Bury Your Dead by Louise Penny Read Free Book Online

And felt a tremble in his hand, blessedly hidden by his thick mitts. “Thank you for the invitation.” He met the Inspector’s searching eyes. “But I can’t.”
    There was silence. The Inspector, far from being upset, nodded. “I should not have asked. My apologies.”
    “Not at all. I’m most grateful you did.
Merci
.”
    Unseen by either man, they were being watched from the second-floor window. The window put in a century ago to replace the door. That led to the platform. That led to execution.
    Elizabeth MacWhirter, her scarf still on but her coat now in the closet downstairs, stared at the two men. Earlier she’d looked out the window, anxious to turn her back on the alien activity behind her. She sought solace, peace, in the unchanging view outside the window. From there she could see St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church, the presbytery, the sloping, familiar roofs of her city. And the snow drifting gently down to land on them, as though there wasn’t a care in the world.
    From that window she’d noticed the man and the dog, standing just outside the cordon, staring. He was, she knew, the same man who’d visited the library every day for a week now sitting quietly with his German shepherd. Reading, sometimes writing, sometimes consulting Winnie on volumes unread in a hundred years or more.
    “He’s researching the Battle of the Plains of Abraham,” Winnie had reported one afternoon as they stood on the gallery above the library. “Particularly interested in the correspondence of both James Cook and Louis-Antoine de Bougainville.”
    “Why?” Porter had whispered.
    “How would I know?” said Winnie. “Those books are so old I don’t think anyone’s ever cataloged them. In fact, they were earmarked for the next sale, before it was canceled.”
    Porter had glanced at the large, quiet man on the leather sofa below.
    Elizabeth was pretty sure Porter hadn’t recognized him. She was certain Winnie hadn’t. But she had.
    And now, as she watched the local police inspector shake hands andwalk away she again examined the large man with the dog and remembered the last time she’d seen him on a street.
    She’d been watching the CBC along with the rest of the province, indeed the rest of the country. It was even, she’d learned later, broadcast on CNN around the world.
    She’d seen him then. In uniform, without the beard, his face bruised, his Sûreté du Québec officer’s hat not quite hiding the ugly scar. His dress coat warm but surely not warm enough to keep out the bitter day. He’d walked slowly, limping slightly, at the head of the long, long solemn column of men and women in uniform. A near endless cortege of officers from Québec, from Canada, from the States and England and France. And at the head, their commander. The man who’d led them, but didn’t follow them all the way. Not into death. Not quite.
    And that image that appeared on front pages of newspapers, on covers of magazines from
Paris Match
to
Maclean’s
to
Newsweek
and
People
.
    Of the Chief Inspector, his eyes momentarily closed, his face tipped slightly upward, a grimace, a moment of private agony made public. It was almost too much to bear.
    She’d told no one who the quiet man reading in their library was, but that was about to change. Putting her coat on again she walked carefully down the icy steps and along the street to catch him up. He was moving along rue Ste-Anne, the dog on a leash beside him.
    “Pardon,”
she called.
“Excusez-moi.”
He was some distance ahead, weaving in and out of the happy tourists and weekend revelers. He turned left onto rue Ste-Ursule. She picked up her pace. At the corner she saw him half a block ahead.
“Bonjour.”
She raised her voice and waved but his back was to her, and if he heard he would very probably think she was calling to someone else.
    He was nearing rue St-Louis and the throng heading to the Ice Palace. She’d almost certainly lose him among the thousands of