Bury Your Dead (22 page)

The priest cleared magazines off two chairs and they sat.

“Champlain was a remarkable man, you know, and yet we know almost nothing about him. Even his birthday is a mystery. We don’t even know what he looked like. This painting? Does it look familiar?”

He motioned to the one on the wall. It was the image of Champlain every Quebecker knew, every Canadian knew. It showed a man about thirty wearing a green doublet, a lace collar, white gloves and a sword and hilt. His hair was in the style of the 1600s, long, dark and slightly
curled. He had a trim beard and moustache. It was a handsome, intelligent face, a lean, athletic face with large, thoughtful eyes.

Samuel de Champlain. Gamache would pick him out of any lineup.

He nodded.

“That’s not him,” said Père Sébastien.

“It isn’t?”

“Look at this.” Sébastien pulled a book from the burdened bookcase. Flipping it open he handed it to the Chief Inspector. “Look familiar?”

There was the painting of a man, slightly pudgy, standing in front of a window with a verdant scene behind him. He was about thirty, wearing a green doublet, a lace collar, white gloves and a sword and hilt. His hair was in the style of the 1600s, long, dark and slightly curled. He had a trim beard and moustache. It was a handsome, intelligent face, with large, thoughtful eyes.

“That’s Michel Particelli d’Emery, an accountant for Louis XIII.”

“But it’s Champlain,” said Gamache. “Slightly heavier, and turned in the other direction, but essentially the same man, even down to the clothing.”

He handed the book back to the priest, stunned. Father Sébastien was smiling and nodding. “Someone lifted this image, tweaked it to make him look more courageous, more our image of a brave explorer, and called it Champlain.”

“But why would anyone have to? If there’re paintings of minor aristocrats and tradesmen, isn’t there a portrait of Champlain?”

The priest leaned forward, animated. “There’s not a single portrait of the man done during his life. We have no idea what he looked like. That’s not all. Why wasn’t Champlain ever given a title, or land here? He wasn’t even officially the Governor of Québec.”

“Have we exaggerated his significance?” asked Gamache and immediately regretted it. Again the priest bristled as though the Chief Inspector had thrown dirt on his idol.

“No. Every document we do have confirms he was the father of Québec. The records were written at the time by the Récollets. They founded the mission and the chapel. Champlain left half his money to them. He had the church built to celebrate the return of Québec from the English. He hated the English you know.”

“Hard not to hate an enemy. I suspect the English felt the same about him.”

“Perhaps. But it wasn’t just because they were enemies. He considered the English the real savages. Considered them cruel, especially to the natives. Reading Champlain’s diaries it became clear he’d developed a special relationship with the Huron and Algonquins. They taught him how to live in this country, and gave him detailed information on the waterways.

“He hated the English because they were more interested in slaughtering the Indians than working with them. Don’t get me wrong, Champlain saw the Indians as savages too. But he knew he could learn from them and he worried about their immortal souls.”

“And their furs?”

“Well, he was a businessman,” admitted Père Sébastien.

Gamache looked again at the painting on the wall next to the crucified Christ. “So we don’t know what Champlain looked like, when he was born, or where he’s buried. What do his diaries tell us about him?”

“That’s interesting too. They tell us next to nothing. They’re basically agendas about his travels and daily life here, but not his internal life, not his thoughts and feelings. He kept his private life private.”

“Even in his own diaries? Why?”

Sébastien put his palms to the ceiling in a stupefied manner. “There’re some theories. One is that he was a spy for the King of France, another is even more compelling. Some think he was actually the son of the King. Illegitimate, of course. But that might explain the mystery of his birth and the secrecy surrounding a man who should have been celebrated. It might also explain why he was sent here, to the middle of nowhere.”

“You said Augustin Renaud found a lead-lined coffin beneath one of the sanctuaries along with some coins but that the dig was stopped. Could he have been right? Might it be Champlain?”

“Would you like to see?”

Gamache stood. “Please.”

They walked back the way they came, each pausing to cross himself, and across the knave to a small grotto area with a tiny altar lit by votives.

“It’s through here.” Sébastien squeezed behind the altar and
through a tiny archway. A flashlight balanced on a rough rock ledge and the priest turned it on, flooding the cramped area. The center of the beam played over the stones and came to rest on a coffin.

Gamache felt a thrill. Could this be him?

“Has it been opened?” Gamache dropped his voice.

“No,” whispered the priest. “After all that publicity the city finally agreed to let Renaud continue the dig, under their supervision. Privately the official archeologists were furious, publicly they sounded happy with the compromise. But after more imaging was done and records pored over it was decided this wasn’t Champlain but a much more recent coffin of a mid-level curate.”

“Are they sure?” Gamache turned to Father Sébastien, barely visible in the gloom. “Are you sure?”

“I was the one who convinced the city to continue the dig. I actually respected Renaud. He didn’t have a degree and he wasn’t trained, but he wasn’t a fool. And he’d found something no one else had, including me.”

“But had he found Champlain?”

“Not here. I wanted to believe it was. It would’ve been a coup for the church, brought in more people, and yes, more money. But when we looked closer and added it all up, it just wasn’t going to be Champlain.”

“But the coins?”

“They were from the 1600s and confirmed this was once the site of the original chapel and the cemetery, but nothing more.”

