The Madness of Crowds

CHAPTER 39

Reine-Marie and Haniya shared a box while Susan and James Horton each had their own.

They sat in the living room of the Horton home, surrounded by packing crates and newspaper and tape.

“I should have brought this back sooner,” Reine-Marie confessed, placing her hand on the file box filled with their mother’s things. “But to be honest, I was curious.”

“About the monkeys,” said Susan. “We opened the boxes you left, and James looked at the side of Mommy’s bed.”

Her brother was quiet. And quietly seething.

Did he know? Reine-Marie wondered. Was he old enough to remember his mother before, and his mother after?

Did he know what was in the box in front of them? The family secret that had somehow, as secrets often did, morphed into a shame.

“Why did she do that?” asked Susan. “Why draw monkeys? Even when she was dying? I don’t understand.”

Haniya Daoud shifted, trying to get more comfortable. But to do that, she was nudging Reine-Marie closer to the edge.

She’d introduced Haniya, but hadn’t explained who she was. It seemed, by his expression, that James vaguely recognized her, but couldn’t quite place her.

Susan, though, just stared at her. Unable, it seemed, to see beyond the disfigurement.

Now brother and sister waited for Reine-Marie to say something constructive.

Armand had allowed his feet to choose the path, this freed his mind to also choose its own way forward.

He was in the woods now, his boots sinking into the soft snow of the trail. It was quiet in there. Peaceful.

Abby Maria. Ave Maria. Hail Maria, full of grace.

Be well, Maria.

He allowed his thoughts to roam free, untethered by logic.

Ça va bien aller. All shall be well. Maria.

Gamache stopped, looked up, and saw where his feet, where the thread, had taken him. Up ahead was the hermit’s cabin. The home of the Asshole Saint.

A thick layer of snow lay on its roof. There was no smoke from the chimney. No light at the windows.

No sign of life. And yet it didn’t feel abandoned, or empty. It felt as though it was waiting for Vincent Gilbert to return. Home.

Gamache had visited Gilbert there a few times.

They’d sat on the porch in the summer sipping lemonade. They’d harvested vegetables in autumn, from the garden out back by the stream. He’d skied to the log cabin in winter. They’d drunk tea and eaten bread and honey Armand had brought from the village, while Vincent fed wood into the stove.

They’d talked about all sorts of things. Family. Paris. Emerson. Auden and Keller.

They’d talked about choice and chance and fate.

One of Gilbert’s favorite quotes was from Henry David Thoreau. The question is not what you look at, but what you see.

And Armand had told Vincent one of his favorite Thoreau stories.

When Thoreau was arrested for protesting an injustice, Ralph Waldo Emerson had visited him in prison and said, “Henry, what are you doing in there?” And Thoreau had replied, “Ralph, what are you doing out there?”

Vincent had laughed. As had Armand. But both appreciated what Thoreau was saying.

Came a time when people of conscience had to take a stand.

Had that time come for Vincent Gilbert? Had a crisis of conscience moved him from looking to seeing to acting?

Would he have to arrest the Asshole Saint for that act? And when he did, would Vincent Gilbert ask him what he was doing “out there”?

But Armand knew the answer to that. He was bringing a murderer to justice.

He heard footsteps behind him. Had heard them almost from the moment he’d veered off the road, onto the path through the woods.

Now they were close. Almost upon him.

“You don’t really believe what you said, do you?” said Armand. “About Paul Robinson. That he killed his daughter.”

The footsteps stopped. And there was silence for a moment. “Yes. I do.”

Armand turned and faced Jean-Guy. He smiled. He’d known from that first footfall who it was. He recognized the gait. And, more than that, he knew that Jean-Guy would, if he could, always be there. Close by.

Isabelle Lacoste barely noticed the gloom in the Incident Room anymore. She was preoccupied with her thoughts. With her questions.

She picked up the phone.

“Barry? It’s Isabelle. You know that photograph that was in Debbie Schneider’s desk? Can you see if anything’s written on the back? A date or something?”

“It’s packed away in the boxes, ready to be shipped to you.”

“Can you find it?”

He heaved a sigh. “Yes. It’ll take a little while.”

“Please, as soon as you can.”

