by Louise Penny
Émile smiled.
“One mummy was eventually sent to a museum in Ontario and then returned a few years ago to Egypt,” Elizabeth continued, “when they discovered it was King Ramses.”
“Pardon?” asked Gamache. “Dr. Douglas took the body of an Egyptian pharaoh?”
“Apparently,” said Mr. Blake, struggling between embarrassment and pride.
Gamache shook his head. “So what does this remarkable Dr. Douglas have to do with Chiniquy?”
“Oh, didn’t we say? They were good friends,” said Mr. Blake. “While still a priest Chiniquy would go to Dr. Douglas’s mental hospital to minister to the Catholics. It was Douglas who stirred Chiniquy to action. A number of the demented were also drunks. Dr. Douglas discovered if you locked them up, gave them good food and no alcohol they often returned to a state of sanity. But they had to stay sober or, better still, never have drunk to excess to begin with. He told Father Chiniquy about this and Chiniquy immediately grasped it. It became his life’s work, his way to save souls, before they were damned.”
“Temperance,” said Gamache.
“The pledge,” agreed Mr. Blake. “Get them to stop drinking, or never start. And tens of thousands did, thanks to Father Chiniquy. His public rallies became famous. He was the Billy Graham of his day, drawing people from all over Québec and the eastern United States. People couldn’t sign up fast enough to take the pledge.”
“All inspired by James Douglas,” said Émile.
“They were lifelong friends,” said Elizabeth.
A movement in the shadows caught Gamache’s peripheral vision. He glanced up to the gallery but saw only the wooden statue of General Wolfe looking down on them, listening. But still, the Chief Inspector had the impression the General hadn’t been alone. Someone else had been standing there, in the shadows. Hiding among the books, the stories. Listening. To the story of two inspired madmen, two old friends.
But there was another madman in the story. Augustin Renaud, who was also obsessed with the dead.
“The sale of books last year,” Gamache began and immediately felt the shift in mood. Both Elizabeth MacWhirter and Mr. Blake became guarded. “I understand it wasn’t very popular.”
“No, within the English community it wasn’t popular,” admitted Elizabeth. “We eventually had to stop.”
“Why?”
“Reactionaries,” said Mr. Blake. “Perhaps not surprisingly the strongest opposition came from people who’d never even been in the Lit and His. They just hated the idea on principle.”
“And what principle might that be?” asked Émile.
“That the Lit and His was created to preserve English history,” said Elizabeth. “And any scrap of paper with English writing on it, every shopping list, every journal, every letter was sacred. By selling some off we were betraying our heritage. It just didn’t feel right.”
Feelings. As much as people tried to rationalize, tried to justify, tried to explain, eventually everything came down to feelings.
“Did anyone go through the books? How’d you decide what to sell?” Gamache asked.
“We started in the basement, ones that were deemed unimportant when they came in and so stayed in boxes. There were so many, I’m afraid we were overwhelmed and just sold them by the box load, happy to be rid of them.”
“You had two sales?” asked the Chief.
“Yes. The first was in the summer, then we had a smaller, quieter one later. That was mostly to bookstores and people who seemed sympathetic to what we were doing.”
“The books donated by Mrs. Claude Marchand back in 1899 were among the ones you sold,” said Gamache.
“Is that right?” said Elizabeth.
“Is it significant?” asked Mr. Blake.
“We think so. Mrs. Marchand was Charles Chiniquy’s housekeeper in Montreal. After his death they must have divided up his things and given her some of the books, or perhaps he asked that they be sent here. Either way, she must have known he had a relationship with the Literary and Historical Society and so sent them on. It seems when they arrived they were kept in boxes and probably put in your basement. People either didn’t bother looking at them or didn’t see their value.”
“Are you saying we had a collection of Chiniquy’s books and never even knew it?” asked Mr. Blake, getting quite agitated. “This is the very thing people were afraid of. That in our rush we’d sell off treasures. What were they?”
