Bury Your Dead

He’d told them about Chiniquy, he’d told them about James Douglas. About Patrick and O’Mara. And he showed them the books, the ones they’d unwittingly sold from their collection.

Including perhaps the most valuable volume in Canada today.

An original Huguenot bible belonging to Samuel de Champlain.

That had brought groans from the board members, but no recriminations. They were beginning to band together, to shore up their differences.

Things are strongest when they’re broken, Agent Morin had said, and Armand Gamache knew it to be true. And he knew he was witnessing a broken community, fractured by unkind time and events, and a temperament not, perhaps, best suited to change.

But it was pulling together, mending, and it would be very strong indeed because it was so broken. As Ken Haslam had been broken, by years of hushing. As Elizabeth MacWhirter had been worn down by years of polishing the façade. As Porter Wilson and Winnie and Mr. Blake had been shattered watching family, friends, influence, institutions disappear.

Only young Tom Hancock was unscathed, for now.

“So when Augustin Renaud came to speak to us a week ago he wanted to dig?” asked Mr. Blake.

“I believe so. He was convinced Champlain was buried in your basement, put there by James Douglas and Father Chiniquy.”

“And he was right,” said Porter, all bravado gone. “What’ll they do to us when they find out we’ve been hiding Champlain all these years?”

“We didn’t hide him,” said Winnie. “We didn’t even know he was there.”

“Try convincing the tabloids of that,” said Porter. “And even if most believe us, the fact is, it was still an Anglo conspiracy.”

“A conspiracy of two,” said Mr. Blake. “More than a hundred years ago. Not the whole community.”

“And you think if James Douglas had asked the community they’d have disagreed?” demanded Porter, making a more coherent argument than Gamache had thought him capable of. One thing was certain, he knew his community, as did Mr. Blake, who accepted that Porter, finally, was right.

“This is a disaster,” said Winnie and no one contradicted her, except Gamache.

“Well, not entirely. The coffin was Champlain’s, but the body inside wasn’t.”

Now they gaped at him. Dying men thrown a rope, a slender hope.

They were hushed. And finally Ken Haslam spoke, his voice filling the room, squeezing them all into the corners.

“Who was he?”

“She. The body in the coffin appears to be female.”

“She? What was she doing in Champlain’s coffin?” Haslam shouted.

“We don’t know, but we will.”

Beside him Émile’s eyes slid from Haslam to Elizabeth MacWhirter. She looked sad and frightened. Her veneer cracking. Émile smiled at her slightly. An encouraging look from someone who knew what it felt like to be shattered.

“Things are strongest where they’re broken,” Agent Morin laughed. “Good thing too, since I’m always dropping things. Suzanne’s pretty clumsy too, you know. We’re going to have to put our babies in bubble wrap. Babies bounce, right?”

“Not twice,” said Gamache and Morin laughed again.

“Oh well, I guess we’ll have strong kids.”

“Without a doubt.”

“I started with the assumption that the killer had found one of the Hermit’s treasures in the antique shop,” said Beauvoir, “and traced it back here to Three Pines.”

The only sounds now in the bistro were the crackling of the log fire and snow hitting the windows.

Inside, the fireplaces threw odd shadows against the walls but none of them threatening. Not to Beauvoir, but he suspected at least one person in this room was beginning to find it close, tight, claustrophobic.

“But who could it be? The Gilberts had bought a lot of antiques from that very store. The Parras? They’d inherited a lot of things from their family in the Czech Republic and managed to get them out when the wall came down. By their own admission, they’d sold most of it to pay for their new home. Perhaps they sold the things through Les Temps Perdu. Old Mundin? Well, he restores antiques. Wouldn’t he also be drawn to the terrific shops on rue Notre-Dame?

“It hardly seemed to narrow the suspects, so I looked at another clue. Woo. Olivier had described the Hermit whispering the word when he was particularly distressed. It was upsetting to him. But what did ‘woo’ mean? Was it a name, a nickname?”

He looked over to the Gilbert table. Like the rest they were staring, entranced and guarded.

“Was ‘woo’ short-form for a name that was hard to say, particularly for a child? That’s when most nicknames are given, isn’t it? In childhood. I was at the Mundins’ and heard little Charlie speaking. Shoo, for chaud. Kids do that, trying to get their tongues around hard words. Like Woloshyn. Woo.”

Clara leaned in to Myrna and whispered, “That’s what I was afraid of. As soon as I heard her maiden name was Woloshyn.”

Myrna raised her brows and turned, with the rest of them, to look at Carole Gilbert.

Carole didn’t move but Vincent Gilbert did. He rose to his full height, his towering personality filling the room.