The Madness of Crowds

CHAPTER 26

Judging by the dark circles under their eyes, and the lethargy, neither Abigail Robinson nor Colette Roberge had slept the night before. Both looked stunned, shell-shocked.

But that didn’t mean one of them wasn’t the killer. It seemed to Gamache that whoever murdered Debbie Schneider hadn’t started the day, or even the evening, planning to kill.

It was probably as much a shock to him, or her, as to everyone else.

The three of them sat, once again, around the fireplace in the kitchen. All very much aware of the empty chair.

“Any progress, Armand?” Colette asked.

“We’re gathering evidence, information. And I need more information from you, Professor Robinson.”

“Yes. Anything.”

“Why did you really come here?” It felt like the hundredth time he’d asked that.

Abigail Robinson had been expecting some question about Debbie Schneider, and was momentarily stumped.

“I told you already. It was to see Ruth Zardo.”

“And yet you didn’t speak to her at all last night.”

He placed the button on the table between them, then sat back and watched as color returned to Professor Robinson’s face.

“Yes, exactly. I came to thank her for letting us use that line from her poem.”

“‘Alas,’” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s the name of the poem.”

“Yes.” Abigail smiled. “Sorry. I’m tired. Debbie had read in some bio of Madame Zardo that she lives in a village called Three Pines. That’s why we went to the party. Hoping she’d be there. But she didn’t look at all interested in being approached, so I didn’t.”

“You travel thousands of miles just to thank her, then when you’re feet away you stop?”

“Yes.”

He lifted his phone. “This was Ruth’s reply one month ago to Debbie Schneider’s request to use that line from her poem.”

No fucking way. Sincerely, Ruth Zardo.

Abigail looked at him. “She didn’t agree?”

“Seems pretty clear she did not. Was Madame Schneider in the habit of not sharing important information with you?”

“No, not at all. At least I didn’t think so. But Debbie might not have wanted to upset or disappoint me. She might’ve thought that, once here, she could convince Madame Zardo to let us use her quote.”

“And yet she didn’t approach Ruth either. Just so I’m clear about this. Madame Schneider lied to you.”

Beside him, Chancellor Roberge shifted and seemed about to say something when Gamache’s sharp look stopped her.

“No. Well, yes, but you have to know Debbie,” said Abigail, flustered now. “She’d never do it to hurt, she’d do it thinking she was helping. Protecting me even.”

“If Madame Schneider misled you about the quote, are there other things she could have lied about?”

“Like what?”

“Well, like the meetings with the Premier. Like the income from sales of merchandise. It seems Madame Schneider was very involved in the day-to-day details of your campaign.”

“Not just the campaign. My life. Maybe, I guess. I’ll have to check.”

She looked around. For Debbie Schneider. To help her check on Debbie Schneider.

“I’d like access to all your papers,” said Gamache. “Documents, finances, everything. To see what she might have been up to.”

“Is that necessary?”

He looked at her with some sympathy now. “A murder investigation is, by nature, invasive, and I’m genuinely sorry about that. By the time this’s over we’ll know far more about you, about everyone involved, than we should. But I can promise you, if the information isn’t pertinent, it will be forgotten.”

“Really? You have that ability, Chief Inspector? To just forget? Lucky you.”

They held each other’s eyes. No one with gray in their hair got there without things they’d prefer to forget. But could not.

Armand finally broke the silence. “Madame Zardo asks that you stop using her poetry, and certainly stop selling the buttons.”

“Of course, I’ll get…” Abigail’s voice petered out. Get who? “I’ll make sure it’s done.”

“And she wants any proceeds already collected to go to LaPorte.”

“Where?”

He looked at the Chancellor, who had no reaction. Gamache chose to say nothing either, except “Perhaps the Chancellor here can help with that.” Then he turned back to Abigail. “Who’s Maria?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Debbie called you Abby Maria. But your middle name’s Elizabeth, not Maria. So where does that come from?”

“It’s a nickname. From childhood. My God, you’re never going to find out who did this to Debbie if these are the questions you’re asking.”

Her eyes shifted, quickly, briefly, to Colette. She must’ve given her some subtle signal because Abigail exhaled in an exasperated sigh.

“You’ll find out soon enough. I had a sister. Maria. Younger than me. She was born severely disabled. She died when she was nine.”

“Abby Maria,” he said and glanced at Colette Roberge.

She knew. And yet Gamache remembered, when he’d asked her directly if Abigail was an only child, she didn’t disagree.

“My mother used to call us that, from the moment they brought her home. I knew what it meant.”

“What?”

“That we were linked. Not two individuals but one person. Abby Maria. Dr. Gilbert was right last night. It was a reference to Ave Maria. A play on words. An attempt to make it seem a good thing. A gift from God.”

“It wasn’t?”

Abigail didn’t answer. Instead she looked down at her fingers, twisted together in her lap. Not two separate hands, but one mass. Impossible to tell which fingers belonged to which hand. Where one ended and the other began. Not stronger for being pressed together. The one held the other so tightly both were useless.

Armand knew that the “Ave,” in “Ave Maria,” translated into “Hail.” Though it could also mean “Be well.”

But all had not been well.

Alas.

It was just a split second. So quick Beauvoir only caught it the third time through the video.

