Chapter Three
Father Campeau arrived Sunday morning and set up for confession prior to Mass, so William was expecting to be first in line (as usual) and then help set up the barn as their Church before donning robes and assisting as one of the altar-boys. William washed and dressed carefully in his best white shirt to head outside, away from the groans and chaos of the bunkhouse.
Getting to the barn, he was surprised someone was occupying the priest already, but as he had no other choice than to wait, he started sweeping the floor clean of Saturday night's refuse. One by one the cook staff joined him and together they set up an altar for the Mass and Eucharist. For pews, the deacon benches would be brought down; later, tables would be set up for the camp's weekly communal meal.
In French he commented, "Father Campeau always says it is better to celebrate Mass in a stable than not celebrate it at all," and got a laugh from his companions.
"Yes! But not so long that the food gets cold!" Cook threw back. "Then again, you lot never taste it anyway."
"Unfair, Monsieur Claude," William answered. "Sunday is always your masterpiece. Your pastry is magnificent!" Assuming the kitchen staff could get in and out of the confessional and back to making the meal… William frowned, a little irritated at the delay. What was taking someone so long?
It was a big joke among the men that there was almost no opportunity to sin in a logging camp such as theirs, so confession was as brief an exercise as possible. William's mind wandered. Could whomever was in with the Father be confessing to murder, right this very moment?
He nearly dropped his broom when François Gagnon emerged from the confessional and immediately darted off, crushing his hat in his hands.
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"I think I have the final list of men who are mostly unaccounted for when Tremblay died." Daniel waited until they were alone and bringing their bunkhouse's table down to the barn together. "His bunkmates were not fond of him either, but as they are mostly new bull-cocks they were stuck with his ways. Only the headman for his bunkhouse, Pierre Cote, hasn't a witness for where he was when the wind struck. He says he was actually looking for Tremblay; Charbonneau was furious because Tremblay was not by the Steam donkey where he belonged & the two of them were searching high and low. Cote thought he was trying to avoid doing more work."
"So Cote had opportunity?" William wondered.
"Perhaps-but no motive I can find. I've been asking around for anyone who had a beef with Tremblay or benefitted from his demise." Daniel looked sharply at William. "Present company excepted, of course. You didn't kill him to become the new steam mechanic did you?"
William was not amused at the assumption he'd be a good suspect, but relented as Daniel smiled broadly, showing he was teasing. "You had a good idea about watching the men in Church today." William told Daniel about seeing Tremblay's brother-in-law exit the confessional. "But I do not understand how that helps us. What transpired is under the seal of the confessional, inviolate." William felt very troubled.
"Yes," Daniel answered. "A good investigation needs facts, and clues that may point to facts. Your observation is a clue—it'll be up to us to get to make sense of it, get to the bottom of it." He hefted the table top to get a better grip.
"Then what? If we discover what we think of as facts—whom would we tell? Who would listen?" William felt himself growing angry. "Who will care?" He stumbled and jammed his hand painfully between the table edge and a tree.
"Easy there. This has riled you up in a way I didn't anticipate. The truth, William. Always care about the truth."
"That is just it. I do. And it is a double-edged sword," William said more forcefully than he intended, but refused to say anything more revealing.
The tables were set up quickly. The big Sunday meal gave everyone an opportunity to sit with anyone they chose, to catch up with or gossip, yet most men still sat with their bunkmates. After the priest's blessing, the camp's one-hundred men were served, noisily tucking into their food and opening their letters. William looked around at the assembled workers-for the first time he felt uneasy in their company.
"Perhaps you are wrong," he blurted out to Daniel, checking to see no one was paying attention to the two of them.
Daniel halted the progress of his fork to his mouth for a second, then bit down. "Perhaps. Then I'll be wrong. But I know myself. I'll not stop until I know if I am right or not and I haven't any more questions to ask."
He heard the passion behind Daniel's words, making William vacillate between wanting to move forward and backing out. Finally intrigue won the battle. "What do you want me to do?"
