The Madness of Crowds

CHAPTER 28

The autopsy report came in just as Gamache arrived back at the Incident Room. It showed nothing they didn’t already know or suspect.

Deborah Jane Schneider’s life ended at approximately midnight between December 31st and January 1st.

Cause of death: blows to the back of her head. Weapon: a length of wood, almost certainly a split log.

Isabelle Lacoste had returned, and now the three sat at the long conference table in the basement, watching the video. Not the whole thing, just that section. Over and over. Then Beauvoir froze it, on Gilbert’s face.

Gamache sat back. “What do you think? Is Vincent Gilbert an accomplice?”

Isabelle shook her head decisively. “Non.”

“He was there,” said Jean-Guy. “Standing right beside the guy.”

“But Tardif hadn’t planned to stand there,” said Isabelle. “He wanted to be much farther forward. He only moved back when he saw us. I’ve talked to Tardif a few times, and I can tell you there’s no way Vincent Gilbert would choose him as his accomplice for anything, never mind murder.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Beauvoir.

“Because Gilbert would be sure to find someone who knew what they were doing. Édouard Tardif’s a nice, hardworking man, a decent man pushed to an extreme. He’s not exactly a criminal mastermind.”

“He was calculating enough to almost pull it off,” said Beauvoir.

“But not get away with it,” Lacoste pointed out. “Gilbert would never agree to a plan that saw his co-conspirator immediately arrested.”

“True,” said Beauvoir, nodding slowly.

“I don’t think Tardif would choose Gilbert either,” Isabelle went on. “They’re not compatible. An arrogant academic and a naïve woodsman?”

“You like him,” said Gamache. “Tardif.”

Lacoste considered. “I understand him.”

“And sympathize?” asked Gamache.

She nodded slowly. “My mother’s getting on too. I’d feel the same way.”

“Don’t,” said Gamache. “Édouard Tardif didn’t suddenly pick up a gun and shoot. He planned it. Over days. Setting up a diversion. Almost causing a riot. This isn’t a crime passionnel. This is cold-blooded attempted murder that put hundreds of lives in danger. Let’s not romanticize Monsieur Tardif and his motives or his actions.”

It worried him that his hardheaded lead investigators were doing exactly that.

This case was triggering all sorts of strong emotions, in them all. Including himself.

“Désolée, patron,” said Isabelle. “But there is a problem. While I don’t think Dr. Gilbert was the accomplice, I’m not convinced the brother, Alphonse, is either.”

“Why not?” said Beauvoir.

“Like I said before, he gave in far too quickly, and he was shocked by what he saw on the video. It didn’t seem he expected it. I want to speak to him again.”

“I don’t think we can rule out the Asshole Saint,” said Jean-Guy. “He might not be the accomplice, but he misled us about his relationship with the Chancellor. He didn’t tell us he was in the auditorium, and he was at the party last night. He’s the only one who was at both attacks.”

“Except Robinson herself,” said Gamache.

“And you.” Isabelle narrowed her eyes at Jean-Guy. If there was one thing she enjoyed, it was needling him.

“Don’t make me have to sit between you,” said Gamache. “I think it’s probable the two attacks aren’t related. The first was planned. The second was not. And we still don’t know if Debbie Schneider was the intended victim.”

“I spoke to her father,” said Beauvoir. There was no need to describe the man’s shattered mind. Or broken heart. “He tried to be helpful but couldn’t remember much. He did confirm that Debbie and Abigail had been friends since childhood.”

“Did he know about Abigail’s sister, Maria?” Gamache asked.

“I didn’t know about her when I was talking to him, so I didn’t ask.”

“Can you call him back and ask if Abigail had a sister?”

“Absolument.” Beauvoir made a note. “Monsieur Schneider said he couldn’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt his daughter, and since she’d never been to Québec, he couldn’t see why anyone here would.”

“Her ex-husband?” asked Lacoste.

“She hadn’t seen him in years and they parted on friendly terms. Doesn’t seem to be anything there. I also spoke to the head of Professor Robinson’s department.”

Gamache leaned forward.

“What came through, though he never actually said it, is that he’s incredibly disappointed in Professor Robinson. He said she’s brilliant. They were very proud when she was chosen to do the post-pandemic statistical study for the Royal Commission. But after he read her preliminary report, he asked her to stop. Explained that the math was right, but her conclusions were wrong.”

“But she didn’t, of course.”

“No. Caused a real shit storm in the department.”

“His word?” asked Isabelle.

Beauvoir smiled. “He was actually quite complimentary. Said she had a quicksilver mind.”

Gamache grunted. “Clever.”

“Yes, isn’t that what he meant?” said Lacoste. “A clever mind?”

