Bury Your Dead
Page 6
And he hated himself, for hating her.
“Oui, allô?” he heard her say and immediately Beauvoir was back there, to that day.
“Homicide.” The Chief’s secretary had answered the phone in the office. It was a large, open space taking an entire floor of the Sûreté du Québec headquarters in Montreal. There were, however, a few enclosed spaces. There was a private conference room with Beauvoir’s beloved Magic Markers, and long sheets of paper on the walls, and blackboards and corkboards. All neatly organized.
He had his own office, being the second in command.
And the Chief had a large office in the corner, with windows looking out over Montreal. From there Armand Gamache ran the province-wide operation, looking into murders in a territory that stretched from the Ontario border to the Atlantic Ocean, from the frontier with Vermont and New York to the Arctic Circle. They had hundreds of agents and investigators in stations across the province and special teams that went into areas without a homicide squad.
All coordinated by Chief Inspector Gamache.
Beauvoir had been in Gamache’s office discussing a singularly gnarly case in Gaspé when the phone had rung. Gamache’s secretary had answered it. Inspector Beauvoir glanced at the clock on the Chief”s wall just as the phone rang. 11:18 A.M.
“Homicide,” he’d heard her say.
And nothing had been the same since.
A small tapping on the door brought Elizabeth MacWhirter out of her reverie. She’d been staring down at the list of members, putting off the time she’d have to phone them. But she knew that time had already come and gone. She should have made the calls an hour ago. Already messages were coming in from members of the English community, including CBC Radio and the weekly English newspaper, the Chronicle-Telegraph. She, Winnie and Porter had tried to be coy, but had only succeeded in sounding secretive.
Reporters were on their way.
And still Elizabeth put off phoning, clinging, she knew to the last moments of anything that resembled normalcy. Of their quiet, uneventful lives, volunteering to be custodians of a dusty and all but irrelevant past, but a past precious to them.
The knocking sounded again. No louder, but not going away either. Were the reporters here already? But they, she suspected, would pound at the door as would the police. This tapping was a request, not a demand.
“I’ll get it,” said Winnie, walking across the large room and up the two steps to the door. At their desks in front of the large Palladian windows Elizabeth and Porter watched. Winnie was speaking with someone they couldn’t see, nor could they hear her conversation but she seemed to be trying to explain something. Then she seemed to be trying to close the door. Then she stopped, and opening it wide she turned into the room.
“Chief Inspector Gamache wants to speak to you,” she said to Elizabeth, almost in a daze.
“Who?” asked Porter, popping up at his desk, taking charge, now that the elderly woman had answered the door.
Winnie swung the door wide and there stood Armand Gamache. He looked at the people, but took in his surroundings. The office had a cathedral ceiling, huge arched windows and was sunken a few steps from the door. It was paneled in wood, with wood floors and bookcases and looked like an old-fashioned, miniature, gymnasium where the activity was intellectual not physical.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, coming further into the room. His coat was off and he was wearing a camel hair cardigan, a shirt and tie, and deep blue corduroy slacks. Henri, his German shepherd, was at his side.
Porter stared. Winnie backed down the stairway. Elizabeth got up from her desk and walked over.
“You came,” she said, smiling, her hand out. He took it in his large hand and held it.
“What do you mean?” asked Porter. “I don’t understand.”
“I asked if he could come and watch over the investigation for us. This is Chief Inspector Gamache,” Elizabeth waited for recognition. “Of the Sûreté du Québec.”
“I know who it is,” lied Porter. “Knew all along.”
“Chief Inspector Gamache, let me introduce the head of our Board of Directors,” said Elizabeth. “Porter Wilson.”
The two men shook hands.
“We don’t need help, you know. We’re fine on our own,” said Porter.
“I know, I just wanted to make sure. You’ve been so kind allowing me to use your library, I thought I’d offer some of my own expertise in return.”
“This isn’t even your jurisdiction,” Porter grumbled, turning his back on the Chief Inspector. “The separatists are going to have a field day. How do we know you’re not one of them?”
Elizabeth MacWhirter could have died. “For God’s sake, Porter, he’s here to help. I invited him.”
“We’ll talk about that later.”
“Not all separatists wish you harm, monsieur,” said Gamache, his voice friendly but firm. “But you’re right, this isn’t my jurisdiction. I’m impressed you know that.” Elizabeth watched with some amusement as Porter began to melt. “You clearly follow politics.” Porter nodded and relaxed further. Much more, thought Elizabeth, and he’d curl up in Gamache’s lap.
“The Sûreté has no jurisdiction in cities,” Gamache continued. “The death of Monsieur Renaud is a case for the local Quebec City homicide force. I happen to know Inspector Langlois and he was kind enough to also ask me to join them. After some thought,” he looked over at Elizabeth, “I decided I would just have a look.” He turned back to Porter. “With your permission of course, sir.”
Porter Wilson all but swooned. Winnie and Elizabeth exchanged glances. If they’d only realized it was so easy. But then Porter’s face clouded again as the reality sunk in.
This might not be an improvement. They’d gone from no police to now two forces occupying their building.
Not to mention the body.
