Bury Your Dead

The majority of the history in the book concerns Samuel de Champlain. I have to admit, to my shame, I wasn’t all that familiar with him before starting my researches. I knew the name, I knew he was one of the founders of Québec and therefore Canada. I knew his burial place is a mystery. No one has found it. And this has confounded archeologists and historians for decades. This mystery is at the center of my mystery. But it demanded I learn about Champlain. To do that I read a fair amount and spoke with local historians, chief among them Louisa Blair and David Mendel. I was also helped by a wonderful book called Champlain’s Dream, by Professor David Hackett Fischer, of Brandeis University. Professor Hackett Fischer actually came to Quebec City during our stay and when we heard this Michael and I decided to hear him lecture. It struck us (belatedly) as odd that the venue would be a government conference room. When we arrived we sat at the far end of the large table. A very nice young woman approached and asked, in perfect French, who we might be. We, in not so perfect French, explained that I was an English Canadian writer doing research on Champlain and had come to hear the professor speak. She thanked me and a few minutes later a man came by, shook our hands and escorted us to the head of the table. Then everyone stood and the Minister of Culture arrived along with other high government officials. Finally Professor Hackett Fischer came in and was seated right in front of us.

Way too late Michael and I figured out this was a private briefing of high Québec government officials—and us. When they realized who we were, instead of showing us the door, the government officials gave us the best seats and much of the conference was held in English.

This is Québec. Where there is great kindness and accommodation. But there can also be, in some quarters, great suspicions—on both sides.

That is part of what makes Québec so fascinating.

I’d like to thank Jacquie Czernin and Peter Black, of the local CBC Radio, for their help with contacts. And Scott Carnie for his help on some tactical issues.

For those of you who love, as I do, the poetry of the Great War, you’ll recognize that I paraphrase a stunning poem by Wilfred Owen called “Dulce et Decorum Est.”

Bury Your Dead owes a great deal to my wonderful agent Teresa Chris and editors, Hope Dellon, Sherise Hobbs and Dan Mallory. Their kind words and critical eyes bring out the best in the book and in me as a writer.

Finally, I’d like to mention that the Literary and Historical Society is a gem, but like most libraries it now functions on little money and the good will of volunteers both Francophone and Anglophone. If you’d like to join, or visit, please contact them at: www.morrin.org.

This is a very special book for me, on so many levels, as I hope you’ll see. Like the rest of the Chief Inspector Gamache books, Bury Your Dead is not about death, but about life. And the need to both respect the past and let it go.

BURY YOUR DEAD

ONE

Up the stairs they raced, taking them two at a time, trying to be as quiet as possible. Gamache struggled to keep his breathing steady, as though he was sitting at home, as though he had not a care in the world.

“Sir?” came the young voice over Gamache’s headphones.

“You must believe me, son. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

He hoped the young agent couldn’t hear the strain in his voice, the flattening as the Chief Inspector fought to keep his voice authoritative, certain.

“I believe you.”

They reached the landing. Inspector Beauvoir stopped, staring at his Chief. Gamache looked at his watch.

47 seconds.

Still time.

In his headphones the agent was telling him about the sunshine and how good it felt on his face.

The rest of the team made the landing, tactical vests in place, automatic weapons drawn, eyes sharp. Trained on the Chief. Beside him Inspector Beauvoir was also waiting for a decision. Which way? They were close. Within feet of their quarry.

Gamache stared down one dark, dingy corridor in the abandoned factory then down the other.

They looked identical. Light scraped through the broken, grubby windows lining the halls and with it came the December day.

43 seconds.

He pointed decisively to the left and they ran, silently, toward the door at the end. As he ran Gamache gripped his rifle and spoke calmly into the headset.

“There’s no need to worry.”

“There’s forty seconds left, sir.” Each word was exhaled as though the man on the other end was having difficulty breathing.

“Just listen to me,” said Gamache, thrusting his hand toward a door. The team surged ahead.

36 seconds.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” said Gamache, his voice convincing, commanding, daring the young agent to contradict. “You’ll be having dinner with your family tonight.”

“Yes sir.”

The tactical team surrounded the closed door with its frosted, filthy window. Darkened.