Bury Your Dead

Samuel de Champlain. Gamache would pick him out of any lineup.

He nodded.

“That’s not him,” said Père Sébastien.

“It isn’t?”

“Look at this.” Sébastien pulled a book from the burdened bookcase. Flipping it open he handed it to the Chief Inspector. “Look familiar?”

There was the painting of a man, slightly pudgy, standing in front of a window with a verdant scene behind him. He was about thirty, wearing a green doublet, a lace collar, white gloves and a sword and hilt. His hair was in the style of the 1600s, long, dark and slightly curled. He had a trim beard and moustache. It was a handsome, intelligent face, with large, thoughtful eyes.

“That’s Michel Particelli d’Emery, an accountant for Louis XIII.”

“But it’s Champlain,” said Gamache. “Slightly heavier, and turned in the other direction, but essentially the same man, even down to the clothing.”

He handed the book back to the priest, stunned. Father Sébastien was smiling and nodding. “Someone lifted this image, tweaked it to make him look more courageous, more our image of a brave explorer, and called it Champlain.”

“But why would anyone have to? If there’re paintings of minor aristocrats and tradesmen, isn’t there a portrait of Champlain?”

The priest leaned forward, animated. “There’s not a single portrait of the man done during his life. We have no idea what he looked like. That’s not all. Why wasn’t Champlain ever given a title, or land here? He wasn’t even officially the Governor of Québec.”

“Have we exaggerated his significance?” asked Gamache and immediately regretted it. Again the priest bristled as though the Chief Inspector had thrown dirt on his idol.

“No. Every document we do have confirms he was the father of Québec. The records were written at the time by the Récollets. They founded the mission and the chapel. Champlain left half his money to them. He had the church built to celebrate the return of Québec from the English. He hated the English you know.”

“Hard not to hate an enemy. I suspect the English felt the same about him.”

“Perhaps. But it wasn’t just because they were enemies. He considered the English the real savages. Considered them cruel, especially to the natives. Reading Champlain’s diaries it became clear he’d developed a special relationship with the Huron and Algonquins. They taught him how to live in this country, and gave him detailed information on the waterways.

“He hated the English because they were more interested in slaughtering the Indians than working with them. Don’t get me wrong, Champlain saw the Indians as savages too. But he knew he could learn from them and he worried about their immortal souls.”

“And their furs?”

“Well, he was a businessman,” admitted Père Sébastien.

Gamache looked again at the painting on the wall next to the crucified Christ. “So we don’t know what Champlain looked like, when he was born, or where he’s buried. What do his diaries tell us about him?”

“That’s interesting too. They tell us next to nothing. They’re basically agendas about his travels and daily life here, but not his internal life, not his thoughts and feelings. He kept his private life private.”

“Even in his own diaries? Why?”

Sébastien put his palms to the ceiling in a stupefied manner. “There’re some theories. One is that he was a spy for the King of France, another is even more compelling. Some think he was actually the son of the King. Illegitimate, of course. But that might explain the mystery of his birth and the secrecy surrounding a man who should have been celebrated. It might also explain why he was sent here, to the middle of nowhere.”

“You said Augustin Renaud found a lead-lined coffin beneath one of the sanctuaries along with some coins but that the dig was stopped. Could he have been right? Might it be Champlain?”

“Would you like to see?”

Gamache stood. “Please.”

They walked back the way they came, each pausing to cross himself, and across the knave to a small grotto area with a tiny altar lit by votives.

“It’s through here.” Sébastien squeezed behind the altar and through a tiny archway. A flashlight balanced on a rough rock ledge and the priest turned it on, flooding the cramped area. The center of the beam played over the stones and came to rest on a coffin.

Gamache felt a thrill. Could this be him?

“Has it been opened?” Gamache dropped his voice.