The Madness of Crowds

CHAPTER 37

Dr. Sharon Harris was having a café au lait and brioche in the bistro when Armand, Jean-Guy, and Isabelle arrived.

“I thought you’d email the answers to us,” said Armand, sitting down after greeting Gabri and Olivier. “Or call. I didn’t expect you to actually come here.”

“Though we’re not complaining about meeting you in the bistro,” said Jean-Guy. He’d slept in and missed breakfast. Now he ordered French toast, with maple-smoked bacon and syrup from the cabane à sucre down the road.

The other two had coffee.

It was a few minutes past eight on this crisp January morning. The sun was just coming up, and the bistro was just filling up. Children were beginning to hit the rink. Some literally. As parents stood in the snow, rubbing their arms, stamping their feet and glancing longingly at the bistro.

“I wanted to talk it over,” said the coroner. “The reports you sent on the three deaths in the Robinson family are … suggestive.”

“Of what?” Isabelle asked.

“Of something more going on,” said Sharon Harris.

“Like?” said Jean-Guy.

“I think you already know.”

Gamache held her steady gaze and said nothing.

“All right, I’ll tell you,” said Dr. Harris. “I think the doctor’s notes are right. Kathleen Robinson, the mother, killed herself. The drugs she was prescribed are consistent with depression. The report says she’d given birth a few years earlier, so it might’ve been a prolonged, extreme case of postpartum. In an unusual death like this, it would be normal to do an autopsy. But none was performed. I’m guessing it’s because the doctor and coroner knew exactly what she died of.” She glanced around the table. “You don’t look surprised.”

“We’re not,” said Lacoste. “We think it was…” She searched for the word. “Provoked.”

“How?”

“She came to Québec to be treated for her depression, by Ewen Cameron.”

Sharon Harris’s eyes widened and she gave a short sharp inhale. “I see.”

And what she saw was an otherwise healthy, happy woman suffering temporary, though acute, depression put into the hands of a monster. To be cured.

What she saw was that after months of torture, Kathleen Robinson was sent home to her husband and children. She’d left depressed, she returned in despair.

And killed herself.

“I see.”

What Sharon Harris saw was that it wasn’t really suicide. It was morally, if not legally, murder.

“If you knew all this, why send me the reports?”

“I think you already know,” said Gamache, with only a slight smile.

Dr. Harris gave a small grunt of amusement. “Touché.” She glanced down at the printouts. “It wasn’t about Madame Robinson’s death, was it? That was for context. It’s about the others. The husband and daughter. The report on the man’s death, Paul Robinson, also says heart failure. You’re wondering if there’s more there?” She exhaled. “Might be, but it’s impossible to tell. In his case it could really have been heart failure. He was in his early fifties, so a heart attack or stroke aren’t out of the question. Equally, he could have killed himself. Like his wife’s, the report on his death is vague.”

She hesitated, then looked directly at the Chief Inspector. “But you’re head of homicide, not head of suicide. What do you suspect, Armand?”

“You tell me.”

She dropped her head and muttered what sounded like “bastard.” “All right,” she said, when she looked up again. “I’ll tell you, but this isn’t official. It can’t be. And I doubt at this point it can ever be proven.”

The three investigators waited. Sharon Harris shuffled the papers in front of her. Bringing one to the top.

“I think the child Maria Robinson’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“Meaning?” Isabelle leaned forward.

“Meaning I think she was murdered. I think her father killed her, then later took his own life.”

“But the deaths are years apart,” said Isabelle.

“True. But there can be a delayed reaction.”

“Of years?” she asked, clearly not buying it.

“When you investigate a murder,” said Dr. Harris, “don’t you go back into the past? To find some wound that festered? That erupted years later in murder? I’ve heard you talk about that. Why not self-murder? Suicide. Paul Robinson must’ve been deeply scarred by what happened to his wife. And then the pressure of caring for a severely disabled child alone. The mind can warp and twist and land in a very dark place. Chalk another one up to Ewen Cameron.”

“Wait a minute,” said Beauvoir, holding up his hand. “You think Robinson killed his own daughter? A defenseless little girl? Wh … wh…”

“Why do I say that?” asked Dr. Harris. “Because of this.”

She placed her finger on a word. One single word buried, intentionally or not, among so many.

Beauvoir bent over, studying it as though examining a tiny body.

Petechiae.

He looked up at Lacoste, who’d also bent to see the word. Then they both looked at Gamache. Who had no need to read it. He’d seen the word the night before.

That was why he’d sent Dr. Harris the reports, without comment. To see what she’d think. If she’d see what he saw.

Petechiae.

Tiny red dots on the girl’s face. Like freckles, only not. They were, the homicide investigators knew, signs of strangulation or smothering.

“She choked on a peanut butter sandwich,” said Jean-Guy. “That’s how she died. It says it right there. The hemorrhages were caused by that. Not…”

He could feel his hands and feet grow cold, as though he’d been on thin ice all along. And it had given way.

