Bury Your Dead

“No,” whispered the priest. “After all that publicity the city finally agreed to let Renaud continue the dig, under their supervision. Privately the official archeologists were furious, publicly they sounded happy with the compromise. But after more imaging was done and records pored over it was decided this wasn’t Champlain but a much more recent coffin of a mid-level curate.”

“Are they sure?” Gamache turned to Father Sébastien, barely visible in the gloom. “Are you sure?”

“I was the one who convinced the city to continue the dig. I actually respected Renaud. He didn’t have a degree and he wasn’t trained, but he wasn’t a fool. And he’d found something no one else had, including me.”

“But had he found Champlain?”

“Not here. I wanted to believe it was. It would’ve been a coup for the church, brought in more people, and yes, more money. But when we looked closer and added it all up, it just wasn’t going to be Champlain.”

“But the coins?”

“They were from the 1600s and confirmed this was once the site of the original chapel and the cemetery, but nothing more.”

The two men emerged into the light of the little sanctuary.

“What do you think happened to Champlain, Father?”

The priest paused. “I think after the fire he was reburied. There’s a reference to a reburial taking place, but they don’t say where, and no official documents exist. This church has burned down a few times, taking valuable records with it each time.”

“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 Québec 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 Père Sébastien. “That is why he’s loved. He’s a symbol of all that is great, all that is brave, all that Québec 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 Père Sébastien 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 Café 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.