Bury Your Dead
Page 103“I don’t say the Chiniquy books really did answer the mystery of Champlain,” Gamache explained. “Only that Renaud believed they did.”
Croix’s eyes narrowed but Gamache could see he was no longer dismissing the question. Finally he shook his head.
“I have another question,” said the Chief Inspector. “Chiniquy and James Douglas were friends, correct?”
Croix nodded, interested in where this might be going.
“Why would they meet two Irish immigrant laborers in 1869?”
“The workers were either drunk or insane or both. No big mystery there.”
“Except there is. They met at the Literary and Historical Society.”
That gave Croix pause.
“Now, that is a mystery,” he admitted. “The Irish hated the English. There’s no way they’d have gone to the Literary and Historical Society voluntarily.”
“You mean, it wouldn’t have been their idea?”
“I frankly doubt they could even read and write. Probably didn’t know the Literary and Historical Society existed and if they did, the last place they’d want to go is into the heart of the Anglo establishment.”
When no answer came Gamache fished into his breast pocket and brought out the old photograph.
“These are the workers, the ones smiling. Shortly after this was taken that man,” Gamache placed his finger on the figure of Sean Patrick, “bought a home in the Upper Town, just around the corner from here on des Jardins.”
“Impossible.”
“Fact.”
Croix searched Gamache’s face then returned to the photograph.
“Do you know what digging work was going on at the time?”
“In 1869? Lots I’d imagine.”
“It would be the summer, judging by what they’re wearing and probably in the old city. Look at the stonework.”
Croix examined the grainy photo and nodded.
“I can try to find out.”
“How did you find out about this meeting between Chiniquy, Douglas and the laborers?” Croix asked.
“From Renaud’s diary. I have no idea how he knew about it. Presumably it’s in one of the books he found. He bought the Chiniquy collection from the Literary and Historical Society. There was something in them, but we can’t find the books. Renaud seems to have hidden them. What could hundred-year-old books contain that someone was willing to kill for them?” Gamache wondered.
“You’d be surprised. Not everything buried is actually dead,” said the archeologist. “For many the past is alive.”
What putrid piece of history was walking among them? Gamache wondered. What had Augustin Renaud disturbed?
He remembered an entry in Renaud’s diary. Not the one circled and exclaimed over but a quieter entry, a meeting he would never make. With an SC.
The Chief Inspector slowly returned the photograph to his pocket, watching Croix, who was walking back to his work table.
“Were you going to meet Augustin Renaud?”
Croix stopped, then turned and stared.
“What?”
“Thursday at one o’clock. Augustin Renaud had an appointment with an SC.”
“With the initials SC, yes. Was it you?”
“Me, have lunch with Renaud? I wouldn’t be seen in the same room with the man if I could help it. No. He was always asking, demanding, to meet with me, but I never agreed. He was a nasty little piece of work who thought he knew better than anyone else. He was vindictive and manipulative and stupid.”
“And maybe, finally, he was right,” said Gamache. “Maybe he found Champlain. Was that what you were afraid of? That he might actually succeed? Is that why you tried to stop him at every turn?”
“I tried to stop him because he was a bumbling idiot who was ruining perfectly good and valuable archeological digs with his fantasies. He was a menace.”
Serge Croix’s voice had risen so that the harsh words bounced and throbbed off the hard stone walls, coming back at the two men. Filling the space with rage that echoed and grew.
But the last sentence was rasped out. Barely audible, it scraped along the dirt floor and gave Gamache a chill.
“You tried to stop him. Did you finally succeed?”
“You mean did I kill him?” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">