Bury Your Dead

Motive and opportunity, Beauvoir had said, and of course, he was right. A murderer had to have both a reason to kill and a chance to do it.

He’d been wrong in the Hermit case, had been blinded by the treasure, had seen just the façade of the case and had failed to see what was hiding beneath it.

Was he making the same mistake with this case? Was Champlain’s grave the big, shiny, obvious motive, that was wrong? Maybe this had nothing to do with the search for the founder of Québec. But if not, what else was there? Renaud’s life was consumed by only one thing, surely his death was too.

Walking up the steps he tried the door to the Lit and His only to discover it locked. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t yet nine in the morning, of course it’d be locked. Now he was at a loss and, perversely, he felt even more strongly the need to get in.

Pulling out his phone he dialed. After the second ring a woman answered, her voice strong and clear.

“Oui allô?”

“Madame MacWhirter, it’s Armand Gamache. Désolé, I hope I’m not disturbing you so early.”

“Not at all, I was just sitting down to breakfast. What can I do for you?”

Gamache hesitated. “Well, it’s a little embarrassing, but I’m afraid I’ve been overly ambitious with time. I’m outside the Literary and Historical Society but, of course, it’s locked.”

She laughed. “We’ve never had a member so anxious to get in. It’s a novel experience. I have a key—”

“I don’t want to disturb your breakfast.”

“Well, you can’t just stand on the stoop waiting, you’ll freeze to death.”

And Gamache knew that wasn’t just a figure of speech. Every winter scores of people did just that. They were out in the cold too long, had exposed too much of themselves. And it killed them.

“Come over here, have a coffee and we’ll head back together in a few minutes.”

Gamache recognized a command when he heard it. She gave him her address, a home just around the corner on rue d’Auteuil.

When he arrived a couple minutes later he stood outside and marveled. It was as magnificent as he’d expected. In old Quebec City, “magnificent” wasn’t measured in square feet, but in details. The blocks of gray stone, the carving over the doors and windows, the simple, clean lines. It was a gracious and elegant row of homes.

He’d walked up and down rue d’Auteuil many times in the past. It was a particularly beautiful street in a city thick with them. It followed the line of the old stone walls that defended the capital, but was set back, a ribbon of parkland between the street and the walls. And on the other side of the street, these homes.

This was where the first families of Québec lived, French and English. The premier ministres, the industrialists, the generals and archbishops, all lived in this row of elegant houses looking over the walls as though daring their enemies to attack.

Gamache had been to cocktail parties in some of the homes, a few receptions and at least one state dinner. But he’d never been into the one he stood in front of now. The stone was beautifully pointed, the wood painted, the iron work kept up and repaired.

As he stood on the stoop the door opened. He stepped in quickly, bringing the chill with him. It clung to him as he stood in the dark wood entrance but slowly the cold, like a cloak, slid off.

Elizabeth took his coat and he removed his boots. A neat rank of velvet slippers, some for men, some for women, was lined up in the entrance.

“Take whichever fits, if you’d like.”

He found a pair and wondered how many feet, over how many generations, had used the slippers. They looked Edwardian and felt comfortable.

The walls were papered in a William Morris print, rich, ornate, beautiful. Gleaming mahogany panels went a third of the way up the walls.

On the fine wood floors Indian rugs were scattered.

“Follow me. I eat in the morning room.”

He followed her into a bright and airy room, a fire lit in the hearth, bookcases along a wall, jardinières filled with healthy ferns and Christmas cacti. And a breakfast tray on a hassock in front of the fire. Toast and jam and two bone china coffee cups.

“May I?” she asked.

“Please.”

She poured him a cup and he added a touch of cream and sugar. As he sat in a comfortable chair across from the sofa where she sat, he noticed books on the floor and three newspapers. Le Devoir, Le Soleil and the Gazette.

“What brings you to the Lit and His so early, Chief Inspector?”

“We’re getting closer to knowing what the books were that Augustin Renaud got from your sale.” 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">