"Talk with Gagnon. He'll expect you to. Maybe he knows something." Daniel motioned with his utensil. "He's over there, by himself. You know he can't read or write. You could offer to help him write to his sister—if he's going to notify her about her husband he's going to have to send the letter along with Father Campeau when the priest leaves after our meal.…"
Looking over to where François Gagnon was sitting, William saw the man pushing food around on his dish and there was bench space beside him. Daniel gestured encouragingly, so William picked up his plate and went over to sit next to Gagnon and offer the socially correct comfort. "Je tenais à te faire part de mes sincères condoléances."
Gagnon did not look up. He sat there unresponsive for several moments, before mumbling in French. "That is all right, Guillaume, you don't have to pretend. My sister did not like him much either these days." His head remained down, interested only in the dish in front of him.
William had not expected that, not sure what the revelation meant. "Never the less, she might want to know he passed on."
Gagnon remained silent while William finished his plate, sopping up the last of the gravy with a piece of bread. William was sure there would be nothing more from the man and was about to give up when Gagnon started talking.
"Tell Marguerite I am sorry that he died, and that it happened quickly without him even feeling it happening-a lie perhaps, but a kindness as well. Tell her every soul here helped put him to rest in a Christian way; that would be important to her. Tell her we buried him up here in the pines and I will send his pay and a little more. Tell her I love her…"
After getting started, Gagnon made a running commentary on his brother- in- law and life back in Québec City, most of which made little sense to William. He finished the letter, had Gagnon sign it and got it to Father Campeau in time. To Daniel he reported his impression of François Gagnon. "I think he feels guilty that he did not like his brother- in- law. He certainly blamed him for his sister's unhappiness and is bitter about him taking his sister out of the Church when they married."
"D' you think Gagnon killed Tremblay?"
William shrugged. "He intimated Tremblay might have been abusive to his sister or strayed from his marriage vows, but as reprehensible as that is, how is that motive? Up here?"
"Tremblay was unpleasant or argumentative with everyone -I can find no new cause for someone to hate him enough to kill him."
"I am also certain Gagnon believes it was the tree that killed Tremblay. He talked about it as if it was God's Will for the tree to fall," William said.
"That's interesting. Also interestingly enough, he doesn't seem to have an alibi for the time of death-or what we think of as the time of death. He was supposed to be with Martin, but Martin says Gagnon was nowhere around." Daniel saw William's eyebrows rise. "I can't confirm where Charbonneau was either, nor most of the cook staff since it turns out Cook and everyone else was on their break."
Both men tended their own thoughts. William spoke first. "I am not sure about all of this, Daniel. How are you ever going to sort it out?"
No more 'we.' Daniel sighed. Perhaps I misjudged him. "I told you. I'll ask questions until I get answers."
William left the barn to go back to his bunk. He usually spent Sundays reading books, or tinkering with small things; one or two men played chess with him when he was not employed as a secretary for his workmates. William tried to get comfortable by putting his good shirt aside and resume a thick sweater, yet found himself unable to concentrate on the bundle of his long-awaited Scientific American magazines, so dearly purchased with his hard-earned wages and dog-eared from their journey to his hands.
He was irritated by questions which circled in his brain, planted there by Daniel, he complained to himself. He went over their conversations from multiple angles, all the secrets, all the problems with no solution. This is ridiculous! He is just having a go at me as his new partner. William liked that idea the more he concentrated on it. This is just how Daniel is testing me! Tomorrow we will start cutting and will have no time at all for him to tease me with this puzzle. 'Tested until trusted' –indeed. He smiled at how foolish he'd been to get taken in by the older man, deciding the next time he saw Daniel he'd reveal he caught on to the game. That felt good- so good that his mind cleared nicely allowing him to happily read his magazines until the light got too dim even for his young eyes, tuning out the noise of the bunkhouse and all other distractions.
That was why it took him so long to understand what the commotion was about at the door. Blanchard's voice was raised in warning as a cold blast entered the room. "Idiot! Do not bring him here, take him to Charbonneau for attention."
William looked up from his page, trying to see beyond the hanging clothing and knot of men. "What is it?" he asked.
One of the men answered. "It's Beecham. I'm told he's fallen on the ice and hit his head. He's unconscious!"
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