three men knew each other well. And Gamache knew they’d all belonged to the same club for decades.
The Champlain Society.
Their drinks and a basket of rolls arrived. They sipped their Scotches and Gamache resisted the urge to take a warm roll in each hand. The men talked casually among themselves, Gamache sometimes contributing, sometimes just listening, sometimes glancing out the window.
The St-Laurent Bar was at the far end of the Chateau, down the gracious, wide, endless corridor, through the double doors and into another world. Unlike the rest of the mammoth hotel, this bar was modest in size and circular, being built into one of the turrets of the Chateau. Its curved walls were paneled in dark wood and fireplaces stood on either side. A round bar took up the center, with tables surrounding it.
That, for any normal place, would have been impressive enough but Quebec City was far from normal, and within it, the Chateau was unique.
For curving along the far wall of the bar were windows. Tall, framed in mahogany, wide and mullioned. Out of them opened the most splendid vista Gamache had ever seen. True, as a Quebecois, no other view could ever match up. This was their Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, Everest. This was Machu Picchu, Kilimanjaro, Stonehenge. It was their wonder.
From the bar he could see up and down the great river, the view so distant it broke into the past. From there, Gamache could see four hundred years in the past. The ships, surprisingly small and fragile, sailing down from the Atlantic, dropping anchor at the narrowest spot.
Kebek. An Algonquin word. Where the river narrows.
Gamache could almost see the sails being furled, men pulling ropes, securing lines, crawling up and down the masts. He could almost see the boats lowered into the water, and the men rowing ashore.
Did they know what they were in for? What the New World held?
Almost certainly not, or they’d never have come. Most never left, but were buried right below them, on the shores. Dying of scurvy, of exposure.
Unlike Gamache they had no Chateau to duck into. No warm soup and amber Scotch. He’d barely survived ten minutes in the biting, bitter wind, how had they survived days, weeks, months, with no warm clothing and barely any shelter?
Of course, the answer was obvious. They hadn’t. Most had died, slow, agonizing, dreadful deaths those first winters. What Gamache saw as he glanced out the window to the river with its gray water and ice floes, was history. His history, flowing by.
He also saw a dot in the distance. An ice canoe. Shaking his head Gamache turned his attention back to his companions.
“Why’re you looking so puzzled?” Emile asked.
The Chief Inspector nodded out the window. “An ice canoe team. The settlers had to do it. Why would someone choose to?”
“I agree,” said Rene, breaking up a roll and smearing butter on it. “I can barely watch them, and yet, I can’t seem to look away either.” He laughed. “I sometimes think we’re a rowboat society.”
“A what?” asked Jean.
“A rowboat. It’s why we do things like that.” He jerked his head toward the window and the dot on the river. “It’s why Quebec is so perfectly preserved. It’s why we’re all so fascinated with history. We’re in a rowboat. We move forward, but we’re always looking back.”
Jean laughed and leaned away as the waiter placed a huge burger and
“I met a fellow this morning who’s training for the race,” said Gamache.
“Bet he’s in good shape,” said Emile, lifting his spoon almost over his head, trying to get the stringy, melted cheese to break.
“He is. He’s also the minister at the Presbyterian church. St. Andrews.”
“Muscular Christianity,” Rene chuckled.
“There’s a Presbyterian church?” asked Jean.
“And a congregation to go with it,” said Gamache. “He was saying he has a teammate for the race who’s over sixty.”
“Sixty what?” asked Rene. “Pounds?”
“Must be IQ,” said Emile.
“I’m hoping to meet him this afternoon. Name’s Ken Haslam. Do you know him?”
They looked at each other, but the answer was clear. No.
After lunch, over espressos, Gamache turned the conversation to the reason they were together.
“As you know, Augustin Renaud was murdered on Friday night, or early yesterday morning.”
They nodded, their good cheer subsiding. Three shrewd faces stared back at him. They were of an age, late seventies, all successful in their fields, all retired. But none had lost their edge. He could see that clearly.
“What I want to know from you is this. Could Champlain be buried beneath the Literary and Historical Society?”
They looked at each other, and finally, silently, it was decided that Rene Dallaire, the large, Hardy-esque man, would take the lead. The table had been cleared of all but their
“I brought this along when Emile told us what you wanted to talk about.” He spread out a map, pinning it down
