Bury Your Dead (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #6) - Louise Penny Page 0,111

to be told.”

“They’re evidence now but I suspect if you speak with Monsieur Renaud’s widow she might sell them back at a reasonable price.”

She looked relieved. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

“But one is missing. From 1869.”

“Really?”

“It was one of the books we were looking for, one of the books Augustin Renaud makes reference to in his own journals.”

“Why 1869?”

“I don’t know.” And that was true, to a point. He actually had a very good idea why, but wasn’t going to talk about it just yet.

“And the other book?”

“Missing too. We’ve found the lot it was bought with, but it could be anything.” He put his cup down carefully on the tray. “Did you ever hear of a meeting in the Literary and Historical Society between Father Chiniquy, James Douglas and two Irish workers?”

“In the late 1800s?” She was surprised. “No. Irish workers you say?” Gamache nodded. She said nothing, but frowned.

“What is it?”

“It’s just unlikely the Irish would have come to the Lit and His back then. Nowadays, yes, we have lots of members who are Irish. There isn’t such a distinction, thank God. But I’m afraid back then there was a lot of animosity between the Irish and the English.”

That was the weakness, Gamache knew, about New Worlds. People brought old conflicts.

“But feelings aren’t so bad today?”

“No, with the passage of time things got better. Besides, we’re too small, can’t afford to fight.”

“The lifeboat?” he smiled, picking up his coffee.

“You remember the analogy? Yes, that’s exactly it. Who’d be foolish enough to rock a lifeboat?”

And what would the passengers do to keep the peace, wondered the Chief Inspector. He sipped his coffee and took in the room. It was faded and comfortable, a room he would choose to live in. Did she not notice, though, the worn fabric, the chipped paint? The small repairs adding up? He knew when people lived in a place for a long time, a lifetime, they stopped seeing it as it is, instead always seeing it as it was.

And yet, the outside of the home had been kept up. Painted, repaired.

“Speaking of small communities, do you know the Mundin family?”

“The Mundins? Yes, of course. He ran a successful antique shop on Petit-Champlain for years. Had beautiful things. I’ve taken a few things there.”

Gamache looked at her quizzically.

“To sell, Chief Inspector.”

It was said without flinching, without blushing, without apology. A statement of fact.

And he had his answer. She noticed everything but used her modest income to only repair the outside. The façade, the public face. The famous MacWhirter fortune had disappeared, become a fiction, one she chose to keep up.

This was a woman for whom appearances mattered, façades mattered. What would she be willing to do, to keep it in place?

“There was a tragedy, I hear,” he said. “With the Mundin family.”

“Yes, very sad. He killed himself one spring. Walked out onto the river and fell in. They called it an accident, but we all knew.”

“Thin ice.”

She smiled slightly. “Just so.”

“And why did he do it, do you think?”

Elizabeth thought about it then shook her head. “I can’t imagine. He seemed happy, but then things aren’t always as they seem.”

Like the gleaming paint, the pointed stones, the perfect exterior of this home.

“Had a couple of children though I only met the one. His son. Adorable, with curly blond hair. Used to follow his father everywhere. He had a nickname for him. Can’t remember it now.”

“Old.”

“Pardon?”

“ ‘Old’ was the nickname.”

“Yes, that’s right. ‘Old son,’ his father would say. I wonder what became of the boy.”

“He lives in a village called Three Pines, making and restoring furniture.”

“The things we learn from our parents,” said Elizabeth with a smile.

“My father taught me the fiddle,” said Agent Morin. “Did your father teach you an instrument?”

“No, though he used to love to sing. My father taught me poetry. We’d go for long walks through Outremont and onto Mont Royal, and he’d recite poetry. I’d repeat it. Not well, most of the words meant nothing to me, but I remembered it all, every word. Only later did I realize what it meant.”

“And what did it mean?”

“It meant the world,” said Gamache. “My father died when I was nine.”

Morin paused. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine losing my father, even now. It must have been terrible.”

“It was.”

“And your mother? It must have been awful for her.”

“She died too. It was a car accident.”

“I’m sorry,” said the voice, small now, in pain for the large man sitting comfortably in his office while the