EIGHT
Gamache awoke to the welcome smell of strong coffee. After showering he joined émile for breakfast.
The elderly man poured Gamache a cup as they sat at the long wooden table. In the center was a plate of flaky croissants, honey and jams and some sliced fruit.
“Did you see this?” émile put the morning copy of Le Soleil in front of Gamache. The Chief sipped and read the headline.
AUGUSTIN RENAUD MURDERED WHILE DIGGING FOR CHAMPLAIN
He skimmed the story. He knew enough not to be dismissive of media reports. They often got hold of people and information the police themselves might not have found. But there was nothing new there. Mostly a recap of Renaud’s startling hobby of looking for Champlain and the ancillary benefits of pissing people off. There were quotes from the Chief Archeologist of Québec, Serge Croix, speaking glowingly of Renaud’s achievements which, everyone knew, amounted to putting holes in the old city and perhaps spoiling some legitimate digs. There was no respect lost between Croix and Renaud, though you’d never know it by the tribute in today’s paper.
Except the reporter had been smart enough to also gather Croix’s previous comments about Renaud. And not just Croix but a host of other Champlain experts, historians and archeologists. All dismissive of Renaud, all derisive, all mocking his amateur status, while he was alive.
Without a doubt, Augustin Renaud alive had become a bit of a buffoon. And yet, reading the papers, there emerged today another Augustin Renaud. Not just dead, but something else. There seemed an affection for him as for a beloved, but nutty, uncle. Renaud was misguided, perhaps, but passionate. A man who loved his home, loved his city, loved his country. Québec. Loved and lived history, to the exclusion of all else, including it seemed, his sanity.
He was a harmless eccentric, one of many in Québec, and the province was the poorer for having lost him.
That was the dead Augustin Renaud. Finally respected.
The paper, Gamache was relieved to see, had been careful to simply report on where the body was found. While they mentioned it was a respected Anglophone institution they left it at that. There was no suggestion of Anglo involvement, of conspiracy, of political or linguistic motivation behind the crime.
But Gamache suspected the tabloids would be less reticent.
“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?”