Bury Your Dead

“Not because she liked him but because she knew even then something it would take Porter Wilson decades to realize. The English of Québec City were no longer the juggernauts, no longer the steamships, no longer the gracious passenger liners of the society and economy. They were a life raft. Adrift. And you don’t make war on others in the raft.”

This reflection establishes Elizabeth MacWhirter’s perspicacity and insightful nature, introducing her to the reader even before Gamache meets her. The nautical metaphors move in descending order—the industry of the steamship gives way to the luxury of a passenger liner and finally to the desperation of the life raft. Тhe repetition of the phrase “no longer” emphasizes the consistent deterioration, almost a lament. MacWhirter is conciliatory and practical, a strategist at heart. Her matter-of-fact approach will later contrast with the desperation of Augustin Renaud’s killer.

“‘Ruth says to bring Reine-Marie, since she doesn’t actually like you. But she did ask me to say hello, and fuck off.’ Gamache smiled. It was one of the kinder things Ruth Zardo said to people. Almost an endearment. Almost. ‘I do, however, have one question. Why would Olivier move the body? It doesn’t make sense. He didn’t do it, you know. Love, Gabri.’ Inside, as always, Gabri had put a licorice pipe.”

Here, Penny establishes for longtime readers of her series that this work is a close accompaniment to The Brutal Telling in terms of both plot and character. Gabri makes himself present in Gamache’s life by ceaselessly writing, buttressing the novel’s motif of books and language as carrying immense power. Gamache’s bonds to the village remain even in Québec City—he thinks of the acerbic Ruth Zardo with something like fondness. Gabri’s belief in Gamache’s error is accompanied by protestations of affection and tokens of goodwill. The pain he feels endures, but so does the fundamental decency of his character.

“This officer wasn’t his to train in the etiquette of the recently dead, in the respect necessary when in their presence. In the empathy necessary to see the victim as a person, and the murderer as a person. It wasn’t with cynicism and sarcasm, with dark humor and crass comments a killer was caught. He was caught by seeing and thinking and feeling. Crude comments didn’t make the path clearer or the interpretation of evidence easier. Indeed, they obscured the truth, with fear.”

In this moment, Penny emphasizes both Gamache’s uncharacteristic vulnerability and his philosophy of detection. Even while unable to direct an investigation, he maintains his belief in decency and self-awareness as fundamental investigative tools. Victim and murderer both have weight and dignity, and “crude” expressions reveal only the fears of the investigator, not deeper truths about humanity. 

“And into that silence, as always, crept the young voice. More familiar now than those of his own children. ‘And then at Christmas, we visit both Suzanne’s family and my own. We go to hers for réveillon and mine for Mass on Christmas morning.’ The voice went on and on about trivial, minute, mundane events. The things that made up an average life. A voice that was no longer tinny in his ears, but living now in his brain, his mind. Always there, talking.”

In Gamache’s memories of Paul Morin, Penny shows the reader one of the sources of his pain and vulnerability. There is no silence for him; it is “always” filled by the other man’s voice, drowning out even his own family. The memories of Christmas, a time of light and celebration, contrast with the quiet resignation, almost a sense of doom, Gamache seems to experience in these memories. Though Penny does not explain the full plot at this point, her wording emphasizes that Morin has died—Gamache once heard him “in his ears,” but now he lives only in memory.

“‘A rowboat. It’s why we do things like that.’ He jerked his head toward the window and the dot on the river. ‘It’s why Québec is so perfectly preserved. It’s why we’re all so fascinated with history. We’re in a rowboat. We move forward, but we’re always looking back.’”

If the English were once in powerful craft, in this account Québec as a whole is rowed by hand, by individual power and energy. The emphasis that “all” are fascinated with history underlines that while much of the province is divided by religion and language, the passion for history is somewhat unifying. Penny underscores this point by having both an Anglophone and a Francophone Québécois think of the province in nautical metaphors.

“His hair was cut far shorter than Beauvoir had ever seen, but it disguised the fact he was balding. He looked pale but healthy. Beauvoir felt a revulsion, as he did in the presence of all murderers. For that’s what he knew in his heart Olivier was. No, he sharply reminded himself. I need to think of this man as innocent. Or at least, as not guilty. But try as he might he saw a convict.”

As in her descriptions of Gamache, Penny uses Olivier’s changed state to emphasize both the passage of time and personal loss. Olivier is “pale,” indicating his isolation from the world he once belonged to. The description here also contrasts Jean-Guy Beauvoir with Gamache—the younger investigator is honest about his “revulsion” and his inability to see Olivier with compassion. He attempts it, but the struggle underlines that he is more predisposed to judgment than his mentor.

“She’d looked over and seen Porter breaking the fine leaded glass windows, windows that had been in place for centuries, now shattered. And she saw him tossing books out, at random. Handfuls, armfuls. And Mr. Blake joining him. While the separatists burned the books, the Anglos threw them out the windows, their covers splaying as though trying to take flight. Winnie, Porter, Ken, Mr. Blake and others, saving their history before saving themselves.”

