Beside him, the Reverend Mr. Hancock had risen. “I’m sorry, I really need to get in to coffee. I’m expected to make an appearance.” He paused and looked closely at the bearded man in front of him.

Like every other Quebecker, he was familiar with Chief Inspector Gamache. The head of homicide appeared on weekly talk shows and news reports trying to explain the decisions the Sûreté was making. Often giving information about a case.

He was always patient, thoughtful, clear in the face of questions shouted and not always civil. He never lost his temper, though Hancock had seen him mightily provoked.

But the man he saw now differed from the man he’d watched for the past three years, and it wasn’t just the beard or the scar. He was still thoughtful, civil, gentle almost.

But he seemed tired.

“The coffee will keep.” Hancock sat back down. The church was tranquil, cool and quiet. “Would you like to talk?”

Armand Gamache knew this young man didn’t mean about the case, and he was tempted. Tempted to tell him everything. But Thomas Hancock was a suspect in a murder case and as much as he longed to confide his sins to this young minister, he resisted.

“Go, please. We can talk another time.”

“I hope so,” said Hancock, rising. “Joy doesn’t ever leave, you know. It’s always with you. And one day you’ll find it again.”

“Merci,” said Gamache, and sat quietly in the church until the ringing of the man’s feet on the floor was silenced, and he was alone with the whispering in his head.

Over at the Literary and Historical Society the library was open again, as were the offices. A yellow police tape, though, was across one door, that led to the trap door that led to the ladder that led to the sub-basement.

And there Inspector Langlois stood.

His team had collected all the evidence, every inch had been gone over, every hair collected, every masticated rat, every bit of cloth. Soil samples had been put in vials. Photos taken, infrared, ultraviolet, black light. Everything.

They’d found, besides the body, a bloody shovel, a satchel with the map, and footprints. All sorts of footprints. Too many, he suspected, to be able to narrow it down.

He had investigators interviewing Renaud’s former wife, his friends, of which there were precious few, his neighbors. They were scouring his home, but it was so packed with books and papers and all sorts of crap it could take weeks.

They were all over this case. Because, like Gamache, Langlois knew a frenzy was just beginning. Whipped by the tabloids, and eventually picked up by the legitimate press. The case was being hijacked. It was no longer just about Renaud’s body, it had become about another, an older mystery, an older body.

Champlain.

Was he here?

Which was why instead of being at Renaud’s apartment sifting through clues, he was in the dim basement, staring at a bucket of potatoes. At least, he hoped that’s what they were.

Beside him Québec’s Chief Archeologist, Serge Croix, stooped.

Neither man was happy to be there. Both knew it to be a waste of time.

“Well, Inspector, I can tell you for certain, that is not Champlain.”

The two men continued to stare at the potatoes.

A trained excavator, brought by the Chief Archeologist, leaned against his shovel. Another held a device and was walking slowly over the dirt floor. Already they’d dug three holes, and in each they found a metal box or bucket with root vegetables. Probably hundreds of years old. Turnips, potatoes, parsnips. But no Samuel de Champlain.

“Bon,” said Croix. “That’s enough. We all know he isn’t here. In fact, if Augustin Renaud believed he was that’s just about a guarantee Champlain is somewhere else.”

“Wait, I have something over here,” said the woman with the device.

Croix sighed but they all trooped to the dark corner. The excavator repositioned the bright industrial lights.

Inspector Langlois felt his heart speed up and around him he could see the others looking expectant, hopeful. Even Croix.

Despite the fact he knew Champlain could not possibly be buried there, Croix could still get his hopes up. Like homicide inspectors, thought Langlois, archeologists dug and dug, and always believed it wasn’t in vain. Something important might lie just below the surface.

The excavator put his shovel into the hard earth and loosened it, nudging it deeper and deeper, an inch at a time so as not to destroy whatever was beneath.

And then they heard the tap and the slight scraping. They’d found something.

Once again, the Chief Archeologist for Québec stooped. Bringing out his tools, finer than the rest, he carefully, painstakingly, cleared away the dirt to reveal a box.