Unlike Gamache they had no Chateau to duck into. No warm soup and amber Scotch. He’d barely survived ten minutes in the biting, bitter wind, how had they survived days, weeks, months, with no warm clothing and barely any shelter?
Of course, the answer was obvious. They hadn’t. Most had died, slow, agonizing, dreadful deaths those first winters. What Gamache saw as he glanced out the window to the river with its gray water and ice floes, was history. His history, flowing by.
He also saw a dot in the distance. An ice canoe. Shaking his head Gamache turned his attention back to his companions.
“Why’re you looking so puzzled?” émile asked.
The Chief Inspector nodded out the window. “An ice canoe team. The settlers had to do it. Why would someone choose to?”
“I agree,” said René, breaking up a roll and smearing butter on it. “I can barely watch them, and yet, I can’t seem to look away either.” He laughed. “I sometimes think we’re a rowboat society.”
“A what?” asked Jean.
“A rowboat. It’s why we do things like that.” He jerked his head toward the window and the dot on the river. “It’s why Québec is so perfectly preserved. It’s why we’re all so fascinated with history. We’re in a rowboat. We move forward, but we’re always looking back.”
Jean laughed and leaned away as the waiter placed a huge burger and frites in front of him. A bubbling French onion soup sat in front of émile and Gamache was given a hot bowl of pea soup.
“I met a fellow this morning who’s training for the race,” said Gamache.
“Bet he’s in good shape,” said émile, lifting his spoon almost over his head, trying to get the stringy, melted cheese to break.
“He is. He’s also the minister at the Presbyterian church. St. Andrews.”
“Muscular Christianity,” René chuckled.
“There’s a Presbyterian church?” asked Jean.
“And a congregation to go with it,” said Gamache. “He was saying he has a teammate for the race who’s over sixty.”
“Sixty what?” asked René. “Pounds?”
“Must be IQ,” said émile.
“I’m hoping to meet him this afternoon. Name’s Ken Haslam. Do you know him?”
They looked at each other, but the answer was clear. No.
After lunch, over espressos, Gamache turned the conversation to the reason they were together.
“As you know, Augustin Renaud was murdered on Friday night, or early yesterday morning.”
They nodded, their good cheer subsiding. Three shrewd faces stared back at him. They were of an age, late seventies, all successful in their fields, all retired. But none had lost their edge. He could see that clearly.
“What I want to know from you is this. Could Champlain be buried beneath the Literary and Historical Society?”
They looked at each other, and finally, silently, it was decided that René Dallaire, the large, Hardy-esque man, would take the lead. The table had been cleared of all but their demi-tasses.
“I brought this along when émile told us what you wanted to talk about.” He spread out a map, pinning it down with their cups. “I’m embarrassed to say I had no idea there was a Literary and Historical Society.”
“That’s not quite true,” said Jean to his friend. “We’re familiar with the building. It’s quite historic you know. Originally a redoubt, a military barracks in the 1700s. Then in the latter part of the century it housed prisoners of war. Then another prison was built somewhere else and the building must have fallen into private hands.”
“And now you say it’s called the Literary and Historical Society?” René spoke the English words with a heavy accent.
“Quite magnificent,” said Gamache.
René placed his substantial finger on the site of the building, by rue St-Stanislas. “That’s it, right?”
Gamache bent over the map, as did they all, narrowly avoiding knocking heads. He nodded agreement.
“Then there can be no doubt. You agree?” René Dallaire looked at Jean and émile.
They agreed.
“I can guarantee you,” René looked Gamache in the eye. “Samuel de Champlain is not buried there.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“When you arrived at the Chateau, did you happen to notice the statue of Champlain out front?”
“I did. Hard to miss.”
“C’est vrai. That’s not simply a monument to the man, but it marks the exact spot he died.”
“As exact as we can get, anyway,” said Jean. René shot him a small, annoyed look.
“How do you know that’s where he died?” Gamache asked. Now it was émile’s turn to answer.
“There’re reports written by his lieutenants and the priests. He died after a short illness on Christmas Day, 1635, during a storm. It’s one of the few things we know about Champlain without a doubt. The fortress was right there, where the statue is.”
“But he wouldn’t have been buried right where he died, would he?” asked Gamache.
René unfolded another map or, at least, a reproduction and placed it on top of the modern city map. It was little more than an illustration.
“This was drawn in 1639, four years after Champlain died. It’s not much different than the Québec he would have known.” The map showed a stylized fort, a parade grounds in front, and a scattering of buildings around. “This is where he died.” His finger landed on the fort. “It’s where the statue now stands. And this is where they buried Champlain.”
René Dallaire’s thick finger pointed to a small building a few hundred yards from the fort.
“The chapel. The only one in Québec at the time. There’re no official records but it seems obvious Champlain would have been buried there, either right in the chapel or in a cemetery beside it.”
Gamache was perplexed. “So, if we know where he was buried, what’s the mystery? Where is he? And why aren’t there any official records of the burial of the most important man in the colony?”
“Ahh, but nothing is ever straightforward is it?” said Jean. “The chapel burned a few years later, destroying all the records.”
Gamache thought about that. “A fire would burn the records, yes, but not a buried body. We should still have found him by now, no?”
René shrugged. “Yes, we should have. There’re a number of theories, but the most likely is that they buried him in the cemetery, not the chapel, so the fire wouldn’t have disturbed him at all. Over time the colony grew—”