Bury Your Dead

“Do you mind if we go through the boxes?” Gamache asked.

“Not at all. The other officers took a look but didn’t seem very interested. What are you looking for exactly?”

“Two books,” said Gamache. They’d walked to the back of the apartment, into the large, old-fashioned kitchen. “Unfortunately we don’t know what they are.”

“Well, I hope you find them here.” She opened a door and turned on a light.

Gamache and Émile saw wooden steps going straight down into a dark cellar with a dirt floor. A slight musky aroma met them, and as they headed down the stairs it felt a bit like wading into water. Gamache could feel the cool air creep up his legs until it was at his chest, his head and he was submerged in the dank and the chill.

“Watch your heads,” she called but both men were familiar with these old homes and had already ducked. “The boxes are over by the far wall.”

It took a moment for Gamache’s eyes to adjust, but finally they did and he saw the four cardboard boxes. Walking over he knelt at one while Émile took another.

Gamache’s box contained a variety of books in different sizes. First he checked their catalog numbers. All were from the Literary and Historical Society, a few even had the name Charles Chiniquy written in but none matched the numbers in the diary. He moved to another box.

That box was filled with bound sermons, reference books and old family bibles, some Catholic, some Presbyterian. He opened the first book and checked the number. 9-8495. His heart quickened. This was the box. Opening the next book and the next, the numbers mounted. 9-8496, 8497, 8498. Gamache brought out the next book, a black leather collection of sermons and opened it. 9-8500.

He stared at it, willing the numbers to change, then he carefully, slowly opened again and replaced each of the twenty books in the box. One was indeed missing.

9-8499.

It had sat between that book of sermons and Chiniquy’s confirmation bible.

“Maudits,” Gamache swore under his breath. Why wasn’t it there?

“Any luck?” He turned to Émile.

“Nothing. The damned book should be right here,” Émile shoved a finger between two volumes. “But it’s gone. 9-8572. Do you think someone got here first?”

“Madame Renaud said only Langlois’s team has been.”

“Still, what is here might be helpful,” said Émile.

Gamache peered into the box. It contained a series of black leather volumes, spine out, all the same size. Gamache took one out and examined it. It was a diary. Émile’s box contained the diary and journals of Charles Paschal Télesphore Chiniquy.

“Each book is a year,” said Émile. “The missing one is for 1869.”

Gamache sat back on his haunches and looked at his mentor, who was smiling.

Even in the dim light of the basement Gamache could see Émile’s eyes were bright. “Well, Chief?” said Émile, straightening up. “What next?”

“There’s only one thing to do now, Chief,” smiled Gamache. He picked up the box of Chiniquy journals. “Go for a drink.”

The two men returned upstairs and with Madame Renaud’s permission they left with the box. Just around the corner was the Café Krieghoff and a chilly minute later they were there, sitting at a corner table by the window, away from other patrons. It was six in the evening and the work crowd was just arriving. Civil servants, politicians from the nearby government offices, professors, writers and artists. It was a bohemian hangout, a separatist haunt, and had been for decades.

The waitress, clad in jeans and a sweater, brought them a bowl of nuts and two Scotches. They sipped, nibbled the nuts, and read from Chiniquy’s journals. It was fascinating stuff, insight into a mind both noble and mad. A mind with absolutely no insight into itself, a mind filled with purpose and delusion.

He would save souls and screw his superiors.

Gamache’s phone vibrated and he took the call.

“Chief?”

“Salut Jean-Guy. How are you?”

The question was no longer simply politesse but was asked with sincerity.

“I’m actually doing well. Better.”

And he sounded it. There was an energy to the younger man’s voice Gamache hadn’t heard in months.

“You? Where are you? I hear lots of noise.”

“Café Krieghoff.”

Beauvoir’s laugh came down the telephone line. “Deep into a case, I see.”

“Bien sûr. And you?” He could hear sounds as well.

“The bistro. Research.”

“Of course. Poor one.”

“I need your help,” said Beauvoir. “About the murder of the Hermit.”

TWENTY

It took Chief Inspector Gamache a moment to tear himself away from the 1860s Québec of Charles Chiniquy’s journals to the quaint village of Three Pines today.

And yet, it wasn’t that much of a leap. He suspected Three Pines probably hadn’t changed all that much in the last 150 years. Had Father Chiniquy chosen to visit the tiny hamlet he’d have seen the same old stone houses, the clapboard homes with dormers and smoking chimneys. He’d have walked across the village green to the shops made of faded rose brick, pausing perhaps to admire the trinity of trees at the very center of the community.