Bury Your Dead (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #6)

Bury Your Dead (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #6) Page 114

“That’s a little awkward,” she smiled slightly. “Our critics right. Most embarrassing. Did we sell books that should never have left us?”

Gamache looked into her eyes. They were steady, unwavering, dreading the answer, perhaps, but wanting to hear it anyway. As he watched her he noticed a few things, details that caught his eye. The faded and even frayed upholstery of the sofa and his own chair. A few floorboards heaved slightly, out of alignment. They could be easily nailed back to place. A handle missing from one of the doors of a cupboard.

“I’m afraid you did. They were Father Chiniquy’s personal journals and diaries.”

She closed her eyes but did not lower her head. When she opened them again a moment later her eyes were still steady but perhaps a little sad.

“Oh dear, that’s not good news. The board will have 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.”