He must have finally heard the urgency in her voice. “I’ll go down now.”

“And can you send a list of the other items in the drawer with it?”

“I have it here on my computer. There were some staples. Two printer cartridges. A ruler, an agenda, some birthday cards, a box of paper clips, and that picture. I’ll forward you the list.”

“Merci. When you find the box, can you also scan those cards?”

She hung up and stared ahead.

“You don’t believe Paul Robinson killed his daughter,” said Armand.

“I do.”

“The truth, Jean-Guy.”

“I think Paul Robinson killed his daughter. He regretted it, and he tried to justify it, but yes, I think he did it.”

“Think. You think that. But what do you feel? What do you believe, in here.”

Gamache tapped Beauvoir’s chest. The gesture, the insistence, infuriated Jean-Guy. He hated it, hated it, when Gamache pushed him like that. Not physically, but pushed him to consider feelings. Beliefs. Emotions. When Gamache insisted that they could possibly be as important as thoughts. As facts.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir had strong feelings about feelings, and Gamache knew it. But insisted anyway.

“All right. You want to know what I feel? This’s what I came to show you.”

He pulled out his phone, tapped, and shoved it into Gamache’s face, almost hitting him.

It was the image of Paul Robinson that Jean-Guy had found when he’d googled the man. Robinson was at a conference, standing in front of a poster showing a bunch of graphs. He was smiling, in an exaggerated, silly sort of way.

“Look at the banner behind him,” demanded Jean-Guy. “This’s the week before, maybe days before, Maria died. That’s not the face of a father in such despair he’s considering killing his youngest daughter.”

Gamache took the phone and examined the picture. Then handed it back.

“This proves nothing, Jean-Guy. Like you said, if Paul Robinson smothered Maria, it was in a moment of madness. A psychotic break.”

“You’re right,” said Beauvoir. “That’s what I think too. But you asked me what I feel. And I feel that man did not go home and put a pillow over his daughter’s face.”

Armand stared at his second-in-command. His son-in-law.

“Then who did?”

Isabelle Lacoste was at her desk going over the latest forensic reports when a text came in from Beauvoir asking her to meet them in the bistro.

She found the Chief and Beauvoir in a private corner. Heads together, deep in discussion. Perhaps about the case. More likely, she thought, about what to order.

“Are you here to see me, ma belle?” Olivier asked, kissing her on both cheeks.

Try as he might, every time Olivier saw Isabelle, he first saw her lying on the floor of their bistro. Bleeding. Dying. As shots exploded all around them.

Now, when she walked into the bistro, it felt like a resurrection.

“Of course, mon beau,” she said, and whispered, “Getting to see you is the only reason I stay in the Sûreté.”

He laughed, took her coat, and nodded to the corner. “You know where they are. What would you like?”

“A tisane and—”

He held up a hand. “I know. They’re just out of the oven. You can probably smell them. You’re like a bakery hound.”

The bistro was quiet. It was between meals, and only a few tables were taken by parents and children having hot chocolate, something the parents would soon regret. The Sûreté officers had the place virtually to themselves.

Isabelle pulled up an armchair and waited until Olivier had brought her chamomile tea, with honey, and put a plate of fresh baked brownies on the table. Once he’d withdrawn, she placed copies of the photograph in front of each of them.

“This was found in the search of Debbie’s home. Locked in her desk drawer.”

There were Debbie and Abigail, young teenagers. Side by side. As though attached at the hip. On the other side of Abigail was her father. But the center of the photograph, the center of attention, was the little girl in her wheelchair.

This was the first time they’d seen Maria.

She was eight, maybe nine years old. Thin. Her arms bent and rigid, her hands and fingers twisted, as was her mouth. But there was no denying the pleasure, the gaiety, in her expression. In her bright brown eyes. Nor was there any mistaking the intelligence.

Whatever had caused her physical disabilities had clearly not affected her mind.

Here was a happy, inquisitive girl.

Armand moved his gaze over to Paul Robinson, whose expression was calm, his smile relaxed. A father enjoying a day out with the family.

One hand was resting on Maria’s chair, and the other was on Abigail’s shoulder.

Abigail’s left hand was on Maria’s shoulder in a sisterly, protective gesture.

