Bury Your Dead
“When she was demented?” asked Dominique. “I begin to see why they called you Poo.”
Clara laughed. “It was actually a bit of a miracle. She forgot everything, her address, her sisters. She forgot Dad, she even forgot us. But she also forgot to be angry. It was wonderful,” Clara smiled. “Such a relief. She couldn’t remember her long list of grievances. She actually became a delightful person.”
She’d forgotten to love, but she also forgot to hate. It was a trade-off Clara was happy to accept.
The women in the room chatted about love, about childhood, about losing parents, about Mr. Spock, about good books they’d read.
They mothered each other. And by lunch they were ready to meet the winter’s day. As Clara walked home, scone crumbs in her hair, the taste of chamomile on her lips, she thought of Old’s father, frozen in time. And the look on Marc Gilbert’s face as the crack had appeared.
Armand Gamache sat in the Paillard bakery on rue St-Jean and stared at Augustin Renaud’s diary. Henri was curled up under the table while outside people were trudging head down through the snow and the cold.
How could Chiniquy, the fallen priest, and Augustin Renaud, the amateur archeologist be connected? Gamache stared at Renaud’s excited markings, the exclamation marks, the swirls around the names of the four men. Chin, JD, Patrick, O’Mara. Swirls of ink so forceful the pen had almost ripped the paper. And below the entry were the catalog numbers.
9-8499
9-8572
Almost certainly the numbers related to books sold by the Literary and Historical Society and, equally certainly, they were from the lot donated by Chiniquy’s housekeeper and left in their boxes in the basement for more than a century.
Until Augustin Renaud had bought them from the secondhand bookseller, Alain Doucet. In two lots. First in the summer, then the last lot just a few weeks ago.
What was in those books?
What did Chiniquy have that excited Augustin Renaud?
Gamache took a sip of hot chocolate.
It had to have something to do with Champlain, and yet the priest had shown absolutely no interest in the founder of Québec.
Chin, Patrick, O’Mara, JD. 18-something.
If Chiniquy was ninety when he died in 1899, that meant he was born in 1809. Could the number be 1809? Or 1899? Maybe. But where did that leave him?
Nowhere.
His eyes narrowed.
He looked at 1809 closely then snapping his notebook shut he drained his drink, put money on the table then he and Henri hurried into the cold. Taking long strides he saw the Basilica getting larger and larger as he approached.
At the corner he paused, in his own world, where snow and biting cold couldn’t touch him. A world where Champlain was recently dead and buried, then reburied.
A world of clues over the centuries, as buried as the body.
He turned and walked briskly up des Jardins, stopping in front of the beautiful old door, with the wrought-iron numerals.
1809.
He rapped and waited. Now he felt the cold and beside him Henri leaned against his legs for warmth and comfort. Gamache was about to turn away when the door opened a crack, then all the way.
“Entrez,” said Sean Patrick, stepping back quickly, out of the way of the biting wind as it invaded his home.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, Monsieur Patrick,” said the Chief Inspector as they stood in the dark, cramped entrance. “But I have a couple of questions. May I?” He motioned toward the interior of the home.
“Fine,” said Patrick, walking reluctantly ahead. “Where to?”
“The living room, please.”
They found themselves in the familiar room, surrounded by censorious Patricks past.
“These are your great-grandparents, correct?” Gamache looked at a couple posing in front of this home. It was a wonderful picture, two stern sepia people in what looked like their Sunday best.
“It is. Taken the year they bought this place.”
“In the late 1800s you told us last time we talked.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you mind?” Gamache reached to take the photo off the wall.
“Please yourself.” It was clear Patrick was curious.
Turning the picture over Gamache found it was sealed at the back with brown paper. There was a photographer’s shop sticker, but no date. And no names.
Gamache put his reading glasses on and peered closely at the photo. And there, poking out from under the frame in the lower right-hand corner was what he was looking for.
A date.
1870.
Replacing the photo, he moved down the wall and stopped in front of another picture of great-grandfather Patrick. In this one he was with a group of other laborers, standing in front of a big hole. The building behind was barely visible.