Bury Your Dead

“That’s that library, isn’t it? The place you’ve been working?” Émile broke open a croissant and the flakes tumbled to the table. Émile had had dinner with friends the night before so he and Gamache hadn’t seen each other since the murder.

“The Lit and His, yes,” said Gamache.

Émile looked at him with mock seriousness. “You can tell me Armand. You didn’t—”

“Kill him? I could never kill a stranger. Now, a friend . . .”

Émile Comeau laughed then grew quiet. “Poor man.”

“Poor man. I was there you know. Inspector Langlois was good enough to let me sit in on the initial questioning.”

As they ate Gamache told Émile about his day, his mentor peppering him with succinct questions.

Finally Émile Comeau leaned back in his chair, his breakfast finished but another appetite piqued. “So what do you think, Armand? Are the English hiding something? Why ask for your help if they aren’t afraid?”

“You’re quite right, they are afraid, but not of the truth. I think they’re afraid of how this looks.”

“With good reason,” said Émile. “What was Renaud doing there?”

That was the big question, Gamache thought. Almost as big as who killed the man. Why was he at the Literary and Historical Society?

“Émile?” Gamache leaned forward, cupping his large hands round his mug. “You’re a member of the Champlain Society. You know a lot more about this than I do. Could Renaud have had something? Could Champlain possibly be buried there?”

“Come for lunch at the St-Laurent Bar.” Émile stood. “I’ll have some people there who can better answer that.”

Gamache left Henri at home, something he rarely did but the place he was going didn’t welcome dogs, though privately he thought they should. Dogs, cats, hamsters, horses, chipmunks. Birds.

And yet there were only people at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church for Sunday service, and quite a few. The benches were filling quickly. He recognized some as reporters, the rest were probably more interested in gossip than God. Most of the day’s congregants, he suspected, had never been inside this church, perhaps never even realized it was there. It had been discovered, along with the body.

English Quebec was on parade.

All the pews were built in a semi-circle facing the pulpit and Gamache found a seat on a curving bench near the side of the church. He sat quietly for a few minutes, marveling at his surroundings.

The church seemed filled with light. It streamed through the bright and cheerful stained glass windows. The thick walls were plastered and painted a cream color, but it was the ceiling he couldn’t help staring at. It was painted a fresh robin’s egg blue and rose above the sweeping, graceful semi-circular balcony.

Something else struck the Chief Inspector. There wasn’t a crucifix in sight.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

Gamache turned and noticed Elizabeth MacWhirter had slipped in beside him.

“It is,” he whispered. “Has the church been here long?”

“Two hundred and fifty years. We just celebrated the anniversary. Of course, Holy Trinity Anglican is the big church. Most of the English community goes there, but we struggle along.”

“Is it affiliated with the Literary and Historical Society? It seems to be on the same grounds.”

“Only informally. The minister sits on the board, but that’s just coincidence. The Anglican archbishop used to be on the board but he moved a few years ago so we decided to ask the Presbyterian to join us.”

“Do you always get this sort of turnout?” Gamache nodded to the people now needing to stand at the back.

Elizabeth shook her head and smiled. “Normally we could stretch out and sleep in the pews, and don’t think a few of us haven’t done it.”

“It’ll be a good collection today.”

“Better be. The church needs a new roof. But I suspect this lot is only here to gawk. Did you see the article in Le Journalist this morning?”

The local rag, Gamache knew. He shook his head. “Only Le Soleil. Why? What did it say?”

“It didn’t actually say anything, but it did suggest that the English had murdered Renaud to keep our dark secret.”

“And that would be?”

“That Champlain is buried under the Lit and His, of course.”

“And is he?”

It was his impression Elizabeth MacWhirter had been startled by his question. But the organ had begun and the congregation rose and she was spared the need to answer. He knew what she would say. 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">