The two men glared at each other across the dirt floor.
“What do you want?” Croix demanded.
He was tall and slender, hard and sharp. A hatchet. And he was aimed at Gamache.
“Why would Augustin Renaud be interested in some books belonging to Charles Chiniquy?”
Not surprisingly Dr. Croix looked at Gamache as though he was mad.
“What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t even understand the question.”
“Not long before he was murdered Renaud found two books that excited him. Books that came from the Literary and Historical Society, but that had once belonged to Father Chiniquy. You know who I mean?”
“Of course I know. Who doesn’t?”
The entire world out there, thought Gamache. It was funny how obsessed people believed others equally obsessed, or even interested. And for archeologists and historians, gripped by the past, it was inconceivable others weren’t.
For them, the past was as alive as the present. And while forgetting the past might condemn people to repeat it, remembering it too vividly condemned them to never leave. Here was a man who remembered, vividly.
“What connection could Charles Chiniquy have had to Champlain?” Gamache asked.
“None.”
“Think, please.” Gamache’s voice, while still pleasant, now held an edge. “Chiniquy possessed something that excited Augustin Renaud. We know Renaud had only one passion. Champlain. Therefore, in the late 1800s Charles Chiniquy must have found something, some books, about Champlain and when Renaud found them he felt they’d lead him to where Champlain is buried.”
“Are you kidding? Birds led him there. Little voices in his little head led him there, rice pudding led him there. He saw clues and certainties everywhere. The man was a lunatic.”
“I don’t say the Chiniquy books really did answer the mystery of Champlain,” Gamache explained. “Only that Renaud believed they did.”
Croix’s eyes narrowed but Gamache could see he was no longer dismissing the question. Finally he shook his head.
“I have another question,” said the Chief Inspector. “Chiniquy and James Douglas were friends, correct?”
Croix nodded, interested in where this might be going.
“Why would they meet two Irish immigrant laborers in 1869?”
“The workers were either drunk or insane or both. No big mystery there.”
“Except there is. They met at the Literary and Historical Society.”
That gave Croix pause.
“Now, that is a mystery,” he admitted. “The Irish hated the English. There’s no way they’d have gone to the Literary and Historical Society voluntarily.”
“You mean, it wouldn’t have been their idea?”
“I frankly doubt they could even read and write. Probably didn’t know the Literary and Historical Society existed and if they did, the last place they’d want to go is into the heart of the Anglo establishment.”
“And yet they did. To meet with Father Chiniquy and Dr. James Douglas. Why?”
When no answer came Gamache fished into his breast pocket and brought out the old photograph.
“These are the workers, the ones smiling. Shortly after this was taken that man,” Gamache placed his finger on the figure of Sean Patrick, “bought a home in the Upper Town, just around the corner from here on des Jardins.”
“Impossible.”
“Fact.”
Croix searched Gamache’s face then returned to the photograph.
“Do you know what digging work was going on at the time?”
“In 1869? Lots I’d imagine.”
“It would be the summer, judging by what they’re wearing and probably in the old city. Look at the stonework.”
Croix examined the grainy photo and nodded.
“I can try to find out.”
“Bon,” said Gamache, holding out his hand for the picture. Croix seemed reluctant to let it go but eventually gave it back.
“How did you find out about this meeting between Chiniquy, Douglas and the laborers?” Croix asked.
“From Renaud’s diary. I have no idea how he knew about it. Presumably it’s in one of the books he found. He bought the Chiniquy collection from the Literary and Historical Society. There was something in them, but we can’t find the books. Renaud seems to have hidden them. What could hundred-year-old books contain that someone was willing to kill for them?” Gamache wondered.
“You’d be surprised. Not everything buried is actually dead,” said the archeologist. “For many the past is alive.”
What putrid piece of history was walking among them? Gamache wondered. What had Augustin Renaud disturbed?
He remembered an entry in Renaud’s diary. Not the one circled and exclaimed over but a quieter entry, a meeting he would never make. With an SC.
The Chief Inspector slowly returned the photograph to his pocket, watching Croix, who was walking back to his work table.
“Were you going to meet Augustin Renaud?”
Croix stopped, then turned and stared.
“What?”
“Thursday at one o’clock. Augustin Renaud had an appointment with an SC.”
“SC? That would be anyone.”
“With the initials SC, yes. Was it you?”