Bury Your Dead (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #6) - Louise Penny Page 0,119

had brought a corpse home from work.

“The men set about opening it, carefully prying the sealed lid off,” Gamache continued the story. “Imagining why it was so heavy. It must, they felt, be filled with gold, with jewelry, with silver. This must be the coffin of a very rich person. But once opened, they were sorely disappointed. There was nothing inside except a ratty old book, a bible, and some remains. Bones and bits of clothing. It was heavy because it was lead-lined.”

There was a small stir in the room. Did they know where this was headed?

“Patrick and O’Mara had been in the bar discussing how best to strip the lead, sell it then dump the body into the river, the bible with it. They couldn’t read, so it was useless. Chiniquy asked to see the bible. At that stage the men grew wary. Then the priest tried another tack. If they would bring the coffin and the bible to the Literary and Historical Society the next night, Chiniquy could promise them a small reward.

“Why? the men had asked.

“Because they collect everything historic, especially books. This coffin might be old, Chiniquy reasoned.

“Patrick and O’Mara were already half drunk and didn’t really care. If there was money they’d be there. The next night they showed up and were met by Father Chiniquy and another man. James Douglas.”

“Is there a point to this?” one of the members of the Société Champlain asked.

“Please, Benoît,” René Dallaire looked pained. “Civility.”

“I’ll be civil when he stops wasting my time.”

“There is a point, monsieur, and we’re almost there,” said Gamache. He could feel his phone buzzing but couldn’t very well look at it now. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Dr. Douglas?”

There were nods.

“He opened the coffin and examined the contents while Father Chiniquy looked at the bible. Then James Douglas made a mistake. He offered Patrick and O’Mara five hundred dollars each. Chiniquy was furious, but said nothing. The workers immediately knew something was up. That was a small fortune, way too much for the remains of some long-dead guy and a ratty old bible.

“They refused, insisting on one thousand dollars each, and they got it but only after Douglas had secured their pledge of secrecy and found out where they lived. The Irishmen, who hated the English, also feared them. They knew what lay behind the civilized veneer. They knew what an Englishman was capable of, if crossed. Patrick and O’Mara agreed, then carried the coffin to the basement and left.”

His phone buzzed again. Still Gamache ignored it.

“How do you know all this?” someone asked.

“Because I found this.”

Gamache bent down to his satchel and removed a black leather book. As he held it he looked at Émile who looked surprised, and something else. Was that a small smile? A grin or a grimace?

“It’s Father Chiniquy’s journal for the year 1869. Augustin Renaud found it and recognizing its significance he hid it.”

“Where was it?” Émile asked.

“The library of the Literary and Historical Society,” said Gamache, staring at his mentor.

“Augustin Renaud hid the journal in a library?” asked René Dallaire.

“No,” clarified Gamache. “His murderer did.”

“Why’re you telling us all this?” Jean Hamel, slender and contained and sitting next to René Dallaire as always, asked.

“I think you know why,” said Gamache, looking the man directly in the eyes until Hamel lowered his.

“Where did you say the Irish workers were digging?” a member asked.

“I didn’t, but I can tell you. It was under the Old Homestead.”

The room grew very quiet. Everyone stared at Gamache.

“You found the other book, didn’t you,” said Émile into the silence.

“I did.”

Gamache reached into the satchel, now on his lap. The satchel he’d spent the last few hours protecting.

“Last year the Literary and Historical Society sold a number of boxes of books, boxes they hadn’t bothered to examine. Augustin Renaud bought some of them. When he went to see what he had found they were from the collection of Father Charles Chiniquy. Not very promising, for a Champlain scholar—”

The use of the word “scholar” brought some harrumphs.

“—so he didn’t hurry to read them. But eventually, scanning them, he came across something extraordinary. He made mention of it in his own diary, but in true Renaud fashion he was”—Gamache searched for the word—“guarded.”

“Don’t you mean demented?” asked Jean Hamel. “Nothing he said or wrote can be trusted.”

“No, I mean guarded. And he was quite right. What he’d found was staggering.”

Gamache withdrew another black leather book. This one was larger, thicker than the first. Frayed and brittle,