The two men emerged into the light of the little sanctuary.

“What do you think happened to Champlain, Father?”

The priest paused. “I think after the fire he was reburied. There’s a reference to a reburial taking place, but they don’t say where, and no official documents exist. This church has burned down a few times, taking valuable records with it each time.”

“You’ve studied Champlain most of your life, what do you think?”

“You asked me earlier why he mattered, why any of this mattered, and certainly why finding his body matters. It does. Champlain wasn’t simply the founder of a colony, there was something different about him, something that separated him from every explorer who’d gone before. And that I think explains how he managed to succeed where others failed. And why he’s remembered today, and revered.”

“What made him different?”

“He never referred to Québec as New France, you know. In France they did. Later regimes did. But never Champlain. Do you know what he called this place?”

Gamache thought about that. They were in the body of the church again and he stared, almost unseeing, down the long empty path that ended in the golden altar and the saints and martyrs, angels and crucifixes.

“The New World,” said Gamache at last.

“The New World,” agreed Père Sébastien. “That is why he’s loved. He’s a symbol of all that is great, all that is brave, all that Québec could have been and might be again. He’s a symbol of freedom and sacrifice and vision. He didn’t just create a colony, he created a New World. And he’s adored for it.”

“By the separatists.”

“By everyone,” the priest eyed Gamache closely. “By yourself included, I think.”

“It’s true,” admitted Gamache and thought of that painting of Samuel de Champlain, and realized it reminded him of someone. Not just the plump and prosperous accountant, but someone else.

Christ. Jesus Christ.

They’d made Champlain look like the savior. And now the man who would raise him was dead. Killed, if you believed the tabloids, by the English, who may very well be also hiding the body of Champlain.

“Could Champlain be buried in the Literary and Historical Society?”

“Not a chance,” said Père Sébastien without hesitation. “That was wilderness in his day. They’d not have reburied him there.”

Unless, thought Gamache, the founder wasn’t quite the saint he’d become.

“Where do you think he is?” Gamache asked, again.

They were standing at the door, on the icy steps of the Basilica.

“Not far.”

Before ducking back into the church the priest nodded. Across the street. To the Café Buade.

It wasn’t quite five in the afternoon and the sun was down. Elizabeth MacWhirter looked out the window. A small crowd had been milling outside the Literary and Historical Society all day. A bold few had come inside, almost daring the members to toss them out. Instead Winnie had greeted them, given them the bilingual brochures and invited them to join.

She’d even given some of the more brazen a brief tour of the library, pointing out the fine pillows on the walls, the collection of figs on the shelves and asking if any of them would like to become umlauts.

Not surprisingly few did. But three people actually paid twenty dollars and joined, shamed into it by Winnie’s obvious kindness and handicap.

“Did you mention that the night is a strawberry?” Elizabeth asked when Winnie returned with a membership payment.

“I did. They didn’t disagree. Ready?”

Before turning out the lights and locking up they checked the main library. More than once they’d locked poor Mr. Blake in, but his chair was empty. He’d already gone across to the rectory.

The crowd had disappeared, the dark and cold having killed curiosity. The two women walked cautiously over the path of hardened snow, planting their feet firmly and carefully. Watching their own steps, watching each other’s.

In winter the very ground seemed to reach up and grab the elderly, yanking them to earth as though hungry for them. Shattering a hip or wrist, or neck. Best to take it slow.

Their destination wasn’t far. They could see the lights through the windows of the rectory. It was a lovely stone building, gracious in proportions with tall windows to catch every ray of a miserly winter sun. Walking slowly, side by side, Elizabeth could feel her cheeks freeze in just this short stroll. Their feet squeaked on the snow, making a sound she’d heard for almost eighty years. A sound she’d never trade for waves lapping on a Florida shore.

Lights were appearing in homes and restaurants, reflecting off the white snow. It was a city that lent itself to winter, and to darkness. It became even cozier, more inviting, more magical, like a fairy-tale kingdom. And we’re the peasants, thought Elizabeth with a wry smile.

As they crept up the walk they could see through the window the fire in the hearth and Tom handing around drinks. Mr. Blake and Porter were already there and Ken Haslam was sitting in an armchair, reading a newspaper.

He missed nothing, Elizabeth knew. It was a mistake to underestimate Ken, as people had all his life. People always dismissed the quiet ones, which was ironic in Ken’s case, Elizabeth knew. She also knew why he was quiet. But she’d never tell a soul.

Elizabeth MacWhirter knew everything, and forgot nothing.

The two women entered the rectory without knocking, took off their coats and boots and before long they too were in front of the roaring fire in the large living room. Porter handed a Scotch to Winnie and a sherry to Elizabeth and the two women sat beside each other on the sofa.

It was a room they knew well from the intimate chamber music concerts, from the tea parties and cocktail parties. From the lunches and bridge parties and dinners. Larger community events were held in the church hall just across the way, but this home had become the center of their more intimate gatherings.

Elizabeth noticed Ken’s lips were moving. He smiled and she smiled.

Being with Ken was like being with a permanently foreign friend. It was impossible to understand them, but all you really needed to do was reflect back their own expressions. When Ken looked sad, they looked sad. When he looked happy, they smiled. It was actually very relaxing to be around him. Not much was expected.