“I wonder if I could leave Henri with you while I go into the basement?”
“Absolutely,” said Winnie, taking the leash. Gamache also gave her some biscuits for Henri, patted him, told him to be a gentleman, then left.
“I don’t like this,” he heard Porter say just as the door closed. He suspected he was meant to hear it. But, then, he didn’t much like it either.
A uniformed officer was waiting for him in the corridor and together they made their way through the warren of hallways and staircases. Gamache had to admit he was completely lost, and suspected the officer was too. Boxes full of books and papers lined the linoleum floors, elaborate stairways led to grotty washrooms and deserted offices. They came to two huge wooden doors and opening them they walked into a spectacular double-height ballroom that led into an equally spectacular twin. Both empty except for a few ladders and the ubiquitous boxes of books. He opened one of them. More leather-bound volumes. He knew if he picked one up he would be well and truly lost, so he ignored it and instead followed the increasingly frustrated officer down another corridor.
“Never seen anything like it,” said the officer. “All this beautiful space, gone to waste. Doesn’t seem right. What’re they doing with this great building? Shouldn’t it be used for something worthwhile?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. But there must be something someone could use it for.”
“Someone is using it.”
“Les Anglais.”
Gamache stopped. “Excusez-moi?”
“Les têtes carré,” the young officer explained.
The square heads.
“You will treat these people with respect,” said Gamache. “They’re no more tête carré than you and I are frogs.” His voice was hard, sharp. The officer stiffened.
“I meant no harm.”
“Is that really true?” Gamache stared at the young officer, who stared back. Finally Gamache smiled a little. “You won’t solve this crime by insulting these people, or mocking them. Don’t be blinded.”
“Yes sir.”
They walked on, down endless hallways, past som
“Over here, sir. I think I’ve found it.”
They went down some steps and found a uniformed officer standing bored guard over a trap door. On seeing the Chief Inspector he stood straighter. Gamache nodded and watched his young guide leap down the metal ladder.
Gamache hadn’t been prepared for this.
At the bottom the officer stared up, waiting, his face going from eager to questioning. What could be keeping this man? Then he remembered. He walked a few rungs up the ladder and extended his hand.
“It’s all right, sir,” he said quietly. “I won’t let you fall.”
Gamache looked at the hand. “I believe you.” He carefully descended and took the strong young hand in his.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir sat by the fire, a beer and a steak sandwich in front of him. Peter and Clara had joined him and Myrna and Gabri sat on the sofa facing the fireplace.
It was Beauvoir’s first time back in Three Pines since they’d arrested Olivier Brulé for the murder of the Hermit, Jakob. He looked into the huge, open fire and remembered loosening the bricks at the back and sticking his arm all the way in, right up to his shoulder and rummaging around. Afraid of what he might feel, or what might feel him. Was there a rat’s nest back there? Mice? Spiders? Maybe snakes.
As much as he declared himself to be rationality itself, the truth was, he had an active and untamed imagination. His hand brushed something soft and rough. He’d stiffened and stopped. His heart pounding and his imagination in overdrive, he forced his hand back. It closed around the thing, and he’d brought it out.
Around him the Sûreté team had clustered, watching. Chief Inspector Gamache, Agent Isabelle Lacoste and the trainee, Agent Paul Morin.
Slowly he dragged the thing out from its hiding place behind the fire. It was a small, coarse burlap sack, tied with twine. He’d placed it on the very table where his beer and sandwich now sat. And he’d gone in again, finding something else hidden back there. A simple, elegant, beautiful candelabra. A menorah, actually. Centuries old, perhaps thousands of years, the experts later said.
But the experts had told them something else, something more precise.
This ancient menorah that had brought light to so many homes, so many solemn ceremonies, that had been worshiped, hidden, prayed around, treasured, had also been used to kill.
The Hermit’s blood and hair and tissue were found on it as were his fingerprints. As were the fingerprints of only one other.
Olivier.
And inside the sack? A carving the Hermit had done. His finest work. An exquisite study of a young man, sitting, listening. It was simple and powerful, and telling. It told of aching loneliness, of desire, of need. It was clearly a carving of Olivier, listening. And that carving told them something else.
Jakob’s sculptures had been worth hundreds of thousands, finally millions of dollars. He’d given them to Olivier in exchange for food and company and Olivier had sold them. Making millions for himself.
But that hadn’t been enough, Olivier had wanted more. He wanted the one thing the Hermit had refused to give him. The thing in the sack.
Jakob’s last treasure, his most precious possession.
And Olivier wanted it.
In a fit of rage and greed he’d taken the Hermit’s life, then he’d taken the beautiful and priceless murder weapon and the sack, and hidden them.
Behind the fireplace Beauvoir now stared at.
And once found, the sack with its carving started to speak. It had only one thing to say and it said it eloquently, over and over. Olivier had killed its creator.
Between finding the carving and the murder weapon hidden in the bistro, as well as all the other evidence, there was no question what had to happen next. The Chief Inspector had arrested Olivier Brulé for murder. He’d been found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to ten years. Painfully, Three Pines had come to accept this terrible truth.
