“Actually, I’d like to start off by talking about Charles Chiniquy.”
That brought the reaction he was expecting. A few sat up in their seats, more than a few looked at each other then back to Gamache with some annoyance.
Once again Rene Dallaire took the lead. “Forgive me, Monsieur Gamache, but you do realize we’re not a general historical society?”
“
“He was a nut,” one elderly man said from the back.
“So you do know him,” said Gamache. “Yes, he was a nut to some, a hero to others. He was something else entirely in our story.”
Gamache glanced at Emile, who was looking out the window. Distancing himself from what was about to happen? Gamache wondered.
“Father Chiniquy was famous for one thing,” said the Chief. “He wanted to save alcoholics. To do that he went to where he’d find them. In the Quebec of the 1860s that was rue du Petit-Champlain, directly below us.”
Indeed, if he could throw himself out that window with enough force he’d sail over the Dufferin Terrace and land on rue du Petit-Champlain below. Now a charming, cobbled street filled with lace stores and cafes and tourist shops, but back then it was the notorious Basse-Ville. Filled with drunks and blackguards and prostitutes, filled with sewage and disease.
Filled with poor French workers and Irish immigrants. And a fallen priest determined to save them and maybe himself.
“One summer’s evening Chiniquy was in a bar scouting souls when he overheard a conversation between two Irishmen. Patrick and O’Mara. They’d been hired as diggers in the Upper Town to hack out a basement under an old building. There were more than twenty laborers on the site, but it was Patrick and O’Mara who made the discovery. They found something they believed might be valuable.”
Despite themselves the members of the Societe Champlain had grown interested. A few still looked annoyed and impatient but even they were listening. Only Emile continued to stare out the window.
What was he thinking? Gamache wondered. Did he see what was coming, know what was coming?
But it didn’t matter. It was too late.
“Chiniquy listened to the two men and as he listened he grew more interested. Finally he joined them. The men, knowing who Chiniquy was, weren’t overly welcoming at first but once the priest offered to buy them drinks they warmed up. And after a few more drinks they told him what they’d found.
“It was a coffin. At first Chiniquy was disappointed. Old Quebec City was practically built on coffins, built on bones. Not finding one would have been unusual. Surely these workers knew that. But this one was different, they said, it was heavy.
“The two men figured this was not only unusual but perhaps even valuable. They’d dragged it from the work site down the hill to Patrick’s home. His wife refused to have it inside. He insisted, but knew he couldn’t keep it there for long. The home was little more than a shack, and already crowded with Patrick, his wife and six kids. Now there was also a dead man.”
Gamache examined his audience. They were all listening now, including Emile. They could see the scene, as could Gamache. The trampled and discouraged Irish woman. Having survived the harrowing voyage to her New World, she’d found it even worse than the humiliation and famine she’d fled and, as though life wasn’t difficult enough, her husband had brought a corpse home from work.
“The men set about opening it, carefully prying the sealed lid off,” Gamache continued the story. “Imagining why it was so heavy. It must, they felt, be filled with gold, with jewelry, with silver. This must be the coffin of a very rich person. But once opened, they were sorely disappointed. There was nothing inside except a ratty old book, a bible, and some remains. Bones and bits of clothing. It was heavy because it was lead-lined.”
There was a small stir in the room. Did they know where this was headed?
“Patrick and O’Mara had been in the bar discussing how best to strip the lead, sell it then dump the body into the river, the bible with it. They couldn’t read, so it was useless. Chiniquy asked to see the bible. At that stage the men grew wary. Then the priest tried another tack. If they would bring the coffin and the bible to the Literary and Historical Society the next night, Chiniquy could promise them a small reward.
“Why? the men had asked.
“Because they collect everything historic, especially books. This coffin might be old, Chiniquy reasoned.
“Patrick and O’Mara were already half drunk and didn’t really care. If there was money they’d be there. The next night they showed up and were met by Father Chiniquy and another man. James Douglas.”
“Is there a point to this?” one of the members of the Societe Champlain asked.
“Please, Benoit,” Rene Dallaire looked pained. “Civility.”
“I’ll be civil when he stops wasting my time.”
“There is a point,
There were nods.
“He opened the coffin and examined the contents while Father Chiniquy looked at the bible. Then James Douglas made a mistake. He offered Patrick and O’Mara five hundred dollars each. Chiniquy was furious, but said nothing. The workers immediately knew something was up. That was a small fortune, way too much for the remains of some long-dead guy and a ratty old bible.
“They refused, insisting on one thousand dollars each, and they got it but only after Douglas had secured their pledge of secrecy and found out where they lived. The Irishmen, who hated the English, also feared them. They knew what lay behind the civilized veneer. They knew what an Englishman was capable of, if crossed. Patrick and
