Bury Your Dead

He leaned forward again and tapped on the keyboard, going here and there, trying to get information more than a century old on people who almost certainly had done nothing extraordinary. There was no reason for a record of them.

He tried down one route, then down another. The address wasn’t very helpful. There were no phone books at the time, no electrical bills. Almost no paper trail, except, perhaps.

He started typing again. Insurance company records. And there he found it, the man who owned the home Madame Claude Marchand, housekeeper, had listed as an address in the census form.

Chiniquy. Charles Paschal Télesphore Chiniquy.

Who died in 1899.

Gamache threw himself back in the chair and grinned broadly.

He had it, he’d done it.

But what did it mean?

FIFTEEN

“You were up late last night.”

Émile Comeau found Armand setting a pot of coffee on the table along with a plate of croissants and jams. He was looking happy, Émile noticed. A spring in his step.

“I was.”

“What were you up to?” Émile sipped the strong, aromatic coffee and reached for a croissant. A few flakes hit the wooden table as he broke it in two.

“I think I’ve figured out what those numbers in Renaud’s journal mean.”

“Is that so? What?”

“You were right, he wasn’t looking for Champlain’s body in the Literary and Historical Society. I think he was looking for books. Those are catalog numbers. They refer to books given to the Lit and His in 1899.”

Émile lowered his croissant, his eyes gleaming. Once an investigator it never left the blood. The need to know.

“What books?”

“I don’t know.” Gamache took a sip of his coffee. “But I do know they were in a lot donated to the Literary and Historical Society by a Madame Claude Marchand. She was a housekeeper for a family named Chiniquy. Charles Paschal Télesphore Chiniquy. He died in 1899. It seems likely the books belonged to him.”

“Chiniquy,” said Émile slowly. “An unusual name.”

Gamache nodded. “Extremely. I looked it up. There’re no Chiniquys here now. Right after breakfast I’m going to access the census information, see if there were Chiniquys in Quebec City in the past.”

“There were.” Émile looked distracted. Not worried, exactly, but perplexed.

“Really?” asked Gamache, waiting while Émile thought.

“This doesn’t make sense,” said Émile at last. “You say Renaud was looking for books that belonged to Chiniquy?”

“I think so. He had their catalog numbers in his diary.”

Émile scratched his neck and his eyes took on a faraway look as he searched for a timid answer. “It doesn’t make sense,” he mumbled again.

“You know the name?” Gamache finally asked.

“I know the name, but it’s odd.”

“How so?”

“Well, that Augustin Renaud should be interested in anything belonging to Chiniquy.”

There was a pause while Émile thought.

“Who was this Chiniquy?” Gamache pressed. “How do you know of him? Was he a member of the Champlain Society too?”

“No, not that I know of. Almost certainly not. As far as I know he had nothing to do with Champlain.”

“So who was he?”

“A priest,” said Émile. “A blip in Québec history, but a loud one at the time. Quite a character. Famous for his temperance campaigns. This was back in the 1860s or 70s. He hated alcohol, thought it led to all sorts of social and spiritual ills. From what I remember he had only the one interest, getting poor Québécois laborers to quit drinking. He became quite famous for a while, but he also alienated the Catholic Church. I can’t remember the details but he quit the church and became a fervent Protestant. Used to hang around bars and brothels on Petit-Champlain in the Lower Town trying to convince the drunks to give it up. Had a sanatorium outside the city for a while.”

“Renaud was fixated on Champlain, and Chiniquy was fixated on temperance,” said Gamache, almost to himself. Then he shook his head. Like his mentor he couldn’t see a connection between the father of Québec in 1635, an 1800s teetotaler and a body three days ago in the Lit and His.

Except, maybe, the books. What were the books?

“Why would a Champlain scholar want books collected by a lapsed priest?” he asked, but got no answer. “Chiniquy showed no interest in Champlain?”

Émile shook his head and shrugged, flummoxed. “But I don’t know much about the man and what I just told you might be wrong. Would you like me to look further?”

Gamache got up. “Please. But first, I’m going back to Renaud’s apartment. Maybe the books are there. Would you like to come?”

“Absolument.”

As they put on their heavy winter parkas Émile realized how natural it felt to follow this man. Chief Inspector Émile Comeau had seen Gamache arrive, an eager young agent in homicide. Had watched his wavy dark hair thin and turn gray, his body thicken, his marriage, his children, his rise through the ranks. He’d promoted him to Inspector, had seen the young man take command, naturally. Had watched as older, more experienced agents ceded their place, turning to him for his opinion, his leadership.