Elizabeth’s memories of the 1960s underline the fragility of the Anglophone community. The irascible Porter did not hesitate to break priceless windows in the name of saving books. The volumes are likened to birds, seeking shelter or migration. Penny lists all the Anglophone secondary characters, emphasizing their shared purpose and their devotion to their heritage even at the expense of personal safety. Language, in this memory, has power but is also endangered.

“‘They talked the whole time?’ Ruth asked. ‘Every moment. For twenty-four hours. Until 11:18 the next morning.’ Beauvoir glanced into the corner and knew what was curled there. It was a blanket, a soft, flannel blanket made into a nest. Ready. Just in case.”

Ruth, tellingly, asks only for information, without obscenity or insult—thus betraying her absorption in Beauvoir’s tale. Here Beauvoir finally explains to both her and the reader the source of Gamache’s memories: He spoke only to Morin for an entire day, until an as yet unnamed disaster struck. Beauvoir’s gaze in this scene underlines his insight into Ruth’s character. She waits for her beloved duck, dedicated to this one small bit of hope and nurturing in her life.

“I’m sorry. I was wrong. I need help. I don’t know. He’d never forgotten them and when he took over as Chief Inspector, Gamache passed them on to each and every one of his agents. Some took them to heart, some forgot them immediately. That was their choice. But those four statements had changed Armand Gamache’s life. Émile Comeau had changed his life. Émile was a great man because he was a good man, no matter what was happening around him.”

Here, Penny reveals an origin story for Gamache, allowing longtime or new readers to understand where his fundamental curiosity and humility come from. He has, at this stage, followed his own advice in seeking help from both Beauvoir and Émile. In emphasizing that Gamache has internalized these principles where others have not, Penny thus implies that he, too, is a great man like his mentor. The tone of adulation here adds weight to the times when Gamache and Émile experience conflict—for him this is not merely an argument, but the toppling of a hero.

“The room was darkened, and it took him a moment to make out the outline of someone sitting in front of green lights. On oval screens lines burst into a frenzy as words were spoken. Then a face was turned to him. A green face, and eyes glowing green. Agent Yvette Nichol. He hadn’t seen her in years and now he felt a tingling under his skin. A warning. Not to enter. This room. This person’s life.”

In this description, Beauvoir notices machines and technology above all else, befitting his trepidation about Nichol and his doubts about her humanity. He sees the color of the lights and the “frenzy” of sound files in digital form, emphasizing a kind of disorder legible only to the untrustworthy person before him. She glows green, as though she herself has become inhuman. Beauvoir gives in to wariness, emphasizing his distrust of outsiders.

“Time, thought Gamache as he stepped once more into the darkness, it covered over everything eventually. Events, people, memory. Chiniquy had disappeared beneath Time. How long before Augustin Renaud followed? And yet Champlain had remained, and grown. Not the man, Gamache knew, the mystery. Champlain missing was so much more potent than Champlain found.”

Gamache’s thoughts here are a meditation on The Power of the Past—not merely as a force for preservation but as erasure. Chiniquy is now “beneath time,” just as buried as the still-missing Champlain but even more obscured. Champlain has another fate—he “grows” even in death, somehow transcending its limits. He has power precisely in his absence, a paradox that comes to dominate the narrative.

“‘Now, there’s a symbol for you. The Lit and His cluttered with unwanted English words. Weighed down by the past.’ ‘Je me souviens,’ whispered Gamache. ‘It’ll drag them under,’ said the Reverend Mr. Hancock, sadly. Gamache was beginning to understand this community and this case. And himself.”

Hancock casts language as both power and burden, as the library is “weighed down by the past.” Gamache whispers the Québécois motto—I remember—as a kind of agreement, but he is clearly thinking of the personal as much as the national. Hancock, like so many others, falls back on water and nautical metaphors, the past as a kind of current the Anglophone community could drown in. Gamache’s assertion that he understands both himself and the English community suggests that he faces a similar danger if he does not address his trauma.

“‘For God’s sake, Francoeur,’ said Gamache, his voice low and hoarse with fatigue, ‘suppose I’m right?’ That stopped the Chief Superintendent as he made for the door. He turned and stared at Chief Inspector Gamache. In the long silence between the men they heard a small lecture on cow versus horse compost.”

In this scene, Penny sets up a series of contrasts, beginning with Francoeur’s obstinacy in contrast to Gamache’s willingness to pose questions and ending with the absurdity of a lecture on manure as background noise to a matter of life or death. Chief Superintendent Sylvain Francoeur only stares, refusing a verbal concession. Tellingly, there is “silence”—a stalemate between the two adversaries. There is, of course, no relief for Morin, or for Gamache, who hears a banal story of farm life while so many fates hang in the balance.

“That was the danger. Not that betrayals happened, not that cruel things happened, but that they could outweigh all the good. That we could forget the good and only remember the bad. But not today. Gamache stopped. ‘You’re right. Renaud wanted to meet with us,’ said Émile, catching up to Gamache as he retrieved his parka from the coat check.”

