knows how much ash and crap we ate.”
“Did the smoking kill her?” Gamache asked.
“No. She choked on a brussels sprout.”
There was a pause and despite himself, Gamache chuckled.
Elizabeth looked at him. “Thinking of joy?” she whispered.
“In a way, I suppose,” said Gamache and felt his chest constrict so fiercely he almost gasped.
After the service the congregation was invited back to the church hall for coffee and cookies, but Gamache hung back. Having shaken everyone’s hand the Reverend Hancock noticed the large man sitting in the pew and approached.
“Can I help you?”
His eyes were a soft blue. Close up Gamache noticed he was older than he appeared. Closer to thirty-five than twenty-five.
“I don’t want to take you away from your congregation, Reverend, but I wondered if we might have a talk sometime today?”
“Why not now?” He sat down. “And please don’t call me Reverend. Tom will do.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Hancock examined him. “Then you may call me Your Excellency.”
Gamache stared at the earnest young man, then broke into a smile. “Perhaps I could call you Tom.”
Hancock laughed. “Actually, in very formal circumstances I’m called The Reverend Mr. Hancock, but just plain Mr. Hancock would do, if that makes you feel better.”
“It does.
The minister’s hand paused for a moment. “Chief Inspector,” he said finally. “I thought it might be you. Elizabeth said you’d helped yesterday. I’m afraid I was practicing for the canoe race. We haven’t a hope, but we’re having fun.”
Gamache could believe they didn’t have a hope. He’d seen the famous canoe race across the St. Lawrence River every Carnaval for decades, and every year he wondered what could possess a person to do such a thing. It took huge athleticism and more than a little insanity. And while the young minister looked fit enough Gamache knew from his notes that his teammate, Ken Haslam was in his sixties. It would be, not to put too fine a point on it, like dragging an anvil across the river. Haslam on the team certainly handicapped them.
One day he might ask this man why he, or anyone, would enter such a race. But not today. Today belonged to a different subject.
“I’m glad I was able to help a little,” said Gamache. “But I’m afraid it’s far from over, despite your sermon today.”
“Oh, my sermon wasn’t meant to dismiss what happened, but to accept and celebrate the man’s life. There are enough people out there,” he waved toward the beautiful stained glass windows and the genteel city beyond, “who’ll condemn us, I thought I might as well try to be uplifting. Do you not approve?”
“Would it matter?”
“It always matters. I’m not preaching at you, you know.”
“As a matter of fact I thought your sermon was inspired. Beautiful.”
The Reverend Mr. Hancock looked at Gamache. “
“Are you a Quebecker by birth?”
“No, I was born in New Brunswick. Shediac. Lobster Capital of the World. It’s a regulation that when you say Shediac you must also say—”
“Lobster Capital of the World.”
“Thank you,” Hancock smiled and Gamache could see he spoke of joy for a reason. He knew it. “This is my first assignment. I came three years ago.”
“How long have you sat on the board of the Lit and His?”
“About eighteen months I guess. It’s not very onerous. My biggest job is to remember not to actually suggest anything. It takes a lot of effort to halt time, and for the most part they’ve done it.”
Gamache smiled. “Living history?”
“Sort of. They can be old and cranky, but they love Quebec and they love the Literary and Historical Society. They’ve spent years trying to keep a low profile. They just want to be left alone, really. And now this.”
“The murder of Augustin Renaud,” said Gamache.
Hancock was shaking his head. “He came to speak to us, you know. Friday morning. But the board refused to see him. Quite right too. He can go through regular channels, like everyone else. He seemed unpleasant.”
“You saw him?”
Hancock hesitated. “No.”
“Why wasn’t Renaud’s visit mentioned in the minutes?”
Hancock looked nonplussed. “We just decided it didn’t matter.”