Debbie was looking at Abigail, her hands holding Abigail’s arm. Both girls were laughing. One of them had just said or done something funny.

It looked like any one of a hundred pictures each of them had of their own families. It was both heartwarming and disturbing, given what would soon happen.

“Is it dated?” Beauvoir asked.

“I don’t know,” said Isabelle. “I’ve asked the Nanaimo detective to see if anything’s written on the back.”

“You say this was locked in Debbie’s desk?” said Gamache.

“Oui.”

The victim, Armand realized, had gone from “Madame Schneider,” to “Debbie Schneider,” and now “Debbie.” It was a sort of watershed, as they got to know her better and better. A relationship had developed with the dead woman that was far more intimate than they’d ever have had with a live Debbie Schneider.

“What else was in the drawer?”

Isabelle brought out her phone and read from the inventory. “Staples. Two ink cartridges for a printer. An agenda. A ruler. Some birthday cards and a box of paper clips.”

“Birthday cards?” asked Beauvoir. “Why keep those locked away?”

“Why lock away any of it?” asked Isabelle.

“Were there other pictures of Maria in the house?” Gamache asked.

“No. Ones of Abigail, and of Debbie’s family, but none of Maria.”

Just then her phone beeped with a text. “It’s from Nanaimo.” After reading it, she said, “The birthday cards are from Debbie to Abigail.”

“Unsent,” said Gamache. “And the picture?”

“No date, but someone wrote, The last one. It doesn’t seem to be in Debbie’s handwriting, judging by the writing on the cards. He sent a photograph of one of the cards.”

She showed it to them.

Dear Abby. Happy seventeenth. Love, Debbie.

A heart had been drawn over the i in “Debbie.”

“Doesn’t say much,” said Jean-Guy.

“The handwriting doesn’t match,” agreed Gamache, comparing the card with the back of the photograph. “We must have examples of Abigail’s writing somewhere.”

Beauvoir found a sample and they compared. It didn’t match her writing either.

“So who wrote, The last one?” asked Jean-Guy. “The father?”

“Must be.” Isabelle clicked her phone off. “But why would he give that picture to Debbie? And why did she lock it away?”

All three looked down at the photograph of the happy family. The last one.

“I have a picture to show you,” said Jean-Guy. He produced the one of Paul Robinson at the conference.

Isabelle studied it. “The conference ends the day Maria died.” She looked up at her colleagues. “He doesn’t look like he’s about to—”

“No, he doesn’t,” said Gamache. “Now here’s a question, Isabelle. If Paul Robinson didn’t kill Maria—”

“Then who did?”

“Any theories?” Gamache asked.

“Hello, numbnuts.”

Beauvoir almost jumped out of his skin. He’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t seen Ruth coming, and had not crossed his legs.

She grinned at him before turning to Armand. “I was just at your home.”

Ruth went to sit down, but a look from Armand stopped her.

“You’ll have to show me how you do that,” Jean-Guy muttered.

“I wanted to see Reine-Marie, but apparently she’s returning the last box to the Horton family. Took the crazy lady with her.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” said Jean-Guy.

“If you see her, can you let her know I was asking for her? I wanted to talk to her before she spoke to Enid’s kids.”

“Why?” asked Armand. “Is there something she needs to know?”

“No. It’s more a matter of not needing to know.”

She turned and left. Through the window, Armand could see the elderly poet trudge slowly up the snowy road, her head down, bent forward. Rosa tucked protectively inside her coat.

She walked past her home and up to the white clapboard church on the side of the hill. St. Thomas’s. Named after Doubting Thomas. The skeptic who needed proof before he’d believe in the miracle of the resurrection.

Armand returned his gaze to Jean-Guy and Isabelle. He was no skeptic. But then he had help. He saw proof of resurrection every day.

“Any thoughts?” he repeated to Isabelle.

“Okay. If Paul Robinson didn’t kill Maria, that leaves two others. Abigail or Debbie. Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Not thinking, exactly,” said Beauvoir. “More like feeling.”

He leaned forward. Isabelle assumed it was to take one of the still-warm brownies, but instead he picked up the picture she’d brought, and stared at it. Then at her.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Honestly? I think it’s taking us off base and away from the crime right in front of us. The murder of Debbie Schneider.”

