Old Mundin.”
“Why?”
“Apparently his father’s spending a lot of time at the Mundins’. The Wife admitted Old has developed a sort of bond with Dr. Gilbert. A substitute father.”
“Jealousy’s a powerful emotion. Powerful enough to kill.”
“But the wrong victim. Old Mundin isn’t dead.”
“So how could this play into the death of the Hermit?” the Chief asked and waited while there was a long pause. Finally Beauvoir admitted he didn’t see how it could.
“Both Carole Gilbert and Old Mundin are originally from Quebec City. Could you ask around about them?” When the Chief agreed Beauvoir paused before asking his last question. “How are you?”
He hated to ask, afraid that maybe the Chief would one day tell him the truth.
“I’m at the Café Krieghoff with Émile Comeau, a bowl of nuts and a Scotch. How bad can it be?” Gamache asked, his voice friendly and warm.
But Jean-Guy Beauvoir knew exactly how bad it could be and had been.
Hanging up, an image stole into his mind, uninvited, unexpected, unwanted.
Of the Chief, gun in hand, suddenly being lifted off his feet, twisting, turning. Falling. To lie still on the cold cement floor.
Gamache and Émile hailed a cab and took the diaries home. As Émile prepared a simple supper of warmed-up stew Gamache fed Henri then took him for a walk to the bakery for a fresh baguette.
Once home the men sat in the living room, a basket of crusty bread on the table, bowls of beef stew in front of them and the Chiniquy diaries piled on the sofa between them.
They spent the evening eating and reading, making notes, occasionally reading each other a particularly interesting, moving or unintentionally amusing passage.
By eleven Armand Gamache took off his reading glasses and rubbed his weary eyes. So far while historically fascinating the Chiniquy journals hadn’t revealed anything pertinent. There was no mention of the Irish laborers, Patrick and O’Mara. And while he did talk about James Douglas in the earlier diaries, the later ones mentioned him only in passing. Eventually there was an entry Émile read Gamache about Douglas packing up his three mummies and heading down to Pittsburgh, to live with his son.
Gamache listened and smiled. Chiniquy had made it sound petty, like a kid picking up his marbles and going home. Had Father Chiniquy done that on purpose, to diminish Dr. Douglas? Had there been a falling out? Did it matter?
An hour later he glanced at Émile and noticed the older man had fallen asleep, a journal splayed open on his chest. Gently raising Émile’s hand he removed the book, then put a soft pillow under Émile’s head and covered him with a comforter.
After quietly placing a large cherry log on the fire Gamache and Henri crept to bed.
The next day, before breakfast, he found an email from the Chief Archeologist.
“Something interesting?” Émile asked.
“Very. Sleep well?” Gamache looked up from his message with a smile.
“Wish I could say that was the first time I’d nodded off in front of the fire,” Émile laughed.
“So it wasn’t my stimulating conversation?”
“No. I never listen to you, you know that.”
“My suspicions confirmed. But listen to this,” Gamache looked back down to his email. “It’s from Serge Croix. I asked him to find out what digging work was being done in the old city in the summer of 1869.”
Émile joined his friend at the table. “The year Chiniquy and Douglas met the Irish workers.”
“Exactly, and the year covered in the missing journal. Dr. Croix writes to say there were three big digs. One at the Citadelle, to reinforce the walls, one to expand the Hôtel-Dieu hospital and the third? The third was to dig a basement under a local restaurant. The Old Homestead.”
Émile sat for a moment then leaned back in the chair and brought a hand up to his face, thinking. Gamache got to his feet.
“I think I’ll treat you to breakfast, Émile.”
Comeau got up, his eyes bright now too. “I think I know where.”
Within twenty minutes they’d climbed the steep and slippery slope of Côte de la Fabrique, pausing for breath and to stare at the imposing Notre-Dame Basilica. Where the original little church had stood, built by the Jesuit priests and brothers and supported by Champlain. A modest New World chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary to celebrate the return of Québec from the English in their see-saw battle for possession of the strategic colony.
This was where the great man’s funeral had been held and where he’d been buried, albeit briefly. At one time Augustin Renaud had