“But ‘quicksilver’ is also the nickname for mercury. Which is a poison. He couldn’t think of anyone Professor Robinson had specifically hurt?”

“No. There was just the general sense that she was harming the reputation of the department, of the university, with her work. But I can’t see him getting on a plane and coming here to kill her with a fireplace log.”

“Didn’t Abigail’s father also work at the university?” asked Isabelle.

“Yes. They knew each other. They were associate professors together. He said Paul Robinson was”—Jean-Guy checked his notes—“a superb mathematician. Worked mostly on probability theory. Was well-liked by his colleagues and students. Collaborated a lot. His death came as a shock.”

“So, back to last night,” said Isabelle. “It looks like Professor Robinson must’ve been the target. Someone who was at the party has a mother or father who’ll be affected if her recommendations are accepted, saw their chance and took it.”

“Or a child,” said Armand. There was a pause that threatened to become awkward before he broke it. “Or grandchild.”

“My God,” said Jean-Guy. “You’ve actually seriously considered me?”

“Not seriously, no.”

“But you did wonder.”

Gamache held his son-in-law’s eyes. Then smiled. “Only to the extent that someone else might. But did I think you’d picked up a log and hit her from behind in a moment of insanity? No. Any more than you considered me.” Again the awkward pause. “Did you?”

Jean-Guy smiled. “Did I wonder if you could have? Given not just Idola but what happened in the pandemic? Yes. Did I suspect you, even for a moment? No.”

“Well, that’s two we can strike off the list,” said Isabelle. “That leaves about fifty others.”

“There was someone in that room last night who I think has killed before,” said Gamache. “And would again, without remorse, given the right motive. And the right motive was also in the room.”

“Haniya Daoud,” said Beauvoir.

“Oui.”

“I’ll speak to her,” said Beauvoir.

“Non, let me,” said Lacoste. “I want to meet her, and I have no preconceived ideas—”

“Take along your mace,” said Beauvoir. “You’re about to be mind-fucked.”

“—like that one.”

Gamache got up and the others rose too. “While you do that, I’m going into Montréal. I want to see what I can find on Vincent Gilbert’s career. If he’s hiding something, it’ll be in the Osler Medical Library at McGill. Might see if Reine-Marie wants to come along and help. She’s familiar with their archives.”

“I’ll talk to the Asshole Saint,” said Beauvoir. “See why he was at Robinson’s event, and suspiciously close to the shooter.”

As they walked down the corridor toward the stairs, past the creatures, past their features in the stone wall, Gamache stopped.

“You know, I’m thinking it might be best if you go into McGill, Jean-Guy.”

“Good idea, patron. Assign me to an English medical library. At least we’ll have the element of surprise.”

Lacoste laughed. “Your vast well of ignorance is finally paying off.”

“Now, just one question,” said Jean-Guy. “What’s McGill again? Ha, McGilligan. An Irish Gilligan’s isle.” He seemed inordinately pleased with himself.

Gamache laughed and held Beauvoir’s eyes, bright with amusement and intelligence. He did love the young man.

“You’ll do fine. Shouldn’t take more than three hours.”

Beauvoir laughed. “Why the change, Skipper?”

“I want to talk to Vincent Gilbert. I think he’ll be more open with me.”

Both Isabelle and Jean-Guy suspected that was true. One of the many features of the Asshole Saint was his snobbery.

Jean-Guy found his mother-in-law in the bookstore discussing Enid Horton’s monkeys with Myrna.

“I agree,” said Myrna. “If you can find where she drew the first monkey, that might help understand where it came from.”

When asked if she’d go to McGill with him, Reine-Marie said she was more than happy to. She liked the Osler. It was a hidden treasure, considered by those in the know as the finest medical library and archive in North America. And just about completely unknown by everyone else.

To be polite, Jean-Guy asked Myrna if she’d like to come along. Dr. Landers was, as it turned out, very familiar with the library, having spent hours there as an undergrad.

And so the little party set off.

Armand spotted Vincent Gilbert in the living room of the Auberge, sitting in front of the fire, reading. All evidence of the party the night before had been cleared away.

“Bonjour, Vincent,” said Armand. “I’m looking for a lunch companion. Would you join me?”

“On you?”

“On the Sûreté.”

“That means you’ll be grilling me?”

“At least,” said Armand, as they made their way across the hall. “Maybe even puréeing.”

Vincent smiled.

They passed Isabelle, who was at the front desk asking after Haniya Daoud.

“Last I heard she was in the stables,” said the front desk clerk.

“Merci.” Inspector Lacoste hesitated, then asked, “Are Marc or Dominique Gilbert around?”

“The owners?” the young man said. “Madame Gilbert’s in the office. Would you like to see her?”

“I’ll just go in,” she said, before the clerk could stop her. Though to be fair, he showed absolutely no desire to try.