Except Gabri, who every day wrote the Chief Inspector to ask that question. Why would Olivier move the body?
“How’s the Chief Inspector?” Myrna asked, leaning her considerable body forward. She was large and black. A retired psychologist, now the owner of the bookstore.
“He’s all right. We speak every day.”
He wouldn’t tell them the full truth, of course. That Chief Inspector Gamache was far from “all right.” As was he.
“We’ve been in touch a few times,” said Clara.
In her late forties Clara Morrow was on the cusp, everyone knew, of making it huge in the art world. She had a solo show coming up in a few months at the Musée d’art Contemporain, or MAC, in Montreal. Her unruly dark hair was growing lighter with gray and she always looked as though she’d just emerged from a wind tunnel.
Her husband, Peter, was another matter. Where she was short and getting a little dumpy, he was tall and slender. Every gray hair in place, his clothing simple and immaculate.
“We spoke to him a few times,” said Peter. “And I know you’re in touch.” He turned to Gabri.
“If you can call stalking him, ‘in touch.’ ” Gabri laughed and gestured to the half-finished letter on the table then looked at Beauvoir. “Did Gamache send you? Are you reopening Olivier’s case?”
Beauvoir shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’ve just come for a vacation. To relax.”
He’d looked them square in the face, and lied.
“Do you mind, Jean-Guy?” Chief Inspector Gamache had asked that morning. “I’d do it myself, but I don’t think that would be much use. If a mistake was made it was mine. You might be able to see where it is.”
“We all investigated the case, not just you, sir. We all agreed with the findings. There was no doubt. What makes you think now there was a mistake?” Beauvoir had asked. He’d been in the basement with the dreaded phone. And if he hated the phone, Beauvoir thought, how must the Chief feel about them?
He didn’t think they’d made a mistake. In fact, he knew the case against Olivier to be complete, thorough and without fault.
“Why did he move the body?” Gamache had said.
It was, Beauvoir had to admit, a good question. The only slight chink in a perfect case. “So, what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to go to Three Pines and ask some more questions.”
“Like what? We asked all the questions, got all the answers. Olivier murdered the Hermit. Point final. End of discussion. The jury agreed. Besides, the murder happened five months ago, how’m I supposed to find new evidence now?”
“I don’t think you do,” the Chief had said. “I think if a mistake was made it was in interpretation.”
Beauvoir had paused. He knew he’d go to Three Pines, would do as the Chief asked. He always would. If the Chief asked him to conduct the interviews naked, he would. But of course he would never ask that, which was why he trusted the Chief. With his life.
For a moment, unbidden, he felt again the shove, the pressure, and then the horror as his legs had collapsed and he knew what had happened. He’d crumpled to the filthy floor of the abandoned factory. And he’d heard, from far off, the familiar voice, shouting.
“Jean-Guy!” So rarely raised, but raised then.
The Chief was speaking to him again, but now his voice was calm, thoughtful, trying to work out the best strategy. “You’ll be there as a private citizen, not a homicide investigator. Not trying to prove him guilty. Maybe the thing to do is look at it from the other direction.”
“What do you mean?”
“Go to Three Pines and try to prove Olivier didn’t murder the Hermit Jakob.”
So there Jean-Guy Beauvoir sat, trying to pretend he liked these people.
But he didn’t.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir didn’t like many people and these ones in Three Pines had given him little reason to change. They were cunning, deceitful, arrogant, and nearly incomprehensible, especially the Anglos. They were dangerous, because they hid their thoughts, hid their feelings, behind a smiling face. Who could tell what was really going on in their heads? They said one thing and thought another. Who knew what rancid thing lived, curled up, in that space between words and thoughts?
Yes. These people might look kind and concerned. But they were dangerous.
The sooner this was over, thought Beauvoir smiling at them over the rim of his beer, the better.
FIVE
Once at the bottom of the ladder Gamache looked round. Industrial lamps had been brought down and he could see light flooding from one of the chambers. Like anyone else he was drawn to it, but resisted and instead looked into the gloom, allowing his eyes to adjust.
After a moment he saw what men and women stretching back hundreds of years had seen. A low, vaulted, stone basement, a sous-sol in French. No sun had ever reached here, only darkness, interrupted over the centuries by candlelight, by whale oil lamps, by gaslight and now, finally, by blinding, brilliant electric lights. Brighter than the sun, brought down so they could see the darkest of deeds.
The taking of a life.
And not just any life, but Augustin Renaud.
Porter Wilson, for all his paranoia was right, thought Gamache. The people who wanted Québec to separate from Canada will have a field day. Anything that cast suspicion on the English population was fodder for the separatist cause. Or at least, the more radical factions. The vast majority of separatists, Gamache knew, were thoughtful, reasonable, decent people. But a few were quite crazy.
Gamache and his young guide were in an antechamber. The ceilings were low, though perhaps not for the people who’d built it. Poor diet and grinding conditions had made them many inches shorter. But still, Gamache suspected, most would have ducked, as he did now. The floors were dirt, and it was cool but not cold down there. They were well below the frost line, beneath the sun but also beneath the frozen earth. Into a sort of dim purgatory, a place never hot, nor cold.
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