Bury Your Dead

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.