The Madness of Crowds

CHAPTER 36

“Well, we now know why Abigail Robinson came to Québec,” said Lacoste, slicing the baguette. “To kill Vincent Gilbert.”

They were back in the Incident Room. Dominique had brought down dinner. A large pot of her winter spécialité, a hearty pot-au-feu.

Jean-Guy ladled it out, while Armand poured beer for himself and Lacoste, and gave Jean-Guy a ginger ale.

Abigail Robinson had come back to the Inn with them, as had Vincent Gilbert. They were now under the same roof, but on different floors, restricted to their rooms.

“She doesn’t admit that,” said Gamache, tearing a thick piece of baguette and dipping it into the stew. “It would be helpful if we had any evidence, like the letter Gilbert wrote and Abigail found among her father’s things.”

“I think Abigail got that much right,” said Isabelle. “Debbie threatened him with it, he panicked and killed her, then burned the letter along with the murder weapon. He admits he destroyed every other document connecting him to Cameron. And he was in the library before the attack. He could’ve taken a piece of firewood without anyone seeing.”

“So they were going to kill each other?” asked Jean-Guy. “Like gladiators in the ring?”

“Not quite,” said Armand. “But close. I think Abigail’s plan was more subtle, more layered. I think she was going to blackmail Gilbert into publicly supporting her campaign—”

“Then she’d release the evidence anyway, that Gilbert had collaborated with Ewen Cameron,” said Jean-Guy. “Why kill the man outright when you can torture him first? Give him some of his own back. Let him watch everything he’d spent a lifetime building up come crumbling down.”

“He was far beyond his depth, in his sea of glory,” said Gamache.

“A quote?” asked Beauvoir. The rich stew and sleepiness had lowered his resistance, and the question popped out before he could stop it.

His eyes widened in fear, some mock, some real, that the Chief would now regale them with the full poem.

He did not. Gamache only smiled and said, “Why is it when I say something profound you assume I’m quoting someone else?”

“Were you?” Beauvoir asked, and could have kicked himself. Stop it. Stop giving him an opening.

Gamache gave a small grunt of laughter. “How well you know me. Yes. Wolsey’s farewell, from Shakespeare’s Henry VIII. I’ve thought of it a few times when I’ve considered Dr. Gilbert in this whole thing. His ego propped open the door to his enemies.”

“I’ve been thinking of eunuchs,” said Isabelle.

“Eunuchs? As in—” Jean-Guy made a gesture over his lap.

“Exactly. Some men in China intentionally castrated themselves in order to rise to a position of power.”

Jean-Guy’s eyes widened. He’d heard of the practice, but had assumed it was a punishment, not a choice. Who would…?

Armand, though, was nodding. “Yes. That might be closer to the truth. What people do for power. How they’re willing to mutilate themselves, physically, intellectually, morally, for power and position.”

“You think that’s what Gilbert did?” asked Jean-Guy, fighting to get the quite vivid image out of his head.

“I think some people would do just about anything, say just about anything, stay quiet about anything, to attain, then hold on to power,” said Armand. “We’ve seen a lot of that in the last few years. Why not Vincent Gilbert? A boy from a poor family, gifted with remarkable intellect, but crippled by a lack of resources and conscience. His brains got him into medical school in McGill, and his faulty moral compass allowed him to stay there.”

“All he had to do was turn a blind eye to torture,” said Isabelle.

“And when, years later, having achieved international recognition as a doctor and humanitarian he was threatened with exposure, his core instincts come out.”

“So you do think Vincent Gilbert killed Debbie Schneider,” said Jean-Guy. “To get those papers off her. To stop the blackmail.”

“I think we finally have a motive for her death. He’d clearly gone to huge lengths to erase any evidence of his work with Cameron, destroying all the paperwork in the files in the Osler Library.”

“But he couldn’t get those demands for payment back,” said Lacoste. “They were in private hands.”

“He must’ve assumed, as time went by and the victims died, that he was safe. That those papers were lost or destroyed,” said Gamache.

“Or that no one would notice, or recognize, the signature of a minor research assistant,” said Lacoste. “But Abigail Robinson did. And she came here to make him pay.”

Jean-Guy was nodding, thinking. Imagining it.

Debbie Schneider had had Dr. Vincent Gilbert’s balls in her pocket. And he meant to get them back.