“You don’t think the two are connected?” Beauvoir asked.

“I don’t see how. They’re decades apart. We don’t even know for sure that Maria was murdered. There’s one word in an autopsy report done by a coroner who’s now dead.”

Gamache was nodding, his lower lip thrust out in thought. “Fair enough. And you’re probably right. But I think it’s worth a few minutes of our time to try to work out how this child died. Don’t you?”

He looked at her. The reproach mild, but clear.

“Oui,” she said. Chastened, but unconvinced.

“If not the father, then my money’s on Abigail,” said Beauvoir. “Especially given that she’s traveling the country arguing that anyone with severe disabilities is an unnecessary burden. She’s trying to justify what she did. Making it legal, even moral, in retrospect.”

“What’re you thinking, patron?” asked Lacoste.

He was looking at the photograph. His eyes narrow in concentration.

“How did that picture get into Debbie’s possession?”

“Maybe Paul Robinson made copies, so each of them could have one,” said Isabelle.

“Maybe,” said Gamache. “Then why hide it away? I’m not so sure it was Abigail who killed Maria. You can see the affection she has for her sister. In fact, this looks like three members of a close-knit family”—he hovered his finger over Abigail, Maria, and their father—“and one outlier. Someone who didn’t quite belong.”

His finger stopped, pointing directly at Debbie Schneider.

“What’re you saying?” asked Isabelle. “That Debbie did it?”

“Why would she?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Jealousy maybe. Look at her hands. She’s not just holding Abigail’s arm, she’s gripping it. As though trying to drag her away. Everyone else is looking at Maria, but Debbie is focused on Abigail.”

“And then there are the birthday cards, also locked in the desk,” said Jean-Guy. “That’s pretty strange. Remember they said they’d drifted apart at one stage? Maybe it was more than a drift. Maybe Abigail also suspected and broke off the friendship. And it was during that time that Debbie wrote the cards, but didn’t send them.”

“But if Abigail did suspect that her friend killed her sister, would she ever reconcile?” asked Isabelle. “And why would Paul Robinson tell the coroner that he’d given Maria the peanut butter sandwich when it wasn’t true? He sure wouldn’t cover up for Debbie.”

“No,” agreed Gamache. “But he might for someone else.”

Isabelle stopped. “Abigail? He thought Abigail had done it? So he took the blame.”

Gamache inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “It’s possible he came home, found Maria dead, and realized one of the two girls must have done it. Maybe he even suspected Debbie, but he couldn’t take the chance.”

“But the coroner must’ve known, or suspected. The police must’ve been called,” said Isabelle.

“And found what?” said Gamache. “A severely disabled child who’d died and a distraught father explaining about a sandwich.”

“But wouldn’t they ask questions?” Beauvoir asked.

“Have you ever heard of the Shipman murders in England?” Gamache asked.

They shook their heads.

“Look it up. I was at a reunion in Cambridge when the arrest was finally made. He was a doctor convicted of killing fifteen of his patients.”

“Fifteen?” said Jean-Guy. “Fifteen?”

“It gets worse. A subsequent inquiry found he almost certainly killed more than two hundred. All his patients.”

They stared at him. From anyone else, they wouldn’t have believed it.

“Didn’t anyone suspect?” asked Isabelle.

“Yes, there was even an investigation. But he was a doctor, a respected member of the community, his explanations for the deaths were reasonable. The junior investigators assigned to the case didn’t take the allegations seriously. And do you know why?”

“Because he was a doctor?” asked Isabelle.

“Partly that, but there was another reason. The vast majority of those who died were elderly.” He let that sit there. “Close to death anyway, it was felt. It wasn’t worth the effort to investigate. And before we get all high and mighty, let’s remember what happened here not long ago in the pandemic. Let’s remember what happens when a street worker, a gay or transsexual man or woman, a Black man or woman, an indigenous man or woman or child is killed. There’s hardly a great outpouring of attention or resources. Or grief.”

As he spoke, they could hear the outrage simmering just below the surface. Gamache, as head of homicide and, for a time, head of the entire Sûreté, had worked to change all that. But it was the work of a lifetime.

