FIVE
Once at the bottom of the ladder Gamache looked round. Industrial lamps had been brought down and he could see light flooding from one of the chambers. Like anyone else he was drawn to it, but resisted and instead looked into the gloom, allowing his eyes to adjust.
After a moment he saw what men and women stretching back hundreds of years had seen. A low, vaulted, stone basement, a sous-sol in French. No sun had ever reached here, only darkness, interrupted over the centuries by candlelight, by whale oil lamps, by gaslight and now, finally, by blinding, brilliant electric lights. Brighter than the sun, brought down so they could see the darkest of deeds.
The taking of a life.
And not just any life, but Augustin Renaud.
Porter Wilson, for all his paranoia was right, thought Gamache. The people who wanted Québec to separate from Canada will have a field day. Anything that cast suspicion on the English population was fodder for the separatist cause. Or at least, the more radical factions. The vast majority of separatists, Gamache knew, were thoughtful, reasonable, decent people. But a few were quite crazy.
Gamache and his young guide were in an antechamber. The ceilings were low, though perhaps not for the people who’d built it. Poor diet and grinding conditions had made them many inches shorter. But still, Gamache suspected, most would have ducked, as he did now. The floors were dirt, and it was cool but not cold down there. They were well below the frost line, beneath the sun but also beneath the frozen earth. Into a sort of dim purgatory, a place never hot, nor cold.
The Chief Inspector touched the rough stone wall, wondering how many men and women, long dead, had touched it too as they’d come down to get root vegetables from the cellars. To keep starving prisoners alive long enough to kill them.
Off the antechamber there was a room. The room with the light.
“After you,” he gestured to the officer, and followed him.
Inside his eyes had to adjust again though this didn’t take so long. Large industrial lamps were positioned to bounce off the vaulted stone ceiling and walls but most were beamed into one corner of the room. And in that corner a handful of men and women worked. Some taking photographs, some collecting samples, some huddled over something Gamache couldn’t quite see but could imagine.
A body.
Inspector Langlois stood and brushing dirt from his knees he approached. “I’m glad you changed your mind.”
They shook hands.
“I needed to think about it. Madame MacWhirter also asked me to come, to act as a sort of honest-broker between them and you.”
Langlois smiled. “She thinks they need one?”
“Well, it’s more or less what you asked, wasn’t it?”
The Inspector nodded. “It’s true. And I’m grateful you’re here, but I wonder if we might keep this on an informal basis. Perhaps we could consider you a consultant?” Langlois looked behind him. “Would you like to see?”
“S’il vous pla?t.”
It was a scene familiar to the Chief Inspector. A homicide team in the early stages of collecting evidence that would one day convict a man of murder, or a woman. The coroner was still there, just rising, a young doctor sent over from H?tel-Dieu hospital where the Chief Coroner of Québec kept an office. This man wasn’t the Chief. Gamache knew him, but he was a doctor and judging by his composure he was experienced.
“He was hit from behind with that shovel there.” The doctor pointed to a partly buried tool beside the body. He was speaking to Inspector Langlois but shooting glances at Gamache. “Fairly straightforward. He was hit a few times. I’ve taken samples and need to get him onto my table, but there doesn’t seem to be any other trauma.”
“How long?” Langlois asked.
“Twelve hours, give or take an hour or so. We’re lucky with the environment. It’s consistent. No rain or snow, no fluctuation in temperature. I’ll tell you more precisely later.” He turned, collected his kit then nodded to Langlois and Gamache. But instead of leaving the coroner hesitated, looking round the cellar.
He seemed reluctant to leave. When Langlois peered at him the young doctor lost some of his composure but rallied.
“Would you like me to stay?”
“Why?” asked Langlois, his voice uninviting.
But still the doctor persevered. “You know.”