“Though Chancellor Roberge could’ve done it too,” said Jean-Guy. “Maybe even more likely. She and Debbie went for a walk. Alone. In the dark. Debbie could have shown her the letter and, thinking she was a friend and ally, told her what they had planned. Roberge realized how damning the letter was and lashed out. Then burned the paper in the bonfire.”

“But why would she do that?” asked Isabelle. “Kill someone to get a letter back that had nothing to do with her? She wasn’t named in it.”

Gamache realized that Isabelle hadn’t been at the meeting at the Chancellor’s home. Hadn’t seen that small gesture, Gilbert’s hand on Roberge’s. But Jean-Guy had.

“Because Colette Roberge loves Vincent Gilbert,” said Jean-Guy.

“Really?” Isabelle considered that, then said, “But do you really think the Chancellor would kill to protect his reputation? His life, maybe, but his reputation?”

“Have you met the man?” asked Jean-Guy. “His reputation is his life. All he has left.”

“I think it’s fairly clear that Abigail, probably with the help of Debbie Schneider, planned to, at the very least, blackmail Gilbert,” said Armand. “To avenge her mother.”

“And maybe her father,” said Isabelle.

“Why do you say that?” Armand laid down his spoon and fork.

“When his wife died, Paul Robinson lost a life partner, a companion, and a helpmate. His death certificate also says heart failure, just like hers. Vague. I doubt it tells the full story, the real one. There was no autopsy.”

“You think he killed himself too?” asked Jean-Guy.

It wasn’t all that hard to imagine.

Suppose, he thought, Annie died? Suppose she’d been tormented into it? And he was the one who’d put her into the monster’s hands? And then Idola dies, and once again it’s his fault. He’d given her the peanut butter sandwich that lodged in her throat.

Jean-Guy suspected his broken heart would give out too. Crushed by grief and guilt.

“He waited until his other daughter was grown,” he said.

“Oui,” said Isabelle. “Out of the house. She’d just gone away to Oxford.”

“And was in the care of his friend Colette Roberge,” said Armand. It fit. If he could follow the sequence of events, Abigail Robinson certainly could.

“The specter of Ewen Cameron hangs over this case,” said Gamache. “As do the ghosts of all his victims. Including both of Abigail Robinson’s parents.”

A few years ago, when Agent Beauvoir had first arrived in homicide and the Chief Inspector said things like that, he’d roll his eyes and smirk.

Gamache had ignored him and waited. And waited. Until one day Jean-Guy Beauvoir understood that when people died, they didn’t go away. They were very much alive in the minds, in the hearts, in the vivid memories of those left behind.

And they were not always easy to live with. Some ghosts had demands.

“How old was Abigail when her sister died?” Armand asked.

“Fifteen,” said Isabelle.

“And her father was alone with Maria when she died?”

“As far as we know. Because of the manner of her death, the coroner did a full autopsy.”

“May I?” Gamache held out his hand, and Lacoste gave him the autopsy report. “Both, if you don’t mind,” he said. “And Paul Robinson’s death certificate.”

Putting on his glasses, he started to read. Nodding every now and then.

He was not, they saw, skimming. He was reading every word.

“Can you send me the electronic versions?” he asked.

When she did, he attached the reports to an email to Sharon Harris. Their coroner and colleague.

Taking off his glasses, he heaved a sigh. “Are you staying over, Isabelle?”

“Yes. I’ve got my room at Olivier and Gabri’s B&B.”

“Good.” He looked at his watch. It was past eleven. “Time for bed I think. We won’t get an answer until the morning.”

Beauvoir drove his car back down the hill, but Armand felt the need for fresh air, as did Isabelle. Instead of going straight down into the village, Armand asked her, “Do you mind?”

She shook her head and followed him, knowing where they were headed. They stopped at the bench and swept off the fluffy snow that had accumulated during the day. As she did, Isabelle reached out and caressed the back of the seat. It was too dark to see the words etched into it, but she could feel them.

Armand and Reine-Marie had put the bench there so that friends and strangers could rest from the journey. Could sit and contemplate the vista, then drop their eyes to the homes below. The wood smoke rising from their chimneys and the buttery light spilling from their mullioned windows. They could watch the huge pine trees sway, wave, on the village green.

The three pines in a cluster that gave the village its name was an old United Empire Loyalist code to tell war-weary refugees that they were safe. At last.

But while Armand and Reine-Marie had put the bench there, the words etched into it remained a mystery. They’d just appeared. First one phrase, then, below it, another. No one admitted to doing it, but Armand had a feeling that it had been Billy Williams, who, while often enigmatic, still managed to make himself understood.

