“Both Carole Gilbert and Old Mundin are originally from Quebec City. Could you ask around about them?” When the Chief agreed Beauvoir paused before asking his last question. “How are you?”
He hated to ask, afraid that maybe the Chief would one day tell him the truth.
“I’m at the Cafe Krieghoff with Emile Comeau, a bowl of nuts and a Scotch. How bad can it be?” Gamache asked, his voice friendly and warm.
But Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew exactly how bad it could be and had been.
Hanging up, an image stole into his mind, uninvited, unexpected, unwanted.
Of the Chief, gun in hand, suddenly being lifted off his feet, twisting, turning. Falling. To lie still on the cold cement floor.
Gamache and Emile hailed a cab and took the diaries home. As Emile prepared a simple supper of warmed-up stew Gamache fed Henri then took him for a walk to the bakery for a fresh baguette.
Once home the men sat in the living room, a basket of crusty bread on the table, bowls of beef stew in front of them and the Chiniquy diaries piled on the sofa between them.
They spent the evening eating and reading, making notes, occasionally reading each other a particularly interesting, moving or unintentionally amusing passage.
By eleven Armand Gamache took off his reading glasses and rubbed his weary eyes. So far while historically fascinating the Chiniquy journals hadn’t revealed anything pertinent. There was no mention of the Irish laborers, Patrick and O’Mara. And while he did talk about James Douglas in the earlier diaries, the later ones mentioned him only in passing. Eventually there was an entry Emile read Gamache about Douglas packing up his three mummies and heading down to Pittsburgh, to live with his son.
Gamache listened and smiled. Chiniquy had made it sound petty, like a kid picking up his marbles and going home. Had Father Chiniquy done that on purpose, to diminish Dr. Douglas? Had there been a falling out? Did it matter?
An hour later he glanced at Emile and noticed the older man had fallen asleep, a journal splayed open on his chest. Gently raising Emile’s hand he removed the book, then put a soft pillow under Emile’s head and covered him with a comforter.
After quietly placing a large cherry log on the fire Gamache and Henri crept to bed.
The next day, before breakfast, he found an email from the Chief Archeologist.
“Something interesting?” Emile asked.
“Very. Sleep well?” Gamache looked up from his message with a smile.
“Wish I could say that was the first time I’d nodded off in front of the fire,” Emile laughed.
“So it wasn’t my stimulating conversation?”
“No. I never listen to you, you know that.”
“My suspicions confirmed. But listen to this,” Gamache looked back down to his email. “It’s from Serge Croix. I asked him to find out what digging work was being done in the old city in the summer of 1869.”
Emile joined his friend at the table. “The year Chiniquy and Douglas met the Irish workers.”
“Exactly, and the year covered in the missing journal. Dr. Croix writes to say there were three big digs. One at the Citadelle, to reinforce the walls, one to expand the Hotel-Dieu hospital and the third? The third was to dig a basement under a local restaurant. The Old Homestead.”
Emile sat for a moment then leaned back in the chair and brought a hand up to his face, thinking. Gamache got to his feet.
“I think I’ll treat you to breakfast, Emile.”
Comeau got up, his eyes bright now too. “I think I know where.”
Within twenty minutes they’d climbed the steep and slippery slope of Cote de la Fabrique, pausing for breath and to stare at the imposing Notre-Dame Basilica. Where the original little church had stood, built by the Jesuit priests and brothers and supported by Champlain. A modest New World chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary to celebrate the return of Quebec from the English in their see-saw battle for possession of the strategic colony.
This was where the great man’s funeral had been held and where he’d been buried, albeit briefly. At one time Augustin Renaud had been convinced he was still there in the small chapel of St. Joseph, where the amateur archeologist had found a lead-lined coffin and some old coins. And had started digging without permission, igniting a storm that had engulfed even the church. Pere Sebastien had sided with Renaud, to the fury of the Chief Archeologist.
Still, nothing had been found. No Champlain.
Though, strangely, that coffin had never been opened. All had agreed it couldn’t possibly be Champlain. It was a rare show of respect for the dead, by the archeologists, by Renaud and by a church more than happy to dig up General Montcalm but not this anonymous corpse.
So, Gamache thought as he continued his walk, suppose Champlain hadn’t originally been buried in the chapel but in the graveyard. The records showing the exact resting place of the father of Quebec had been lost in the fire, even the exact position of the cemetery was just a guess. But if it was beside the chapel that could put the cemetery right about—
Here.
Gamache stopped. Above him loomed the Chateau Frontenac and off to the side Champlain himself, imposing and impossibly heroic, staring out across the city.
And in front of the Chief? The Old Homestead, now a restaurant.
Taking off his gloves he reached into his jacket and took out the sepia photo taken in 1869.
