Bury Your Dead

by Louise Penny

  They drank their coffees and ate pain au chocolat and croissants aux amandes and talked about the Carnaval de Québec, starting that night. Occasionally they’d lapse into silence, watching the men and women hurrying along the icy cold street outside to their jobs. Someone had scratched a three-leaf clover into a slight indent in the center of their wooden table. Émile rubbed it with his finger.

  And wondered when Armand would want to talk about what happened.

  It was ten thirty and the monthly board meeting of the Literary and Historical Society was about to start. For many years the meetings had been held in the evening, when the library was closed, but then it was noticed that fewer and fewer members were showing up.

  So the Chairman, Porter Wilson, had changed the time. At least, he thought he’d changed the time. At least, it had been reported in the board minutes that it had been his motion, though he privately seemed to remember arguing against it.

  And yet, here they were meeting in the morning, and had been for some years. Still, the other members had adjusted, as had Porter. He had to, since it had apparently been his idea.

  The fact the board had adjusted at all was a miracle. The last time they’d been asked to change anything it had been the worn leather on the Lit and His chairs, and that had been sixty-three years ago. Members still remembered fathers and mothers, grandparents, ranged on either side of the upholstered Mason-Dixon Line. Remembered vitriolic comments made behind closed doors, behind backs, but before children. Who didn’t forget, sixty-three years later, that devious alteration from old black leather to new black leather.

  Pulling out his chair at the head of the table Porter noticed it was looking worn. He sat quickly so that no one, least of all himself, could see it.

  Small stacks of paper were neatly arranged in front of his and every other place, marching down the wooden table. Elizabeth MacWhirter’s doing. He examined Elizabeth. Plain, tall and slim. At least, she had been that when the world was young. Now she just looked freeze-dried. Like those ancient cadavers pulled from glaciers. Still obviously human, but withered and gray. Her dress was blue and practical and a very good cut and material, he suspected. After all, she was one of those MacWhirters. A venerable and moneyed family. One not given to displays of wealth, or brains. Her brother had sold the shipping empire about a decade too late. But there was still money there. She was a little dull, he thought, but responsible. Not a leader, not a visionary. Not the sort to hold a community in peril together. Like him. And his father before him. And his grandfather.

  For the tiny English community within the walls of old Quebec City had been in peril for many generations. It was a kind of perpetual peril that sometimes got better and sometimes got worse, but never disappeared completely. Just like the English.

  Porter Wilson had never fought a war, being just that much too young, and then too old. Not, anyway, an official war. But he and the other members of his board knew themselves to be in a battle nevertheless. And one, he secretly suspected, they were losing.

  At the door Elizabeth MacWhirter greeted the other board members as they arrived and looked over at Porter Wilson already seated at the head of the table, reading over his notes.

  He’d accomplished many things in his life, Elizabeth knew. The choir he’d organized, the amateur theater, the wing for the nursing home. All built by force of will and personality. And all less than they might have been had he sought and accepted advice.

  The very force of his personality both created and crippled. How much more could he have accomplished had he been kinder? But then, dynamism and kindness often didn’t go together, though when they did they were unstoppable.

  Porter was stoppable. Indeed, he stopped himself. And now the only board that could stand him was the Lit and His. Elizabeth had known Porter for seventy years, since she’d seen him eating lunch alone, every day, at school and gone to keep him company. Porter decided she was sucking up to one of the great Wilson clan, and treated her with disdain.

  Still, she kept him company. Not because she liked him but because she knew even then something it would take Porter Wilson decades to realize. The English of Quebec City were no longer the juggernauts, no longer the steamships, no longer the gracious passenger liners of the society and economy.

  They were a life raft. Adrift. And you don’t make war on others in the raft.

  Elizabeth MacWhirter had figured that out. And when Porter rocked the boat, she righted it.

  She looked at Porter Wilson and saw a small, energetic, toupéed man. His hair, where not imported, was dyed a shade of black the chairs would envy. His eyes were brown and darted about nervously.

