin he’d find him before it was too late.

“You’ll be having dinner with your parents and Suzanne tonight.” There’d been a pause and Gamache thought he heard a sob. “I’ll find you.”

Another pause.

“I believe you.”

“No,” Gamache said to the priest, “just information.”

“How can I help?”

“It’s about the murder of Augustin Renaud.”

The priest didn’t look surprised. “Terrible. But I don’t think I can be of much help. I hardly knew the man.”

“But you did know him?”

Père Sébastien looked at Gamache with some suspicion now. “Of course I knew him. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Frankly I don’t know why I’m here, except someone suggested I speak with you. Can you think why?”

The priest became prickly, offended. “Well, maybe because I’m the leading scholar on the early settlement of Québec and the role of the church. But maybe that’s not important.”

Dear God, thought Gamache, save me from a huffy priest. “Forgive me, but I’m not from Quebec City so I’m unfamiliar with your work.”

“My articles are published worldwide.”

This wasn’t getting better.

“
Désolé.
It’s not an area of expertise for me, but it’s clearly of immense importance and I desperately need your help.”

The priest relaxed a bit, his hackles slowly lying flat. “How can I help?” he asked, coldly.

“What can you tell me about Augustin Renaud?”

“Well, he wasn’t crazy, I can tell you that.” He was the first person to say that and Gamache leaned forward. The priest continued, “He was passionate and obstinate and he was certainly offensive, but he wasn’t crazy. People called him that in order to dismiss the man, take away his credibility. It was a cruel thing to do.”

“You liked him?”

Père Sébastien shifted a little on the hard pew. “I wouldn’t say that. He was a difficult man to like, not very socially adept. Maladroit, in fact. He had only one goal in life and everything else was trivial to him, including people’s feelings. I can see how he’d make a lot of enemies.”

“Could someone have hated him enough to kill?” asked Gamache.

“There’re a lot of reasons for murder, Chief Inspector, as you know.”

“Actually,
mon Père,
I’ve found there’s only one. Beneath all the justifications, all the psychology, all the motives given, like revenge or greed or jealousy, there lies the real reason.”

“And what’s that?”

“Fear. Fear of losing what you have or not getting what you want.”

“And yet, fear of eternal damnation doesn’t stop them.”

“No. Neither does fear of getting caught. Because they don’t believe in either.”

“You think it’s not possible to believe in God and commit murder?”

The priest was staring at Gamache now, his face relaxed, amused even. His eyes calm, his voice light. Then why was he clutching his cassock in his fist?

“Depends on the God you believe in,” said Gamache.

“There is only one God, Chief Inspector.”

“Perhaps, but all sorts of humans who see imperfectly. Even God. Especially God.”

The priest smiled and nodded but his hand tensed even more.

“I’m afraid we’ve wandered off topic,” said Gamache. “My fault. It was foolish of me to debate faith with such a celebrated priest. I am sorry,
mon Père.
We were talking about Augustin Renaud and you were saying he was dismissed as crazy, but in your view he was quite sane. How did you know him?”

“I found him in the basement of the chapel to St. Joseph. He was digging.”

“He’d just started digging?”

“I told you he was monomaniacal. He lost all judgment when it came to Champlain. But he actually found something.”

“What?”

“Some old coins from the 1620s and two coffins. One was very plain and semi-collapsed, but the other was lead-lined. Our theory is that Champlain, like other dignitaries, would have been buried in a lead-lined coffin.”

“And this was where the original chapel stood, before the fire.”

“You’re not quite as ignorant as you pretend, Chief Inspector.”

“Oh, my ignorance knows no bounds, Father.”

“The dig was immediately shut down by the city. It was unauthorized and considered akin to grave robbing. But then Renaud went to the media and made a huge stink. Champlain finally found, the tabloids declared, but uptight, regulation-bound bureaucrats had stopped the excavation. The media decided to portray it as a David and Goliath
fight. Little old Augustin Renaud, valiantly struggling to find the man symbolic of French Québec, and the official archeologists and politicians stopping him.”

“Serge Croix must have loved that,” said Gamache.

Père Sébastien chuckled. “The Chief Archeologist was livid. I had him in here dozens of times over that period, ranting and raving. It wasn’t clear how much of his anger was directed at Renaud personally and how much was fear that Renaud might be right, and maybe this little amateur archeologist would make the biggest discovery of anyone’s career.”

“Champlain.”

“The Father of Québec.”

“But why is it important? Why’re so many people so passionate about where Champlain might be buried?”

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m curious, absolutely. And if he was found I’d visit the site and read everything I could about the discovery, but I don’t take it personally.”

“You think not? I wonder if that’s true. I see a lot of people who don’t realize they have a belief, a faith, until they’re dying, and then they discover it buried deep inside them. There all along.”

“But Champlain was a man, not a faith.”

“Perhaps at first, but he’s become more than that, to some. Come with me.”

Père Sébastien stood, bobbed briefly toward the gold crucifix at the altar and hurried out of the vast church. Gamache followed. Up wooden stairs, through back halls and finally into a cramped office, piled high with books and papers. And on the wall two reproductions. One of Christ, crucified, the other of Champlain.