“So, you’re saying when they saw a badly disabled child, and were given a story by a prominent member of the community, they chose to believe it?” asked Jean-Guy.

“It’s possible,” said Gamache. “Especially if they had sympathy for him and could see no benefit to digging deeper. Yes. I can see it happening.”

“But Paul Robinson had his doubts,” said Isabelle. “His suspicions. He was covering up for Abby, but he actually suspected Debbie, is that what you’re thinking?”

“It’s one way that picture got into Debbie’s possession,” said Beauvoir. “He might have sent it to her as a warning. An accusation.”

“Could be,” said Gamache. “But if so, why would she keep it? And for so long?”

They stared at each other. There seemed no answer and yet, obviously, there was one.

“And why would Debbie have killed Maria?” asked Isabelle, breaking the silence.

“Jealousy?” said Beauvoir. “Maria was taking up too much of Abigail’s time and attention.”

Isabelle could see that he might have a point. Fifteen-year-old girls weren’t famous for having the best grasp on their emotions, and jealousy was an especially toxic one.

They turned to Gamache, whose eyes had narrowed. What he was thinking, what he was feeling, went against all his beliefs.

“I think it’s possible Debbie did it out of love, not jealousy. Not hate.”

“Love?” said Beauvoir. “Of Maria? To free her?”

“No. Love of Abigail. To free her.”

Armand Gamache believed with all his soul that love could never, ever kill. Not real love. A counterfeit one, something that masqueraded as love, yes. But real love? Never.

Was he wrong? he asked himself. Could love murder? Could it put a pillow over a helpless child’s face?

This was the second time in two days it had been justified as a motive.

Haniya Daoud had killed, in cold blood, apparently out of love. Out of a mother’s driving need to protect and free her “children.”

And now Debbie might have killed Maria, out of love. To free Abigail.

And Armand Gamache was forced to finally see something he didn’t want to. That the only thing that could possibly drive him to murder wasn’t hate.

It was love. For his family.

So why not Haniya?

Why not—he looked down at the photograph—Debbie? If she thought that Maria threatened Abigail’s life. Not her physical life, but her intellectual, her emotional life.

Then he noticed something else. “What’s the photograph sitting on?”

Isabelle bent closer. “Looks like the agenda that the inventory mentioned. It must be Debbie’s.”

“No. She had her agenda on her phone,” said Beauvoir. “Why would she need another one? Especially a book. That’s pretty old school.”

He gave a sly glance at Gamache, who still used a handwritten agenda. He had reminders on his phone, but kept his daily appointments in a book.

Isabelle smiled, recalling the last time Beauvoir had teased the Chief about his ring-binder agenda. They’d been in a meeting at Sûreté headquarters, not long after the lockdown lifted but before the vaccine. They were sitting six feet apart and were masked.

“Less likely to be hacked,” Gamache had said, laying a hand on the open book on his desk.

“Thank God,” said Beauvoir. “Because your dentist appointment is of national interest.”

“Maybe not the dentist, but the barber?” Gamache said. “What the Russians wouldn’t do…”

“Your hair did look a little Soviet era, during the lockdown.”

“Ohhh, Einstein,” Isabelle had said to Jean-Guy. “Are you sure you want to bring up the subject of Covid hair?”

She herself had been shocked by the amount of gray that had come in. At thirty-three she felt she was still far too young. But a bullet in the head left more than a scar.

“Why would Debbie have two agendas?” said Gamache. “And why not bring it with her? Why leave it behind, locked in a drawer?”

“Are you saying she had a hidden agenda?” asked Isabelle, proud of the double entendre.

While the men groaned, she called Nanaimo with yet another request. After verbally prostrating herself, she hung up. Grimacing.

“He’ll go back down to shipping and find the agenda. He says the box might’ve left already.” She put her phone down on the table and focused on the Chief. “Even if Debbie did kill Maria, which can never be proven now, where does this lead us?”

“It leads us,” said Jean-Guy, “to Debbie Schneider being the intended victim all along, and Abigail Robinson the murderer.”

“How do you figure that?” asked Isabelle.

“Revenge. Abigail finally realized what Debbie had done.”