  Mr. Blake arrived first. The oldest board member, he practically lived at the Lit and His. He took off his coat, revealing his uniform of gray flannel suit, laundered white shirt, blue silk tie. He was always perfectly turned out. A gentleman, who managed to make Elizabeth feel young and beautiful. She’d had a crush on him when she’d been an awkward teen and he in his dashing twenties.

  He’d been attractive then and sixty years later he was still attractive, though his hair was thin and white and his once fine body had rounded and softened. But his eyes were smart and lively, and his heart was large and strong.

  “Elizabeth,” Mr. Blake smiled and took her hand, holding it for a moment. Never too long, never too familiar. Just enough, so that she knew she’d been held.

  He took his seat. A seat, Elizabeth thought, that should be replaced. But then, honestly, so should Mr. Blake. So should they all.

  What would happen when they died out and all that was left of the board of the Literary and Historical Society were worn, empty chairs?

  “Right, we need to make this fast. We have a practice in an hour.”

  Tom Hancock arrived, followed by Ken Haslam. The two were never far apart these days, being unlikely team members in the ridiculous upcoming race.

  Tom was Elizabeth’s triumph. Her hope. And not simply because he was the minister of St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church next door.

  He was young and new to the community, having moved to Quebec City three years earlier. At thirty-three he was about half the age of the next youngest board member. Not yet cynical, not yet burned out. He still believed his church would find new parishioners, the English community would suddenly produce babies with the desire to stay in Quebec City. He believed the Québec government when it promised job equality for Anglophones. And health care in their own language. And education. And nursing homes so that when all hope was lost, they might die with their mother tongue on caregivers’ lips.

  He’d managed to inspire the board to believe maybe all wasn’t lost. And even, maybe, this wasn’t really a war. Wasn’t some dreadful extension of the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, one which the English lost this time. Elizabeth glanced up at the oddly petite statue of General James Wolfe. The martyred hero of the battle 250 years ago hovered over the library of the Literary and Historical Society, like a wooden accusation. To witness their petty battles and to remind them, in perpetuity, of the great battle he’d fought, for them. Where he’d died, but not before triumphing on that blood-soaked farmers field. Ending the war, and securing Québec for the English. On paper.

  And now from his corner of the lovely old library General Wolfe looked down on them. In every way, Elizabeth suspected.

  “So, Ken,” Tom said, taking his place beside the older man. “You in shape? Ready for the race?”

  Elizabeth didn’t hear Ken Haslam’s response. But then she didn’t expect to. Ken’s thin lips moved, words were formed, but never actually heard.

  They all paused, thinking perhaps this was the day he would produce a word above a whisper. But they were wrong. Still, Tom Hancock continued to talk to Ken, as though they were actually having a conversation.

  Elizabeth loved Tom for that as well. For not giving in to the notion that because Ken was quiet he was stupid. Elizabeth knew him to be anything but. In his mid-sixties he was the most successful

of all of them, building a business of his own. And now, having achieved that Ken Haslam had done something else remarkable.

  He’d signed up for the treacherous ice canoe race. Signed on to Tom Hancock’s team. He would be the oldest member of the team, the oldest member of any team. Perhaps the oldest racer ever.

  Watching Ken, quiet and calm and Tom, young, vital, handsome, Elizabeth wondered if maybe they understood each other very well after all. Perhaps both had things they weren’t saying.

  Not for the first time Elizabeth wondered about Tom Hancock. Why he’d chosen to minister to them, and why he stayed within the walls of old Quebec City. It took a certain personality, Elizabeth knew, to choose to live in what amounted to a fortress.

  “Right, let’s start,” said Porter, sitting up even straighter.

  “Winnie isn’t here yet,” said Elizabeth.

  “We can’t wait.”

  “Why not?” Tom asked, his voice relaxed. But still Porter heard a challenge.

