“Me, have lunch with Renaud? I wouldn’t be seen in the same room with the man if I could help it. No. He was always asking, demanding, to meet with me, but I never agreed. He was a nasty little piece of work who thought he knew better than anyone else. He was vindictive and manipulative and stupid.”
“And maybe, finally, he was right,” said Gamache. “Maybe he found Champlain. Was that what you were afraid of? That he might actually succeed? Is that why you tried to stop him at every turn?”
“I tried to stop him because he was a bumbling idiot who was ruining perfectly good and valuable archeological digs with his fantasies. He was a menace.”
Serge Croix’s voice had risen so that the harsh words bounced and throbbed off the hard stone walls, coming back at the two men. Filling the space with rage that echoed and grew.
But the last sentence was rasped out. Barely audible, it scraped along the dirt floor and gave Gamache a chill.
“You tried to stop him. Did you finally succeed?”
“You mean did I kill him?”
They glared at each other.
“I didn’t arrange to meet him, and I certainly didn’t kill him.”
“Do you know where Champlain is buried?” Gamache asked.
“What did you just ask?”
“Do you know where Samuel de Champlain is buried?”
“What do you mean by that?” Croix’s voice was low and his look filthy.
“You know what I mean. The question is clear.”
“You think I know where Champlain is buried and am keeping it a secret?”
Croix invested each and every word, every syllable, with scorn.
“I think it’s almost inconceivable that we know where minor clerics, where war heroes, where farmers are buried,” said Gamache, not taking his eyes off the archeologist. “But not the founder of this country, the father of this country. I think you and the archeological establishment heaped derision onto Augustin Renaud, not because he was so laughable, but because he wasn’t. Was he getting close? Had he actually found Champlain?”
“Are you mad? Why would I hide the greatest archeological find in the nation? It would make my career, make my reputation. I’d be forever remembered as the man who gave the Québécois the one piece missing in their history.”
“That piece isn’t missing, monsieur, just the body. Why?”
“There was a fire, the original church burned, documents burned—”
“I know the official history but that doesn’t explain it and you know that. Why hasn’t his body been found? It makes no sense. So I ask myself the other question. Not why hasn’t he been found, but suppose he has? Why cover it up?” Gamache moved closer to the Chief Archeologist with each word until they were almost nose to nose. And Gamache whispered, “To the point of murder.”
They stared and finally Croix leaned back.
“Why would someone want to do that?” asked Croix.
“There’s only one reason, isn’t there,” said Gamache. “Champlain wasn’t what he seemed. He wasn’t quite the hero, the father figure, the great man. Champlain’s become a symbol of the greatness of the Québécois, a potent symbol for the separatists of what the settlement might have been, had the English not taken over. Champlain hated the English, derided them as brutes. On every level Champlain is the perfect tool for Québec separatists. But suppose this wasn’t true?”
“What’re you saying?”
“A lot of what we know to be history isn’t,” said Gamache. “You know that, I know that. It serves a purpose. Events are exaggerated, heroes fabricated, goals are rewritten to appear more noble than they actually were. All to manipulate public opinion, to manufacture a common purpose or enemy. And the cornerstone of a really great movement? A powerful symbol. Take away or tarnish that and everything starts to crumble, everything’s questioned. Can’t have that.”
“But what could be so bad about Champlain?” Croix asked.
“When was he born?”
“We don’t really know.”
“What did he look like?”
Croix opened his mouth then shut it again.
“Who was his father?”
Now Croix was silent, not even trying.
“Was he a spy? He was an expert mapmaker and yet many of the maps showed ridiculous creatures and claimed events that were clearly lies.”
“It was the style of the time.”
“To lie? Is that ever a style? We know who would want him found, Dr. Croix, but who wants him to remain buried?”
As Gamache left he wished the meeting with the Chief Archeologist could have been more cordial, if such a thing was possible with Serge Croix. He’d have loved to poke around that storied basement, loved to ask about the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, about the cannonballs still found in trees in old Quebec City.
He’d have loved to ask him about the strange coincidence of Captain Cook and Bougainville fighting in the same battle, on opposite sides, and Bougainville’s almost inconceivable decision not to help his Général.
But those were questions that would have to wait and for which there might be no answer.
Just before plunging back into the Québec winter he called Inspector Langlois and made an appointment. Ten minutes later he was walking through the corridors of police headquarters looking for Inspector Langlois’s offices, a visiting professor perhaps, an academic called in to consult.
“Chief Inspector.” Langlois advanced, his hand out. Others in the large room got to their feet as Gamache entered. He nodded to them and smiled briefly then Langlois showed him into his private office.
“You must be used to it by now,” said Langlois.
“The staring? Goes with the position, so yes, I’m used to it.” Gamache handed Langlois his coat. “But it’s changed of course, since the kidnapping and the other events.”