It was his impression Elizabeth MacWhirter had been startled by his question. But the organ had begun and the congregation rose and she was spared the need to answer. He knew what she would say.
Of course he isn’t.
He sang “Lord of All Hopefulness” from the hymnal and watched the congregants. Most seemed lost, not even trying to sing, some moved their mouths but he’d be surprised if any sound came out. And about a dozen, he guessed, raised their voices in song.
A young man climbed into the pulpit and the service began.
Gamache turned his attention to the minister. Thomas Hancock. He looked about twenty. His hair was dark blond, his face handsome though not classically so, more the handsome that went with robust health. Vitality. It was impossible, Gamache had noticed, to be both vital and unattractive. He looked a bit, Gamache thought, like Matt Damon. Intelligent and charming.
They prayed for Augustin Renaud.
Then Thomas Hancock did something Gamache would never have thought possible. While acknowledging that Renaud had been murdered only yards away he didn’t dwell on it, or on the curiosity of God’s Will.
Instead the Reverend Mr. Hancock, in his long blue cassock and his baby face, spoke of passion and purpose. Of Renaud’s obvious delight in life. He connected it to God. As a great gift of God.
The rest of the sermon was about joy.
It was an extremely risky strategy, Gamache knew. The pews were filled with Francophones curious about this subculture unearthed in the very center of their city. English. Most Québécois probably never even knew they were there, never mind so firmly ensconced.
They were an oddity, and most of the people in the church had come to stare, and come to judge. Including a number of reporters, notebooks out, ready and eager to report on the official reaction of the English community. By concentrating on joy instead of tragedy, the church, the Anglos, might be perceived as uncaring, as trivializing the tragedy of a life stolen. A man murdered a stone’s throw away.
And yet, instead of playing to the crowd, instead of offering a muted apology, of finding appropriately contrite biblical passages, this minister spoke of joy.
Armand Gamache didn’t know how it would sound when written up in tomorrow’s Le Journalist, but he couldn’t help but admire the man for not pandering. Indeed, for offering another, a more positive, perspective. Gamache thought if his church spoke more about joy and less about sin and guilt, he might be tempted to return himself.
The service ended with a hymn and the collection followed by a silent prayer, in which Agent Morin told Gamache about his late grandmother, who smoked incessantly without ever removing the cigarette from her mouth.
“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 fell into the porridge. She just kept stirring. God 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. Merci.” Gamache extended his hand. “My name is Armand Gamache.”
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. “Merci. It’s a risk. I just hope I haven’t done harm. We’ll 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?”