  “Because it’s already past ten thirty and you’re the one who wanted to make this quick,” Porter said, pleased at having scored a point.

  Once again, thought Elizabeth, Porter managed to look at a friend and see a foe.

  “Quite right. Still, I’m happy to wait,” smiled Tom, unwilling to take to the field.

  “Well, I’m not. First order of business?”

  They discussed the purchase of new books for a while before Winnie arrived. Small and energetic, she was fierce in her loyalty. To the English community, to the Lit and His, but mostly to her friend.

  She marched in, gave Porter a withering look, and sat next to Elizabeth.

  “I see you started without me,” she said to him. “I told you I’d be late.”

  “You did, but that doesn’t mean we had to wait. We’re discussing new books to buy.”

  “And it didn’t occur to you this might be an issue best discussed with the librarian?”

  “Well, you’re here now.”

  The rest of the board watched this as though at Wimbledon, though with considerably less interest. It was pretty clear who had the balls, and who would win.

  Fifty minutes later they’d almost reached the end of the agenda. There was one oatmeal cookie left, the members staring but too polite to take it. They’d discussed the heating bills, the membership drive, the ratty old volumes left to them in wills, instead of money. The books were generally sermons, or lurid Victorian poetry, or the dreary daily diary of a trip up the Amazon or into Africa to shoot and stuff some poor wild creature.

  They discussed having another sale of books, but after the last debacle that was a short discussion.

  Elizabeth took notes and had to force herself not to lip-synch to each board member’s comments. It was a liturgy. Familiar, soothing in a strange way. The same words repeated over and over every meeting. For ever and ever. Amen.

  A sound suddenly interrupted that comforting liturgy, a sound so unique and startling Porter almost jumped out of his chair.

  “What was that?” whispered Ken Haslam. For him it was almost a shout.

  “It’s the doorbell, I think,” said Winnie.

  “The doorbell?” asked Porter. “I didn’t know we had one.”

  “Put in in 1897 after the Lieutenant Governor visited and couldn’t get in,” said Mr. Blake, as though he’d been there. “Never heard it myself.”

  But he heard it again. A long, shrill bell. Elizabeth had locked the front door to the Literary and Historical Society as soon as everyone had arrived. A precaution against being interrupted. Though since hardly anyone ever visited it was more habit than necessity. She’d also hung a sign on the thick wooden door. Board Meeting in Progress. Library will reopen at noon. Thank you. Merci.

  The bell sounded again. Someone was leaning on it, finger jammed into the button.

  Still they stared at each other.

  “I’ll go,” said Elizabeth.

  Porter looked down at his papers, the better part of valor.

  “No,” Winnie stood. “I’ll go. You all stay here.”

  They watched Winnie disappear down the corridor and heard her feet on the wooden stairs. There was silence. Then a minute later her feet on the stairs again.

  They listened to the footsteps clicking and clacking closer. She arrived but stopped at the door, her face pale and serious.

  “There’s someone there. Someone who wants to speak to the board.”

  “Well,” demanded Porter, remembering he was their leader, now that the elderly woman had gone to the door. “Who is it?”

  “Augustin Renaud,” she said and saw the looks on their faces. Had she said “Dracula” they could not have been more startled. Though, for the English, startled meant raised eyebrows.

  Every eyebrow in the room was raised, and if General Wolfe could have managed it, he would have.

  “I left him outside,” she said into the silence.

  As if to underscore that the doorbell shrieked again.

  “What should we do?” Winnie asked, but instead of turning to Porter she looked at Elizabeth. They all did.

  “We need to take a vote,” Elizabeth said at last. “Should we see him?”

  “He’s not on the agenda,” Mr. Blake pointed out.

  “That’s right,” said Porter, trying to wrestle back control. But even he looked at Elizabeth.

  “Who’s in favor of letting Augustin Renaud speak to the board?” Elizabeth asked.

  Not a hand was raised.