Gamache reckons with his anger and desire for vengeance, constructing a philosophy of the past in the process. Memory is not inherently destructive, and human fallibility is not avoidable—the question is one of balance, and whether forgiveness is possible. Gamache is haunted by memories, but by giving Émile time to reach him once more, he signals his ability to move forward.

“Armand Gamache was silent then, looking down the long table at the solemn faces, and he knew Ken Haslam wasn’t the only one who’d faced that question, and made the same choice. To be silent. In hopes of not offending, in hopes of being accepted. But what happened to people who never spoke, never raised their voices? Kept everything inside? Gamache knew what happened. Everything they swallowed, every word, thought, feeling rattled around inside, hollowing the person out.”

This scene with Haslam and his friends reinforces the importance and fragility of community bonds, as well as the motif of speech and silence. Haslam effectively mutes himself for the sake of belonging. Gamache admits that this choice is rational, though devastating, suggesting that the person becomes “hollow,” as if their essential self is somehow lost in the process. Gamache’s own silence about his suffering may pose a similar danger.

“Beauvoir paused. He’d seen Gamache do this time and again, reeling in the suspect then letting him run, then reeling some more. But doing it subtly, carefully, delicately, without the suspect even realizing it. Doing it steadily, without hesitation. It would be terrifying for the murderer when it dawned on him what was happening. And that terror was what the Chief counted on.”

Penny’s wording here underlines the role reversal in the Three Pines subplot: Beauvoir has moved from an observer in the scene to its director. He takes on the role of patient fisherman—another of the work’s nautical metaphors. If at other times Gamache sees fear as an obstacle to clarity, here it becomes a weapon. The implication that Gamache uses the emotion when it suits him underlines that he has his own kind of ruthlessness within his fundamental decency.

“Gabri held his head in his hands. Muffled sobs came from the man. Not great dramatic whoops of sorrow, but tired tears. Happy, confused, turbulent tears. But mostly tears of relief. Why had Olivier moved the body? Why had Olivier moved the body? Why had Olivier moved the body? And now, finally, they knew.”

Gabri’s relief here is muted, in contrast to his usually exuberant personality—he does not seek out his friends or even speak, merely weeps. Penny repeats the word “tears” to underscore the power of the emotional release. Then the question Gabri asked daily is repeated, in homage to his persistence.

“‘No. I intend to walk with the cortege.’ She watched him in profile. His face determined, his lips tight, his right hand squeezed into a fist against the only sign he’d had a stroke. A slight tremble, when he was tired or stressed. ‘Tell me what I can do to help.’ ‘You can keep me company.’ ‘Always, mon coeur.’”

In this scene, Penny establishes the depth of Gamache’s grief and his bond with his wife. She catalogs his every feature, devoted to his every need. She offers him unconditional support, without hesitation. Though his losses are great, Reine-Marie remains his constant.

“Halfway across, he took her arm. To steady her, or himself, he wasn’t really sure. But she let him. They made their way to the little cottage, following the light through the storm. And once there, they sat in front of the fireplace and ate dinner. Together.”

Beauvoir’s behavior here underlines how he has changed—he now seeks connection in the village, where he once set himself apart. Like Gamache, he leans on a source of support, if an unlikely one. He finds fellowship with Ruth and a kind of catharsis from knowing another person understands him.

“Not to make Gamache look bad, but to make him look good, too good. So good the Chief would feel as he did. A fraud. A fake. Lionized for nothing. Four Sûreté officers dead and Armand Gamache the hero. Whoever had done this knew him well. And knew how to exact a price. In shame.”

The repeated term “good” here is the opposite of Gamache’s true feelings about the video, using contrast to underline the power of the leak. He feels powerless, unworthy of the veneration the text invokes. The use of “shame” emphasizes guilt and sin—his guilt before Morin and before his own conscience.

“‘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.’”

In this moment, Gamache finds the words to speak of his ordeal. He does so not merely to assuage his own pain but to save Hancock from a brutal and lonely death. He maintains his faith in life as worth saving—and embraces his own power to enact that belief. In confronting Hancock, Gamache seems to confront his own healing process, as the two confess to one another.

“The snowball descended, and Henri caught it. And bit down. By the time he landed on all fours he had only a mouthful of snow. Again. But Henri would keep trying, Gamache knew. He’d never give up hope.”

Throughout the text, Henri functions as a symbol of the best of humanity, exhibiting loyalty, devotion, and persistence. His continuous pursuit of the snowball is a metaphor for hope and optimism. Gamache continues to throw the snowball—making himself a participant in this process and indicating that he, too, still has hope.

“‘I was wrong,’ Gamache said. ‘I’m so sorry.’ ‘I can’t forgive you,’ Olivier rasped, struggling to keep his emotions in check. ‘You have no idea what it was like.’ He stopped, regained his composure then continued. ‘Maybe, with time.’ ‘Oui,’ said Gamache.”

Gamache’s apology to Olivier and admission of error underlines his commitment to accountability. Olivier echoes the advice others have given Gamache—only time will bring him to forgiveness, just as Gamache has needed time to forgive himself. Gamache accepts his censure, as a kind of commitment to heal the breach he created in Three Pines.