“You’ve studied Champlain most of your life, what do you think?”
“You asked me earlier why he mattered, why any of this mattered, and certainly why finding his body matters. It does. Champlain wasn’t simply the founder of a colony, there was something different about him, something that separated him from every explorer who’d gone before. And that I think explains how he managed to succeed where others failed. And why he’s remembered today, and revered.”
“What made him different?”
“He never referred to Quebec as New France, you know. In France they did. Later regimes did. But never Champlain. Do you know what he called this place?”
Gamache thought about that. They were in the body of the church again and he stared, almost unseeing, down the long empty path that ended in the golden altar and the saints and martyrs, angels and crucifixes.
“The New World,” said Gamache at last.
“The New World,” agreed Pere Sebastien. “That is why he’s loved. He’s a symbol of all that is great, all that is brave, all that Quebec could have been and might be again. He’s a symbol of freedom and sacrifice and vision. He didn’t just create a colony, he created a New World. And he’s adored for it.”
“By the separatists.”
“By everyone,” the priest eyed Gamache closely. “By yourself included, I think.”
“It’s true,” admitted Gamache and thought of that painting of Samuel de Champlain, and realized it reminded him of someone. Not just the plump and prosperous accountant, but someone else.
Christ. Jesus Christ.
They’d made Champlain look like the savior. And now the man who would raise him was dead. Killed, if you believed the tabloids, by the English, who may very well be also hiding the body of Champlain.
“Could Champlain be buried in the Literary and Historical Society?”
“Not a chance,” said Pere Sebastien without hesitation. “That was wilderness in his day. They’d not have reburied him there.”
Unless, thought Gamache, the founder wasn’t quite the saint he’d become.
“Where do you think he is?” Gamache asked, again.
They were standing at the door, on the icy steps of the Basilica.
“Not far.”
Before ducking back into the church the priest nodded. Across the street. To the Cafe Buade.
ELEVEN
It wasn’t quite five in the afternoon and the sun was down. Elizabeth MacWhirter looked out the window. A small crowd had been milling outside the Literary and Historical Society all day. A bold few had come inside, almost daring the members to toss them out. Instead Winnie had greeted them, given them the bilingual brochures and invited them to join.
She’d even given some of the more brazen a brief tour of the library, pointing out the fine pillows on the walls, the collection of figs on the shelves and asking if any of them would like to become umlauts.
Not surprisingly few did. But three people actually paid twenty dollars and joined, shamed into it by Winnie’s obvious kindness and handicap.
“Did you mention that the night is a strawberry?” Elizabeth asked when Winnie returned with a membership payment.
“I did. They didn’t disagree. Ready?”
Before turning out the lights and locking up they checked the main library. More than once they’d locked poor Mr. Blake in, but his chair was empty. He’d already gone across to the rectory.
The crowd had disappeared, the dark and cold having killed curiosity. The two women walked cautiously over the path of hardened snow, planting their feet firmly and carefully. Watching their own steps, watching each other’s.
In winter the very ground seemed to reach up and grab the elderly, yanking them to earth as though hungry for them. Shattering a hip or wrist, or neck. Best to take it slow.
Their destination wasn’t far. They could see the lights through the windows of the rectory. It was a lovely stone building, gracious in proportions with tall windows to catch every ray of a miserly winter sun. Walking slowly, side by side, Elizabeth could feel her cheeks freeze in just this short stroll. Their feet squeaked on the snow, making a sound she’d heard for almost eighty years. A sound she’d never trade for waves lapping on a Florida shore.
Lights were appearing in homes and restaurants, reflecting off the white snow. It was a city that lent itself to winter, and to darkness. It became even cozier, more inviting, more magical, like a fairy-tale kingdom. And we’re the peasants, thought Elizabeth with a wry smile.
As they crept up the walk they could see through the window the fire in the hearth and Tom handing around drinks. Mr. Blake and Porter were already there and Ken Haslam was sitting in an armchair, reading a newspaper.
He missed nothing, Elizabeth knew. It was a mistake to underestimate Ken, as people had all his life. People always dismissed the quiet ones, which was ironic in Ken’s case, Elizabeth knew. She also knew why he was quiet. But she’d never tell a soul.
Elizabeth MacWhirter knew everything, and forgot nothing.
The two women entered the rectory without knocking, took off their coats and boots and before long they too