“We don’t know,” admitted Gamache. “But some were bought by Augustin Renaud and two books interested him in particular.”
“Which ones?”
“Again, we don’t know. We have the catalog numbers, but that’s all. No titles, no idea what was in them.”
“What could Father Chiniquy possibly have that Augustin Renaud would want?” Elizabeth asked herself. “Chiniquy wasn’t interested in Champlain, at least not that we know of.”
There were actually two questions, thought Gamache. What were those books? And why can’t we find them?
Émile and Gamache paused outside the Lit and His.
“So, what do you think?” Émile asked, putting on his mitts and hat.
“I think if Chin is Chiniquy in Augustin Renaud’s diary then JD must be James Douglas.”
“And Patrick and O’Mara are long dead too,” said Émile, his breath coming in puffs and his mouth already growing numb in the cold. Still the two men stood and talked.
Gamache nodded. “Renaud wasn’t planning to meet those four men, he was making a note of a meeting they had. Here. More than a hundred years ago.”
The men looked up at the building, rising behind them.
“And 18 whatever? The number in his diary?” Émile asked. “A time? A date?”
Gamache smiled. “We’ll find out.”
“We will,” agreed Émile. It felt good to be working together again. “Coming?”
“I have a quick stop to make first. Can you take Henri home?”
Gamache watched Henri and Émile stepping carefully down rue St-Stanislas, making sure not to slip on the ice and snow.
The Chief Inspector walked the few meters to St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church. Trying the door he was somewhat surprised to find it unlocked. He poked his head into the church. The robin’s egg blue ceiling was softly lit but the rest was in twilight.
“Hello,” he called and his voice rattled round and finally disappeared. His intention was to speak to the young minister but he found himself drawn into the calm space. Taking his coat off he sat quietly for a few minutes, occasionally taking a deep breath and a long exhale.
Now there is no more loneliness.
Closing his eyes he let the voice loose, to play. To run around in his head, to laugh and tell him once again about breaking his first violin, a tiny one lent by the school. Worth more money than they had and his mother mending it and handing it back to the distraught boy reassuring him.
Things are strongest where they’re broken. Don’t worry.
“What a kind thing to say,” Gamache said and meant.
“To a clumsy boy,” Morin agreed. “I broke everything. Violins, vacuums, glasses, plates, you name it. I once broke a hammer. If I didn’t break it I lost it.”
Morin laughed.
Gamache felt himself almost nodding off in the warmth and the peace and the soft laughter in his head, and when he opened his eyes he was surprised to find he was no longer alone. The young minister was sitting quietly at the other end of the pew, reading.
“You seemed amused just now,” Tom Hancock said.
“Did I? Something came to me. What’re you reading?” Gamache asked, his voice not more than a whisper.
Tom Hancock looked down at the book in his hand.
“Steer toward the third tall oak from the tip of Fischer’s Point,” he read. “Once halfway across you must adjust your course, taking into account the current, the winds, the ice. And always steer for the ice floes, never to open water.”
“A little known Go
“Well, after the reforms they’re harder to recognize,” said the Reverend Mr. Hancock. He put a bookmark in, closed it and handed the old volume to his companion. Gamache accepted it and looked at the title.
DELIVERING THE MAIL ACROSS THE MIGHTY SAINT LAWRENCE, IN WINTER. A MANUAL.
Opening the cover he scanned the title page, and found the date. 1854.
“Obscure book.” He handed it back. “Where’d you find it?”
“One of the perks of being so close to the Lit and His. You get to prowl the shelves. I think I’m the second person to take it out in 150 years.”
“Have you found other interesting books there?”
“Some, most equally obscure. When I first arrived I’d check out books of old sermons, in the hopes some of my parishioners would be impressed but no one seemed to notice, so I stopped.” He laughed. “This though is quite useful. Has strategies for crossing the river in winter.”
“The ice canoe race? There must be easier pastimes.”
