Bury Your Dead

The Chief Inspector backed up a few paces, walked a couple to the right, then stopped. Looking from the photo to the reality and back again. His bare fingers were red and burning from the cold, but still he held the photo, to be sure.

Yes.

This was it, this was the exact spot where Patrick and O’Mara had stood 150 years earlier, on a sweltering summer day.

They’d been digging beneath the Old Homestead and something they found made the normally sullen men smile. Before it had been a restaurant the Homestead had been, as it sounded, a private home. And before that? It was a forest, or a field.

Or maybe, a graveyard.

The Old Homestead was now a greasy spoon. It had seen better days. Even bombardment by English cannons would have been better than what had become of it in recent years.

Waitresses, gamely wearing vaguely period costume, poured weak coffee into mass-produced white mugs. Hard, uncomfortable wooden chairs, made to look olde worlde, held tourists who’d hoped the charming exterior was a promise of a charming interior.

It wasn’t.

Mugs with coffee slurping over the rims were placed in front of Emile and Gamache. They’d managed to get a banquette of worn red Naugahyde, rips and tears repaired with shiny silver duct tape.

Gamache caught Emile’s eye. Both felt slightly ill as they looked at what had been done to a landmark. Old Quebec City had been fought over, the French valiantly defending their heritage, their patrimoine. They’d ripped it from the hands of the English time and again, only to ruin it themselves centuries later.

Still, it wasn’t what was inside that mattered to them now. It wasn’t even what was outside. What mattered to them was what lay beneath it. After ordering a simple breakfast of bacon and eggs the two men talked about the various theories. Their breakfast arrived, with a side order of home fries and baked beans. Surprisingly, the eggs were perfectly cooked, the bacon crispy and the pain de menage actually homemade, warm and tasty. Once they’d finished and paid the waitress Gamache called her over again.

“I have one more request.”

“What is it?”

She was impatient. She had her tip and needed to go work for another, and another and enough to put a modest roof over her head and feed her children. And these well-off men were delaying her, with their nice clothes and aromas of soap and something else.

Sandalwood, she recognized. It was a nice fragrance and the larger man had kind eyes, thoughtful eyes, and was smiling at her. Still, she couldn’t pay the landlord with smiles, though God knows she’d tried. Couldn’t feed her kids the kindness of strangers. She needed these men gone and new bums on the seats.

“Can we speak to the manager, please.” Gamache saw her alarm and hastened to reassure her. “No complaints, not at all. We have a favor to ask. In fact, perhaps you could help too. Did you know Augustin Renaud?”

“The Champlain guy, the one who was killed? Sure.”

“But did you know him personally?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did he ever come into the restaurant?”

“A few times. Everyone knew him. I waited on him once, a few weeks ago.”

“Was he alone, or was someone else with him?”

“Always alone.”

“Do you remember all your customers?” Emile asked and was treated to her scrutiny.

“Not all,” she said dismissively. “Only the memorable ones. Augustin Renaud was memorable. A local celebrity.”

“But he only started coming in recently?” asked Gamache.

“Last few weeks I guess. Why?”

“Did he ever speak to the manager?”

“You can ask her yourself.” She pointed with the coffee pot to a young woman by the cash register.

Gamache gave her a twenty-dollar tip then they walked over to introduce themselves. The manager, a polite young woman, answered their questions. Yes, she remembered Augustin Renaud. Yes, he’d asked to see their basement. She’d been afraid he’d wanted to dig down there.

“Did you show it to him?” Emile asked.

“I did.” Her eyes were wary, a naive young woman afraid of doing the wrong thing and slowly realizing someone would always take exception.

“When was this?” Emile asked, his voice relaxed, disarming.

“A few weeks ago. Are you with the police?”

“We’re helping with the investigation,” said Gamache. “May we see your basement, please?”

She hesitated, but agreed. He was glad he didn’t need to get a search warrant, or ask Emile to fake a stroke while he snuck down unseen.

The basement was low and once again they had to duck. The walls were cinder block and the floor was