Because of the vantage point, he could see almost all the audience, as well as the stage. Granted, he only saw their backs, but it was enough.

He’d suffered through Abigail Robinson’s talk again and again, with its odd combination of dull facts building to an electrifying conclusion.

“Too late! Too late!” half the auditorium chanted, while the other half jeered.

And then the firecrackers went off.

Gamache strode to center stage and tried to calm everyone, but couldn’t be heard above the growing panic. Grabbing the microphone, his voice clear and commanding, he managed to settle everyone down.

Then Beauvoir saw the man in the middle of the auditorium raise his arm and point the gun. Even though he knew what happened next, it was still shocking.

The podium between Gamache and Robinson exploded.

Then the second shot rang out. How it missed them, Beauvoir couldn’t guess. Thankfully, agents tackled the gunman before he could get off a third shot.

Beauvoir watched it again, slower this time. Focusing on the firecrackers. On who might have set them off.

His view of that moment was blocked by a man in a Montreal Canadiens tuque. Beauvoir began to wonder if, maybe, he was the one who’d set off the firecrackers, not Tardif.

The man had his back to the camera, of course. Beauvoir moved the video forward, frame by frame. Just as the shots were fired, the tuque man ducked. And as he did, he turned his head just enough for Beauvoir to see who it was.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, looking at the face frozen on his screen.

“I’m sorry,” said Reine-Marie, getting off the bed as quickly as though it was on fire. “I was told it was all right to look around the house.”

“And to lie on my mother’s bed?” the man at the door demanded.

Reine-Marie smoothed her slacks and felt her cheeks getting warm. “No, I just wanted to see something.”

“Who are you?”

“Reine-Marie Gamache.” She walked toward him, her hand extended. “I’m the archivist.”

“Archivist?” he said, staring at her. Angry, but also perplexed.

“Oui. You’re James Horton? Madame Horton’s son?”

“Yes.”

“Your sister contacted me and asked if I’d help her sort through your mother’s papers. She found boxes of things in the attic and she wasn’t sure what should be kept for the family records and what could be thrown out. I understand the house has been sold and there’s a time issue.”

“She had no right to do that without asking me. Those are personal, private family papers.” He looked at her. “And?”

“And?”

“What did you find?”

She knew she should tell him. Knew his sister probably would. But something in the way he demanded to know told her not to say anything.

“So far just bills and pictures. Mother’s Day cards. The usual.”

“Why were you on her bed?”

“I am sorry. I hadn’t planned to, but I saw something on the wall and wanted to check it out.”

“What?”

She took him there and pointed.

“I don’t see anything.”

“It’s a few lines scratched into the wallpaper between the bed and the nightstand.”

“What business is that of yours?” he asked.

“You’re right. None.”

And he actually was right, Reine-Marie knew. It was none of her business.

James Horton escorted her out and insisted the archival box of their mother’s things stay with them.

“Send us your bill,” he said, while Susan stood behind her brother, her face full of embarrassment and apology.

“No need. I wasn’t much help.”

It was snowing more heavily now, but not blowing. It was a heavy fall of light snow.

Reine-Marie brushed off her car and thought about Mrs. Horton on her deathbed. With the last of her strength, she’d drawn a monkey.

This was becoming less amusing by the moment.

She almost felt bad that she hadn’t mentioned to Susan or James that their mother had another box, as yet unopened, that sat in the study of the Gamache home.

On her way back to Three Pines from speaking to Édouard Tardif at the courthouse, Isabelle Lacoste’s phone buzzed. It was a message from Jean-Guy.

Making sure not to get stuck in a snowbank, Isabelle pulled over and read, Vincent Gilbert was at Robinson’s talk.

“The official biography on your website doesn’t mention a sister,” said Gamache, looking into the bloodshot eyes of Abigail Robinson.

“No. I try to keep my personal life private.”

“Private, or secret?”

“What do you think would happen if it comes out that I had a severely disabled sister? People would think that influenced my findings. My conclusions.”

“Did it?”

“You don’t think I’ve asked myself that? It was painful, yes. I saw what having a severely disabled child did to my parents. Their exhaustion, their constant worry. But I loved my sister. My findings, my research, have nothing to do with Maria, and everything to do with the future of the social safety net in this country. We don’t have enough resources to go around and—” She put up her hands, and smiled. “There I go again. You know my arguments. It’s statistics. Cold hard facts. It has nothing to do with Maria.”

Gamache turned to Colette. “You knew about the sister?”

“Yes. Abby’s father told me. Her death was obviously devastating. It wasn’t a secret, Armand. It was a private family tragedy.” She looked at him. “You don’t talk about the death of your parents.”

“True. But I do talk about their lives.” But that reminded him of something. He turned back to Abigail. “I’ve heard about your father, but not your mother.”

“She died when I was quite young. Before Maria died.”

“I’m sorry. That’s difficult. Can you tell me how she died?”

There was a pause, and he was pretty sure one of them would ask to know how it could matter. And he knew he couldn’t answer that. Because it probably did not.

“A heart attack. She was only in her mid-thirties. That left my father and me to look after Maria.”

He could sense the resentment, still smoldering after all these years. Not against her sister, he thought. But the mother. For leaving them behind, even if it wasn’t her choice.

A wild thought passed rapidly across Gamache’s mind. Like some feral idea.

Or maybe it was. A choice.