“Her right eye was always winking because of the smoke,” Morin explained. “And the cigarette just burned down. She never tapped off the ash. It hung there, this long tube of gray. We could watch her for hours. My sister thought she was disgusting but I kinda liked her. She drank too. She could eat and drink without once taking the cigarette out.”
He sounded impressed.
“Once when she was preparing breakfast the whole line of ash fel into the porridge. She just kept stirring.
God knows how much ash and crap we ate.”
“Did the smoking kil 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 hal 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 cal me Reverend. Tom wil do.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Hancock examined him. “Then you may cal me Your Excel ency.”
Gamache stared at the earnest young man, then broke into a smile. “Perhaps I could cal you Tom.”
Hancock laughed. “Actual y, in very formal circumstances I’m cal ed The Reverend Mr. Hancock, but just plain Mr. Hancock would do, if that makes you feel better.”
“It does. Merci.” Gamache extended his hand. “My name is Armand Gamache.”
The minister’s hand paused for a moment. “Chief Inspector,” he said final y. “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’l condemn us, I thought I might as wel 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.
“Merci. It’s a risk. I just hope I haven’t done harm.
We’l see.”
“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 actual y 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 Québec 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, real y. 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.”
But Gamache had the impression this had been news to Hancock.
“I understand you and Monsieur Haslam left early?”
“We had a practice at noon so yes, we left.”
“Was Augustin Renaud stil outside?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Who had access to the basement?”
Hancock thought for a moment. “Winnie would know better. She’s the head librarian, you know. I don’t think the basement doors were ever locked. It’s real y more a question of who could find them. Did you go down?”
Gamache nodded.
“Then you know you have to go through a trap door and down a ladder. Not exactly the grand staircase. A casual visitor would never find that basement.”
“But renovations were being done and they included the sub-basement, where he was found. In fact, I understand it’s scheduled to be concreted over in the next couple of days.”
“That soon? I knew the work was being done but didn’t know when. Won’t happen now, I suppose?”
“Not for a while, I’m afraid.”
The Chief Inspector wondered if the Reverend Mr.
Hancock realized he’d al but admitted only a member of the Literary and Historical Society could have kil ed Renaud. And not a casual user of the fine library, but someone intimately familiar with the old building. The Chief remembered wandering the labyrinthine corridors. It was a warren of hal ways, staircases, back rooms.
Would Augustin Renaud have been able to find that trap door on his own?
Almost certainly not.
Someone guided him down there then kil ed him.
Someone who knew al about the Lit and His.
Someone who knew the sub-basement was about to be concreted over.
Beside him, the Reverend Mr. Hancock had risen.
“I’m sorry, I real y need to get in to coffee. I’m expected to make an appearance.” He paused and looked closely at the bearded man in front of him.
Like every other Quebecker, he was familiar with Chief Inspector Gamache. The head of homicide appeared on weekly talk shows and news reports trying to explain the decisions the Sûreté was making.
Often giving information about a case.
He was always patient, thoughtful, clear in the face of questions shouted and not always civil. He never lost his temper, though Hancock had seen him mightily provoked.
But the man he saw now differed from the man he’d watched for the past three years, and it wasn’t just the beard or the scar. He was stil thoughtful, civil, gentle almost.