Written on one of the weathered slats was part of a prayer.

May you be a brave man in a brave country.

And underneath that, Surprised by Joy.

The night was completely still. Isabelle and Armand sat side by side, their breaths coming out in puffs.

And in one of the puffs were the words “How are you, Isabelle?”

“Better,” she said.

“Better than?”

“Before.” She smiled and sat in peace for a moment before speaking again. “The day after I got home from the hospital, you came over. You made us tea and brought treats from the bistro and we talked. Do you remember?”

“I’ll never forget.”

“You told me that you were stronger than you had been before you were wounded a few years earlier. I could see that was true. For you. But I was afraid I’d never get there. I could barely speak or move on my own. I had to have help feeding myself.”

How well she remembered the Chief, sitting beside her, tearing the flaky croissant into bite-sized pieces. Then, instead of feeding her as everyone else did, he placed a small piece into her hand, and closed her fingers over it, until she gripped it.

Then, as tears of embarrassment streamed down her cheeks, he gently lifted her hand to her mouth. It took a couple of tries. The bread kept slipping from her grasp, but the tears had stopped. As she concentrated.

And finally, they had it.

They cheered. As though she’d done something remarkable. Which she had.

They did it again. And again. Until the croissant was all eaten.

It tasted better than anything she’d ever had before, or since.

From then on, that was how she asked her husband, her parents, her carers, her children, to do it. It took far more time, and was often frustrating, even humiliating. But finally she could do it on her own.

She turned to him now. His face was outlined against the stars. The deep scar on his forehead was invisible. But if she reached out, she’d be able to feel it. Etched there.

“I still have days when I struggle,” she said.

He nodded. “Me too. When I’m tired.”

“I search for words,” she said. “And when I find them, I slur. But that just reminds me how far I’ve come.”

“I’m sorry you’ve had to make that journey, Isabelle.”

Her actions had saved not just his life, but the lives of most of the villagers. She’d been shot, almost killed, right there. In the bistro. In the safe place.

But they, better than most, knew that no place was really safe from physical harm. Anything could happen to anyone, at any moment. What made a place safe were the people. The caring. The kindness. The helping. Sometimes the mourning. And often the forgiveness.

“I am stronger, in every way,” she said. “But I feel badly for my children. I tell myself it’s made them stronger too, more resilient. They saw that it’s possible to overcome. But…”

But.

“They were wounded too,” he finished her thought.

“Oui.”

They sat in companionable silence, breathing in the thin, cold air. Breathing out words unspoken. Until Isabelle spoke.

“I’ve been thinking about Abigail. What happened to her mother is something a child would never fully get over.”

She saw Gamache nod, then he got up. Together they walked past the New Forest and into the village. Both of them limping slightly.

Daniel was out with the dogs, the last walk of the day. Armand joined him, while Isabelle headed to her bed in the B&B.

“Dad?”

“Oui?”

“Do you think Professor Robinson will be successful? In her campaign, I mean.”

Armand turned to his son. Large, sturdy like his father. Strong and kind. And sensitive. One day it might fall to Daniel to make that decision. To pull the plug, to remove the respirator. To let his father die. To let nature take its course.

But what “nature” were they talking about? Human nature? Was that what Abigail Robinson was relying on? Armand knew it was not always pretty. Or compassionate. Or brave.

If human nature was allowed to take its course, unchecked, what would happen?

He remembered the smear on the window. The elongated handprint. And had some idea. Though he also had an overriding belief in the decency of people. While he’d seen the worst, Armand Gamache had also seen the best. And he believed the best would prevail.

“I hope not.” But was hope enough?

“Would it be such a bad thing if Professor Robinson died?” Daniel asked.

Armand looked at his son, hardly believing what he heard. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do.” Daniel examined his father for a moment. “Do you regret saving her life?”

No one had, as yet, asked him that. Not directly. “I had to try.”

“I understand,” said Daniel. “But do you regret it? Do you wish you’d failed?”

Armand breathed in, and out, unable to answer.

“Would you do it again?” Daniel asked, quietly.

Over his son’s shoulder Armand could see the hill out of Three Pines where the bench, invisible in the darkness, sat. And on that bench, the words, unseen, were etched.

May you be a brave man in a brave country.

Armand Gamache realized he no longer knew what bravery might look like. What “the best” might be.