He fought for control. Fought to give the impression all was fine.

Ça va bien aller.

But he was overcome with the thought that if it could happen to Paul Robinson, a loving father, it could happen to … anyone.

“The child’s condition had deteriorated,” said Dr. Harris, watching him closely. “She’d be on puréed food by then. No parent would give her a peanut butter sandwich.”

“But maybe a carer did,” Beauvoir said, his voice rising, even as his heart sank. “Someone unfamiliar with her.”

“The report says she was alone with her father,” said Dr. Harris.

Armand shifted his eyes from Dr. Harris to Beauvoir. He knew what fear looked like. Had seen it often enough in young agents. In experienced investigators. As they’d prepared for an especially dangerous action.

He saw it now in his son-in-law. And he could guess why.

“It looks to me like Maria’s father smothered her, probably with a pillow, then shoved the sandwich down her throat postmortem,” the coroner was saying.

“Non. Non,” said Jean-Guy, shaking his head. “No father would do that.”

And there it was.

“Most wouldn’t,” said Armand. You wouldn’t.

It was the nightmare, the worst fear. Not just that his child would die, but that he’d somehow be responsible for it. Even, God help him, do it. In a moment of madness.

“We’ve seen it before—” Isabelle began.

“Yes,” snapped Jean-Guy, cutting her off. Not wanting to be reminded of the terrible things they’d seen. What happened when human nature went feral.

Yes, sometimes they discovered that a parent had killed their child, though it was more often the other way around.

“Let’s leave it there,” said Armand. “Thank you for coming here, Sharon, and walking us through what might’ve happened.”

“You saw that in the autopsy, didn’t you, Armand,” Dr. Harris said, as she got up. “Petechiae. That’s why you sent all three reports to me.”

“Yes. But as you said, it’s a long time ago. There’s no way to prove any of this.”

“I can’t see how it can relate to the murder of Deborah Schneider on New Year’s Eve,” said the coroner, pulling her coat off the back of the chair.

“Neither can I,” admitted Gamache. “We’re just assembling the pieces. Most are not helpful.”

Dr. Harris turned to Beauvoir. “You might be right. It could’ve been an accident, not murder at all. With no way to prove it either way, maybe we choose to believe that.”

“Excusez-moi.” Without waiting to be excused, Beauvoir put his coat on and left.

“Forget something?” Stephen asked. He was holding Idola on his lap and reading to her. From the Financial Times.

“Yes. I just need to…” He held out his arms, and Stephen, a little surprised, handed the child to her father.

Jean-Guy felt Idola’s breath on his neck, and felt her supple body conform to his. And he knew he could never, ever hurt her.

In fact, he’d hurt anyone who tried.

That’s what he’d forgotten. For one horrific moment. That he would die before he’d let anything happen to either of his children. In fact, he would kill.

So what had happened to Paul Robinson?

Jean-Guy carried his daughter into the study and sat at the desk. On the laptop he looked up Paul Robinson. Not much came up. But there was a photograph from a conference he’d been at.

It showed a middle-aged man. Slender, geeky, with glasses and graying hair and a bow tie.

He was standing in front of an easel with a poster on it and smiling into the camera. He looked a little goofy.

Was Paul Robinson, at that moment, contemplating murdering his daughter?

Maria. Beloved, vulnerable. Ave Maria. Blessed Mary.

But there was another daughter. The Abby to her Maria.

Bright. Brilliant even. So like her father in so many ways.

Abby Maria. Conjoined sisters. Not by some cartilage or artery. They didn’t share an organ, they shared a father and a fate. That bound them forever.

He looked down at Idola, and when he made eye contact, she laughed.

Her flat features no longer said Down syndrome.

They said daughter.

As he left the house, Jean-Guy saw his father-in-law standing on the far side of the frozen pond. Watching the children play.

Armand looked up, and their eyes met. He’d been waiting. Patiently. In the cold. For him.

They didn’t speak as they walked through the bright sunshine, up the hill to the Auberge. Past the chapel. Past the New Forest. Past the bench.

May you be a brave man in a brave country.

Reine-Marie was more than halfway to Enid Horton’s home, the box in the back seat of her car, when she slowed down. Stopped. And turned around.

Parking at the Inn, she went in and found Haniya standing at the window, looking out over a field of snow, her arms wrapped around herself.

Without turning she said, “It’s so white. And cold. Everything looks dead. I don’t know why anyone lives here.”

She coughed, and Reine-Marie stopped where she was. And had to remind herself that a cough was no longer a threat. A sneeze wasn’t an attack.

The vaccine had worked. It was one of the great global shared experiences. The plague and the cure. But still, she had to force herself forward, to stand beside the young woman with the sniffles.

“Voltaire described Canada as quelques arpents de neige,” said Reine-Marie. “A few acres of snow. It was, of course, dismissive. An insult.”

“No offense. I didn’t mean to insult your home.”