“Are you kidding? Canoeing across a frozen river is a breeze compared to what I normally do.”
Now Gamache shifted in the hard pew so that he was facing Tom Hancock. “That difficult?”
The young man grew somber. “At times.”
“Have you heard of a Father Chiniquy?”
Tom Hancock thought then shook his head. “Who is he?”
“Was. He lived more than a hundred years ago. A famous Catholic priest who quit the church and joined the Presbyterians.”
“Really? Chiniquy?” He thought about the name then shook his head. “Sorry. I should probably know who he was, but I’m not from here.”
“Not to worry, not many know him now. I’d never heard of him.”
“Is he important to the case?”
“I can’t see how he can be, and yet his name’s come up in Augustin Renaud’s journal. Renaud seems to have bought a few of Chiniquy’s books at the Lit and His sale.”
The Reverend Mr. Hancock grimaced. “That sale haunts us.”
“Were you in favor of it?”
“It seemed obvious. The place was in disrepair, it was a question of losing a few unused books to save the many. It should have been an easy decision.”
Gamache nodded.
That was often the equation, give up the few to save the many. From a distance it seemed so simple, so clear. And yet, from a distance you might see the big picture, but not the whole picture, you missed the details. Not everything was seen, from a distance.
“Did the opposition surprise you?” Gamache asked.
Tom Hancock hesitated. “I was disappointed more than surprised. The English community is shrinking, but it needn’t die out. It’s on the cusp. It could go either way. It’s crucial right now to keep the institutions alive. They’re the anchors of any community.” He hesitated a moment, not happy with his choice of words. “No, not the anchors. The harbors. The places people go and know they’re safe.”
Safe, thought Gamache. How primal that was, how powerful. What would people do to preserve a safe harbor? They’d do what they’d done for centuries. What the French had done to save Québec, what the English had done to take it. What countries do to protect their borders, what individuals do to protect their homes.
They kill. To feel safe. It almost never worked.
But Tom Hancock was speaking again. “It’s vital to hear your own language, to see it written, to see it valued. That’s one of the reasons I was so glad to be asked to sit on the Literary and Historical Society board. To try to save the institution.”
“Do they share your concern?”
“Oh yes, they all know how precarious it is. The debate is really how best to keep the institutions going. The Lit and His, the Anglican cathedral, this church, the high school and nursing home. The CBC. The newspaper. They’re all threatened.”
The young minister turned earnest eyes on Gamache. Not the burning eyes of a zealot, not Renaud or Champlain or Chiniquy eyes, but the eyes of someone with a calling greater than himself. A simple desire to help.
“Everyone’s sincere, it’s just a question of strategy. Some think the enemy is change, some think change is what will save them, but they all know their backs are to the cliff.”
“The Plains of Abraham, replayed?”
“No, not replayed. It never ended. The English only won the first skirmish, but the French have won the war. The long-range plan.”
“Attrition?” asked Gamache. “Revenge of the cradle?”
It was a familiar argument, and a familiar strategy. The Catholic Church and politicians for generations demanded the Québécois have huge families to populate the huge territory, to squeeze the more modest Anglos out.
But finally it wasn’t simply the size of the French population that did the English in, but their own hubris. Their refusal to share power, wealth, influence with the French majority.
If their backs were to the cliff it was an abyss of their own making and an enemy they’d created.
“If the English community is going to survive,” said Tom Hancock, “it’s going to have to make some sacrifices. Take action. Adapt.” He paused, looking down at the book clasped in his hand.
“Change course?” asked Gamache, also glancing at the book in the minister’s hand. “They’re making for the open water? Trying the easy way first?”
Tom Hancock looked at Gamache and the tension seemed to break. He even laughed a little.
