Bury Your Dead
Page 95The men looked up at the building, rising behind them.
“And 18 whatever? The number in his diary?” Émile asked. “A time? A date?”
Gamache smiled. “We’ll find out.”
“We will,” agreed Émile. It felt good to be working together again. “Coming?”
“I have a quick stop to make first. Can you take Henri home?”
Gamache watched Henri and Émile stepping carefully down rue St-Stanislas, making sure not to slip on the ice and snow.
The Chief Inspector walked the few meters to St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church. Trying the door he was somewhat surprised to find it unlocked. He poked his head into the church. The robin’s egg blue ceiling was softly lit but the rest was in twilight.
“Hello,” he called and his voice rattled round and finally disappeared. His intention was to speak to the young minister but he found himself drawn into the calm space. Taking his coat off he sat quietly for a few minutes, occasionally taking a deep breath and a long exhale.
Now there is no more loneliness.
Closing his eyes he let the voice loose, to play. To run around in his head, to laugh and tell him once again about breaking his first violin, a tiny one lent by the school. Worth more money than they had and his mother mending it and handing it back to the distraught boy reassuring him.
“What a kind thing to say,” Gamache said and meant.
“To a clumsy boy,” Morin agreed. “I broke everything. Violins, vacuums, glasses, plates, you name it. I once broke a hammer. If I didn’t break it I lost it.”
Morin laughed.
Gamache felt himself almost nodding off in the warmth and the peace and the soft laughter in his head, and when he opened his eyes he was surprised to find he was no longer alone. The young minister was sitting quietly at the other end of the pew, reading.
“You seemed amused just now,” Tom Hancock said.
“Did I? Something came to me. What’re you reading?” Gamache asked, his voice not more than a whisper.
Tom Hancock looked down at the book in his hand.
“Steer toward the third tall oak from the tip of Fischer’s Point,” he read. “Once halfway across you must adjust your course, taking into account the current, the winds, the ice. And always steer for the ice floes, never to open water.”
“A little known Gospel,” said Gamache.
DELIVERING THE MAIL ACROSS THE MIGHTY SAINT LAWRENCE, IN WINTER. A MANUAL.
Opening the cover he scanned the title page, and found the date. 1854.
“Obscure book.” He handed it back. “Where’d you find it?”
“One of the perks of being so close to the Lit and His. You get to prowl the shelves. I think I’m the second person to take it out in 150 years.”
“Have you found other interesting books there?”
“Some, most equally obscure. When I first arrived I’d check out books of old sermons, in the hopes some of my parishioners would be impressed but no one seemed to notice, so I stopped.” He laughed. “This though is quite useful. Has strategies for crossing the river in winter.”
“The ice canoe race? There must be easier pastimes.”
“Are you kidding? Canoeing across a frozen river is a breeze compared to what I normally do.”
Now Gamache shifted in the hard pew so that he was facing Tom Hancock. “That difficult?”
“Have you heard of a Father Chiniquy?”
Tom Hancock thought then shook his head. “Who is he?”
“Was. He lived more than a hundred years ago. A famous Catholic priest who quit the church and joined the Presbyterians.”
“Really? Chiniquy?” He thought about the name then shook his head. “Sorry. I should probably know who he was, but I’m not from here.”
“Not to worry, not many know him now. I’d never heard of him.”
“Is he important to the case?”
“I can’t see how he can be, and yet his name’s come up in Augustin Renaud’s journal. Renaud seems to have bought a few of Chiniquy’s books at the Lit and His sale.”
The Reverend Mr. Hancock grimaced. “That sale haunts us.”
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