Reine-Marie smiled. “I think you know the difference between an insult and a compliment.” Then she too looked out the window. Where Haniya Daoud, and Voltaire, saw a few acres of snow, of misery, she saw tobogganing. Skiing. Snowshoeing. Hockey games on frozen lakes. Sitting by a fire with a hot chocolate, while a blizzard pounded the windows and walls. Was there anything more comforting than being safe and warm inside during a snowstorm?

“Each snowflake is unique, you know.”

“Really?” It would be impossible to convey less interest.

“Oui. A fellow named Snowflake Bentley proved that, more than a century ago. He was a Vermonter. Lived not far from here. A backwoods man who was fascinated by the new invention of photography. He figured out how to take a picture of a single flake. Sounds easy, but just try to capture one, never mind take a picture of it. His photographs are amazing. Beautiful. It was only then that scientists confirmed what they suspected. That each snowflake is different. Trillions and trillions.” She turned to Haniya. “All unique. All exquisite. Each a work of art. Imagine that.”

“His name was Snowflake?” asked Haniya.

“His name was Wilson. Snowflake was an affectionate nickname.” Reine-Marie returned to the view. “Without that thick layer of snow, the crops, the flowers, even many of the animals would die. It’s insulation against a killing frost. Then in the spring it melts. Liquid gold, the farmers call it. They pray for as much as possible. Perception’s an interesting thing, non?”

“What?” said Haniya. “I wasn’t listening. Are you still talking about snow? I’ve been here three days and all you people seem to talk about is the weather.”

“And murder.”

“The two seem to dovetail, yes.”

Reine-Marie heaved a long sigh that fogged up the glass in front of her. Fully realizing she might be making a terrible mistake, she did it anyway. “I have a delicate, maybe even unpleasant task to perform, and I’m wondering if you’d like to come along.”

Haniya’s brows all but disappeared into her bright purple hijab. “Why?”

It was, of course, a very good question.

Why? Reine-Marie asked herself.

“Because I don’t think you should be alone. Because you might be a distraction.”

“Because I’m Black?”

“Because you’re annoying. It’ll make me look more reasonable.”

Haniya laughed, then considered. “Might as well. Nothing else to do except look at that.” She gestured toward the acres of snow.

As she followed Reine-Marie to the car, Haniya scooped up some snow. She stared at the flakes in her mitten. Then tried to separate one from the pack. But couldn’t. She leaned close, trying to see the patterns of each individual flake, but her breath melted them before she could see.

She raised her head and looked at the snowbanks and snowdrifts. At the snow balancing on tree limbs and sitting on the roof of the Inn, and the cars, and the stone walls.

Acres and acres.

As she got into the still warm car, Haniya realized that when Reine-Marie Gamache said she wanted her company, there was one reason she hadn’t given.

Because I like you.

Haniya had been called brave. She’d been called remarkable. She’d been called tireless and inspirational. She’d been called a hero. All of which, she knew, were true.

But no one had called her friend.

On the way over, Reine-Marie brought Haniya up to speed about Enid Horton and the commission to help the family sort Mom’s things before the sale of the home.

“You said it might be unpleasant. Why’s that? Did you find something?”

That’s when Reine-Marie told her about the monkeys. About the strange collection. The books and drawings. The etching on the bedroom wall.

But not about Ewen Cameron. She felt she should tell the family first.

“Monkeys?” said Haniya, shaking her head. “And now you have to tell the family that their mother was crazy. And you brought me along as an example of crazy?”

Reine-Marie pulled into the brick bungalow on the outskirts of Cowansville. “I’ve brought you along as proof that terrible things can happen, and we can still heal.”

“You think I’ve healed?” said Haniya, with a laugh. “You think I’m whole?”

She turned in her seat and stared at Reine-Marie. “No. What you see is a mockery, a mimic. I’m made up of bits and pieces left on the ground, from other broken people. An arm here, a leg there. A memory, an aspiration, a desire. Sewn together so that I look human, but am not quite.”

“The creature from Frankenstein,” said Reine-Marie.

Haniya laughed. “And here I thought you’d comfort me. Tell me I’m wrong. That I’m fully human and beautiful. Instead you call me a monster.”

“The creature wasn’t the monster,” Reine-Marie said, quietly. “The doctor was.” She smiled at her companion. “I told you this was going to be unpleasant, and you came anyway, to keep me company. If that isn’t whole, I don’t know what is. You are beautiful. And you are brave.”

And, and, Haniya waited, you are my friend.

When Reine-Marie didn’t say it, Haniya turned away and looked out the window.

“You say that your snow covers all sorts of wonderful things. Keeps them alive. But I suspect it covers terrible things too. Things that are better off dead, or at least hidden.” She turned back to Reine-Marie. “Perception. Who’s to say who the monsters are? And where they’re buried.”

Reine-Marie got out of the car and wondered if she was about to make a mistake, in telling the Horton family the long-buried truth she’d uncovered. About their mother. And the monkeys. And the modern monster.

Maybe Haniya was right. Some things don’t need to be brought into light. Some truths can remain unspoken.