Bury Your Dead

“Temperance,” said Gamache.

“The pledge,” agreed Mr. Blake. “Get them to stop drinking, or never start. And tens of thousands did, thanks to Father Chiniquy. His public rallies became famous. He was the Billy Graham of his day, drawing people from all over Québec and the eastern United States. People couldn’t sign up fast enough to take the pledge.”

“All inspired by James Douglas,” said Émile.

“They were lifelong friends,” said Elizabeth.

A movement in the shadows caught Gamache’s peripheral vision. He glanced up to the gallery but saw only the wooden statue of General Wolfe looking down on them, listening. But still, the Chief Inspector had the impression the General hadn’t been alone. Someone else had been standing there, in the shadows. Hiding among the books, the stories. Listening. To the story of two inspired madmen, two old friends.

But there was another madman in the story. Augustin Renaud, who was also obsessed with the dead.

“The sale of books last year,” Gamache began and immediately felt the shift in mood. Both Elizabeth MacWhirter and Mr. Blake became guarded. “I understand it wasn’t very popular.”

“No, within the English community it wasn’t popular,” admitted Elizabeth. “We eventually had to stop.”

“Why?”

“Reactionaries,” said Mr. Blake. “Perhaps not surprisingly the strongest opposition came from people who’d never even been in the Lit and His. They just hated the idea on principle.”

“And what principle might that be?” asked Émile.

“That the Lit and His was created to preserve English history,” said Elizabeth. “And any scrap of paper with English writing on it, every shopping list, every journal, every letter was sacred. By selling some off we were betraying our heritage. It just didn’t feel right.”

Feelings. As much as people tried to rationalize, tried to justify, tried to explain, eventually everything came down to feelings.

“Did anyone go through the books? How’d you decide what to sell?” Gamache asked.

“We started in the basement, ones that were deemed unimportant when they came in and so stayed in boxes. There were so many, I’m afraid we were overwhelmed and just sold them by the box load, happy to be rid of them.”

“You had two sales?” asked the Chief.

“Yes. The first was in the summer, then we had a smaller, quieter one later. That was mostly to bookstores and people who seemed sympathetic to what we were doing.”

“The books donated by Mrs. Claude Marchand back in 1899 were among the ones you sold,” said Gamache.

“Is that right?” said Elizabeth.

“Is it significant?” asked Mr. Blake.

“We think so. Mrs. Marchand was Charles Chiniquy’s housekeeper in Montreal. After his death they must have divided up his things and given her some of the books, or perhaps he asked that they be sent here. Either way, she must have known he had a relationship with the Literary and Historical Society and so sent them on. It seems when they arrived they were kept in boxes and probably put in your basement. People either didn’t bother looking at them or didn’t see their value.”

“Are you saying we had a collection of Chiniquy’s books and never even knew it?” asked Mr. Blake, getting quite agitated. “This is the very thing people were afraid of. That in our rush we’d sell off treasures. What were they?”

“We don’t know,” admitted Gamache. “But some were bought by Augustin Renaud and two books interested him in particular.”

“Which ones?”

“Again, we don’t know. We have the catalog numbers, but that’s all. No titles, no idea what was in them.”

“What could Father Chiniquy possibly have that Augustin Renaud would want?” Elizabeth asked herself. “Chiniquy wasn’t interested in Champlain, at least not that we know of.”

There were actually two questions, thought Gamache. What were those books? And why can’t we find them?

Émile and Gamache paused outside the Lit and His.

“So, what do you think?” Émile asked, putting on his mitts and hat.

“I think if Chin is Chiniquy in Augustin Renaud’s diary then JD must be James Douglas.”

“And Patrick and O’Mara are long dead too,” said Émile, his breath coming in puffs and his mouth already growing numb in the cold. Still the two men stood and talked.

Gamache nodded. “Renaud wasn’t planning to meet those four men, he was making a note of a meeting they had. Here. More than a hundred years ago.” 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">