Isabelle stared at him. “Really? Forty years later? And even if that’s true, why murder her at a party? Abigail could hardly have chosen a worse place. I think we’ve gotten way off track. We need to go back to our first, most likely suspect, victim, and motive. Vincent Gilbert killed Debbie mistaking her for Abigail Robinson. He had any number of motives.” She lifted a finger as she counted them off. “He despised her campaign. He realized she knew about his work with Ewen Cameron and was blackmailing him. He was making up for failures of the past. Any one of those would be enough.”

Gamache was nodding, deep in thought, then he came to a decision. “The fact is, we don’t know. So we follow all lines of inquiry. D’accord?”

“D’accord,” said Jean-Guy.

Gamache looked at Lacoste.

“D’accord, patron.”

“Bon.” He got up and they followed suit.

“Back to the Incident Room?” asked Jean-Guy.

“You go ahead,” said Armand. “I have a stop to make first.”

At the door, Jean-Guy suddenly turned around and returned to their table.

“The brownies?” Isabelle asked as they left the bistro. Her nose never lied.

They walked together as far as St. Thomas’s.

While they climbed the hill, he climbed the steps and turned around. From there he could survey the village.

When he’d first visited Three Pines, he’d had the impression the four roads radiating off the village green formed a sort of sundial. Which had struck him as ironic. To have a huge timepiece in a place that was so clearly timeless. But soon he’d realized the roads were a compass. Each one corresponding exactly to north, south, east, and west.

With Three Pines in the center.

And again, the irony was not lost on him. A compass for a village not on any map. Only found by those who were lost. But then maybe it wasn’t ironic.

He stood there and considered what might have led to the murder of Debbie Schneider. Could love really have been at the heart of it, the start of it?

If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, he thought, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.

Was he looking for someone who was nothing? A shell? Or was he looking for someone whose love was so great it had moved them to murder. Could love really do that?

“Close the fucking door” came the shout from the body of the chapel, followed by a muttered “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Armand was pretty sure it wasn’t the voice of God. At least he hoped not. Though he suspected God might want to, at times, scream at them.

He did as he was told.

Ruth was in her usual pew, bathed in the bright reds, blues, and greens of the three stained-glass boys. Brothers. Marching forever into a battle from which they would never return.

Armand crossed himself, by habit, even though this was not a Catholic church. And he no longer considered himself Catholic. Or Protestant. Or Jewish. Or Muslim.

He was, in the words of Abu Ben Adhem, one who loves his fellow man. Though the duck, he had to admit, took some effort.

“Sit in the last pew,” Ruth said, at least her tenth command of the day. “The one to the left of the door.”

Again, Chief Inspector Gamache did as he was told. It took him a few minutes, but he finally found out why he was there. A small figure was etched into the wood on the back of the pew, hidden by a Book of Common Prayer.

He got up and joined Ruth.

“What do you know about the monkeys?”

Ruth’s face was in profile as she stared ahead. And stroked Rosa.

“I know they weren’t drawn by a crazy woman. Enid came here most afternoons. So did I. She was here when I arrived, and here when I left. We never spoke, barely acknowledged each other. Not because we didn’t like each other, but we’d both come here for peace. One day I heard scratching. Now, as you know, it’s not in my nature to be critical, but I just thought I’d point out that this is God’s damned house and she should fucking stop desecrating it.”

“Amen,” said Armand, and saw her smile.

“If you can believe it,” said Ruth, turning to him, “she took offense, and left. So I looked at what she’d done.”

“The monkey.”

“No, the stained-glass window. Of course the monkey, Clouseau. When I saw her next, I asked her what that was about.”

“And?”

“And it took her seven years to tell me. We sat in silence all that time. Every day. She in her pew, me in mine. She didn’t draw any more monkeys, but she seemed to get some sort of comfort from that one. Then one day she just blurted it out.”

“What did she say?”

“That she’d been a patient of Ewen Cameron.” Ruth studied him. “I already told you that.”

“But you didn’t tell me about the monkeys.”

“No. Reine-Marie found something in those boxes, didn’t she. I thought she might.”

He nodded but didn’t tell her about the letter from Vincent Gilbert.

