Louise Penny - Bury Your Dead

“It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it’s my fault,” said Gamache angrily.

“Why are you so insistent? Do you want to be a martyr?” said Hancock. “Is that why you came out in a blizzard? Are you enjoying your suffering? You must be, to hold on to it so tightly.”

“Be careful.”

“Of what? Of hurting the great Chief Inspector’s feelings? If your heroism doesn’t put you beyond us mere mortals then your suffering does, is that it? Yes it was a tragedy, it was terrible, but it happened to them, not you. You’re alive. This is what you’ve been handed, nothing’s going to change that. You have to let it go. They died. It was terrible but unavoidable.”

Hancock’s voice was intense. Henri lifted his head to stare at the young minister, a slight growl in his throat. Gamache put a calming hand on Henri’s head and the dog subsided.

“It is sweet and right to die for your country?” asked the Chief.

“Sometimes.”

“And not just to die, but to kill as well?”

“What does that mean?”

“You’d do just about anything to help your parishioners, wouldn’t you?” said Gamache. “Their suffering hurts you, almost physically. I’ve seen it. Yes, I came out into the blizzard in hopes it would quiet my conscience, but isn’t that why you signed up for the ice canoe race? To take your mind off your failings? You couldn’t stand to see the English suffer so much. Dying. As individuals, but also as a community. It was your job to comfort them but you didn’t know how, didn’t know if words were enough. And so you took action.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Despite a city filled with people he’d alienated, only six people could have actually murdered Augustin Renaud. The board of the Literary and Historical Society. Quite a few volunteers have keys to the building, quite a few knew the construction schedule and when the concrete was to be poured, quite a few could have found the sub-basement and led Renaud there. But only the six board members knew he’d visited, knew he’d demanded to speak with them. And knew why.”

The Reverend Mr. Hancock stared at Gamache in the harsh light of the single, naked bulb.

“You killed Augustin Renaud,” said Gamache.

There was silence then, complete and utter silence. There was no world outside. No storm, no battlefield, no walled and fortified and defended city. Nothing.

Only the silent fortress.

“Yes.”

“You aren’t going to deny it?”

“It was obvious you either knew already or would soon find out. Once you found those books it was all over. I hid them there, of course. Couldn’t very well destroy them and couldn’t risk having them found in my home. Seemed a perfect place. After all, no one had found them in the Literary and Historical Society for a hundred years.”

He looked closely at Gamache.

“Did you know all along?”

“I suspected. It could really only have been one of two people. You or Ken Haslam. While the rest of the board stayed and finished the meeting you headed off for your practice.”

“I went ahead of Ken, found Renaud and told him I’d sneak him in that night. I told him to bring whatever evidence he had, and if I was convinced, I’d let him start the dig.”

“And of course he came.”

Hancock nodded. “It was simple. He started digging while I read over the books. Chiniquy’s journal and the bible. It was damning.”

“Or illuminating, depending on your point of view. What happened?”

“He’d dug one hole and handed me up the shovel. I just swung it and hit him.”

“As simple as that?”

“No it wasn’t as simple as that,” Hancock snapped. “It was terrible but it had to be done.”

“Why?”

“Can’t you guess?”

Gamache thought. “Because you could.”

Hancock smiled a little. “I suppose so. I think of it more that no one else could. I was the only one. Elizabeth never could do it. Mr. Blake? Maybe, when he was younger, but not now. Porter Wilson couldn’t hit himself on the head. And Ken? He gave up his voice years ago. No, I was the only one who could do it.”

“But why did it need to be done?”

“Because finding Champlain in our basement would have killed the Anglo community. It would have been the final blow.”

“Most Québécois wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“You think not? It doesn’t take much to stir anti-Anglo sentiment, even among the most reasonable. There’s always a suspicion the Anglos are up to no good.”

“I don’t agree,” said Gamache. “But what I think doesn’t matter, does it. It’s what you believe.”

“Someone had to protect them.”

“And that was your job.” It was a statement, not a question. Gamache had seen that in the minister from the first time he’d met him. Not a fanaticism, but a firm belief that he was the shepherd and they his flock. And if the Francophones harbored a secret certainty the Anglos were up to no good, the Anglos harbored the certainty the French were out to get them. It was, in many ways, a perfect little walled society.

And the Reverend Tom Hancock’s job was to protect his people. It was a sentiment Gamache could understand.

But to the point of killing?

Gamache remembered stepping forward, raising his gun, having the man in his sights. And shooting.

He’d killed to protect his own. And he’d do it again, if need be.

“What are you going to do?” Hancock asked, getting to his feet.

“Depends. What are you going to do?” Gamache also rose stiffly, rousing Henri.

“I think you know why I came here tonight, to the Plains of Abraham.”

And Gamache did. As soon as he knew it was Tom Hancock in the parka he’d known why he was there.

“There would at least be a symmetry about it,” said Hancock. “The Anglo, slipping back down the cliff, two hundred and fifty years later.”

“You know I won’t let you do that.”

“I know you haven’t a hope of stopping me.”

“That’s probably true and, it must be admitted, this one won’t be any help,” he indicated Henri. “Unless the sight of a dog whimpering frightens you into surrendering.”

Hancock smiled. “This is the final ice floe. I have no choice. It’s what’s been handed me.”

“No, it isn’t. Why do you think I’m here?”

“Because you’re so wrapped up in your own sorrow you can barely think straight. Because you can’t sleep and came here to get away, from yourself.”

“Well, that too, perhaps,” smiled Gamache. “But what are the chances we’d meet in the middle of the storm? Had I come ten minutes earlier or later, had we walked ten feet apart, we’d have missed each other. Walked right by without seeing, blinded by the blizzard.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, what are the chances?”

“Does it matter? It happened. We met.”

“You saw the video,” Gamache said, lowering his voice. “You saw what happened. How close it came.”

“How close you came to dying? I did.”

“Maybe this is why I didn’t.”

Hancock regarded Gamache. “Are you saying you were spared to stop me from jumping over the cliff?”

“Maybe. I know how precious life is. You had no right to take Renaud’s and you have no right to take your own now. Not over this. Too much death. It needs to stop.”

Gamache stared at the young man beside him. A man, he knew, drawn to seawalls and jagged cliff faces and to the Anglos of Québec, standing just off shore where the ice was thinnest.

“You’re wrong you know,” Gamache finally said. “The English of Québec aren’t weak, aren’t frail. Elizabeth MacWhirter and Winnie and Ken and Mr. Blake, and yes, even Porter, couldn’t kill Augustin Renaud, not because they’re weak but because they know there’s no need. He was no threat. Not really. They’ve adapted to the new reality, to the new world. You’re the only one who couldn’t. There’ll be Anglos here for centuries to come, as there should be. It’s their home. You should have had more faith.”