  Elizabeth lowered her pen, not taking note of the vote. Giving one curt nod she stood. “I’ll tell him.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Winnie.

  “No, dear, you stay here. I’ll be right back. I mean, really?” She paused at the door, taking in the board and General Wolfe above. “How bad could it be?”

  But they all knew the answer to that. When Augustin Renaud came calling it was never good.

  TWO

  Armand Gamache settled into the worn leather sofa beneath the statue of General Wolfe. Nodding to the elderly man across from him he pulled the letters out of his satchel. After a walk through the city with Émile and Henri, Gamache had returned home, picked up his mail, collected his notes, stuffed it all into his satchel, then he and Henri had walked up the hill.

  To the hushed library of the Literary and Historical Society.

  Now he looked at the bulging manila envelope on the sofa beside him. Daily correspondence from his office in Montreal sent on to Émile’s home. Agent Isabelle Lacoste had sorted his mail and sent it with a note.

  Cher Patron,

  It was good to speak to you the other day. I envy you a few weeks in Québec. I keep telling my husband we must take the children to Carnaval but he insists they’re too young yet. He’s probably right. The truth is, I’d just like to go.

  The interrogation of the suspect (so hard to call him that when we all know there are no suspicions, only certainties) continues. I haven’t heard what he’s said, if anything. As you know, a Royal Commission has been formed. Have you testified yet? I received my summons today. I’m not sure what to tell them.

  Gamache lowered the note for a moment. Agent Lacoste would, of course, tell them the truth. As she knew it. She had no choice, by temperament and training. Before he left he’d ordered all of his department to cooperate.

  As he had.

  He went back to the note.

  No one yet knows where it will lead, or end. But there are suspicions. The atmosphere is tense.

  I will keep you informed.

  Isabelle Lacoste

  Too heavy to hold, the letter slowly lowered to his lap. He stared ahead and saw Agent Isabelle Lacoste in flashes. Images moved, uninvited, in and out of his mind. Of her staring down at him, seeming to shout though he couldn’t make out her words. He felt her small, strong hands gripping either side of his head, saw her leaning close, her mouth moving, her eyes intense, trying to communicate something to him. Felt hands ripping away the tactical vest from his chest. He saw blood on her hands and the look on her face.

  Then he saw her again.

  At the funeral. The funerals. Lined up in uniform with the rest of the famous homicide division of the Sûreté du Québec as he took his place at the head of the terrible column. One bitter cold day. To bury those who died under his command that day in the abandoned factory.

  Closing his eyes he breathed deeply, smelling the musky scents of the library. Of age, of stability, of calm and peace. Of old-fashioned polish, of wood, of words bound in worn leather. He smelled his own slight fragrance of rosewater and sandalwood.

  And he thought of something good, something nice, some kind harbor. And he found it in Reine-Marie, as he remembered her voice on his cell phone earlier in the day. Cheerful. Home. Safe. Their daughter Annie coming over for dinner with her husband. Groceries to buy, plants to water, correspondence to catch up on.

  He could see her on the phone in their Outremont apartment standing by the bookcase, the sunny room filled with books and periodicals and comfortable furniture, orderly and peaceful.

  There was a calm about it, as there was about Reine-Marie.

  And he felt his racing heart settle and his breathing deepen. Taking one last long breath, he opened his eyes.

  “Would your dog like some water?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Gamache refocused and saw the elderly man sitting across from him motioning to Henri.

  “I used to bring Seamus here. He’d lie at my feet while I read. Like your dog. What’s his name?”

  “Henri.”

  At the sound of his name the young shepherd sat up, alert, his huge ears swinging this way and that, like satellite dishes searching for a signal.

  “I beg you, monsieur,” smiled Gamache, “don’t say B-A-L-L or we’ll all be lost.”

  The man laughed. “Seamus used to get excited whenever I’d say B-O-O-K. He’d know we were coming here. I think he loved it even more than I do.”

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