“Touché. I guess we all do. I think people see me as this muscular, young guy. Stunningly handsome even.” He stole a glance at his amused companion. “But the truth is, I’m not strong at all. Every day frightens me. That’s why I’m doing the canoe race. Ridiculous thing to do, really, paddle and run across a half-frozen river in minus thirty degree temperatures. You know why I’m doing it?” When Gamache shook his head the younger man continued. “So that people will think I’m strong.” His voice dropped, as did his eyes. “I’m not strong at all. Not where it counts. The truth is I’d rather be sweating and heaving a canoe over slush and ice than sitting one-on-one with a sick and dying parishioner. That terrifies me.”
Gamache leaned forward, his voice as soft as the light. “What scares you about it?”
“That I won’t know what to say, that I’ll let them down. That I won’t be enough.”
I will find you. I won’t let anything happen to you.
Yes sir. I believe you.
The two men stared into space, lost in their own thoughts.
“Doubt,” said Gamache at last and the word seemed to fill the huge empty space around them. He stared straight ahead, seeing the closed door. The wrong door.
Tom Hancock watched his companion, let him sit in silence for a few moments.
“Doubt is natural, Chief Inspector. It can make us stronger.”
“And things are strongest where they’re broken?” asked the Chief, with a smile.
“They better be, I’m counting on it,” said the Reverend Mr. Hancock.
Gamache nodded, thinking. “But still you do it,” he said at last. “You sit with parishioners who are sick and dying. It scares you, but you do it every day. You don’t run away.”
“I have no choice. I have to aim for the ice, not the open water if I’m going to get where I want to go. And so do you.”
“Where do you want to go?”
Hancock paused, thinking. “I want to get to shore.”
Gamache took a deep breath and a long exhale. Hancock watched him.
“Not everyone makes it across the river,” said Gamache quietly.
“Not everyone’s supposed to.”
Gamache nodded.
I believe you, whispered the young voice.
Gamache leaned forward in the pew, placing his elbows on his knees and lacing his strong fingers together, one hand clasping the other, which trembled just a little. Then he rested his chin on them.
“I made some terrible mistakes,” he said at last, staring into the half light. “Not seeing the full picture, though all the clues were there. Not grasping it all until it was almost too late and even then I made a terrible mistake.”
The corridor, the closed door. The wrong door, the wrong way. The seconds ticking down. The race back toward the other door, heart pounding.
Don’t worry, son. It will be all right.
Breaking through the door and seeing him sitting there, his thin back to them, facing the wall. Facing the clock. That ticked down.
Yes sir, I believe you.
To zero.
Bringing himself back to the silent church Gamache looked over to Tom Hancock.
“Sometimes life goes in a direction not of our choosing,” said the minister, softly. “That’s why we need to adapt. It’s never too late to change direction.”
Gamache remained silent. He knew the young minister was wrong, sometimes it was too late. Général Montcalm knew that. He knew that.
“They should have sold all those boxes of books,” said Tom Hancock, at last, lost in his own reverie. “Now, there’s a symbol for you. The Lit and His cluttered with unwanted English words. Weighed down by the past.”
“Je me souviens,” whispered Gamache.
“It’ll drag them under,” said the Reverend Mr. Hancock, sadly.
Gamache was beginning to understand this community and this case.
And himself.
EIGHTEEN
“Ten more.”
Clara groaned and lifted her legs in unison.
“Keep your back flat!”
Clara ignored the order. This wasn’t pretty. It certainly wasn’t perfect, but she was going to damn well do it.
“One, grunt, two, groan, three . . .”
“Did I tell you about my day skiing at Mont Saint-Rémy?”
Pina, the exercise instructor, apparently didn’t need to breathe. Her legs and arms seemed independent of the rest of her, moving in military precision while she lay on the mat chatting away as though at a slumber party.
Myrna was swearing and sweating freely and sometimes making other noises while Ricky Martin sang “Livin’ la Vida Loca.” Clara was always happy to exercise close to Myrna since any number of sins, and sounds, could be blamed on her. And she was easy to hide behind. The entire class could hide behind Myrna.
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