“Ruth,” he asked softly. “What do you know about Ewen Cameron?”

She took a deep breath. But didn’t break eye contact. They could have been there for ten seconds or ten minutes, or a lifetime, before she spoke.

“My mother took me to him. To fix me. She thought that I was broken.” She tried to smile but could not. “She wanted to leave me there, but he didn’t have any beds. By the time one had freed up, I’d changed.”

“Changed?”

“I’d learned what she wanted me to be. I learned to pretend. So I wouldn’t be sent to that place. I learned what it would take for my mother to love me. But—” Ruth raised her hands, then dropped them back. One to her lap, the other to rest gently, protectively, on Rosa. “That was a long time ago.”

“My mother isn’t finished with me yet,” he said and saw her smile. Just a little.

“Probably true.”

Armand glanced at the demon duck and knew that, if and when the time came and Rosa was in distress, Ruth would do what was necessary. So great was her love.

“Enid wasn’t so lucky,” Ruth continued. “She was a young mother and was having trouble sleeping. She’d begun having anxiety attacks. So she went to Cameron for help. She came home…” Ruth looked around. “She found peace here. At least for a little while each day.”

“And the monkeys? Did she ever explain them?”

“She said when she was in the Allan she could hear them. She knew she wasn’t alone. It was comforting.”

“And she never told anyone?” he asked.

“Not as far as I know. Just me. When she died and her house was sold, I was worried that her kids would find something among her things. And it would be upsetting.”

“That’s why you suggested that Reine-Marie help to sort through things. So if there was anything to find, she’d get there first.”

“Yes. Imagine finding out that your mother had been tortured. If Enid had wanted them to know, she’d have told them herself. Explained. Answered their questions. But now…”

Now, thought Armand, there were no answers. How do you explain a Ewen Cameron? A Harold Shipman? How do you explain what happened to Haniya Daoud? How do you begin to explain brown brown?

Not just that it could happen, but that so many could know about it and do nothing.

What are you doing out there, Ralph?

“Why did you want to speak to Reine-Marie?”

“I wanted to say that the truth doesn’t set everyone free. For some it becomes a burden. A stinking albatross. I wanted to ask Reine-Marie if it was necessary to tell them.”

Armand stood up and, reaching into his parka pocket, he brought out a linen napkin.

“From Jean-Guy.”

Then he bent down and kissed her cheek.

Reine-Marie looked down at the box. Full of things collected over a lifetime. Including one small slip of paper. On Allan Memorial letterhead. Explaining everything.

She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Haniya said, “Can I ask you a question?”

When Susan and James nodded, she said, “Was she a good mother?”

The question took them by surprise. Susan said, “Of course.” But it took James longer to answer.

“Yes. She could be impatient, sometimes a little unpredictable. But she was great.”

“Did you know that you were loved?”

“Why are you asking this?” asked James. “Why’re you even here?”

“I—”

“I asked her along,” said Reine-Marie.

“Why?” said Susan. “Is there a problem?”

Reine-Marie started to answer, but Haniya gave her a shove and she almost fell off the packing box.

“I remember my mother,” said Haniya. “But not well. I remember her trying to protect me when the soldiers came. I was eight. I tried to find her years later, but the village was gone.”

She paused then and thought of the other village. The one covered in snow, in the valley. Frozen, it seemed, in time.

“I think she was killed,” Haniya whispered. She spoke directly to Enid Horton’s children. “Protecting me. I imagine your mother protected you too. In her way.”

“She tried, yes,” said James. He turned to his sister. “Remember when the smoke alarm would go off?”

Susan laughed. “She wasn’t a very good cook and it went off at least once a week. She’d come running into the living room where I was watching TV and shove me outside.”

James laughed. “I remember.”

“‘Get out! Get out!’” they both screamed, clearly imitating a hysterical woman.

“She went back in.” Susan looked at her brother. “I hadn’t thought about that, until now. She thought the house was on fire, but she went back in. For you.”

James looked stricken. “That’s true. We thought it was funny. We teased her about that relentlessly.”

“She loved you,” said Haniya.

“But the monkeys?” asked Susan.

They looked at Reine-Marie. Who knew the answer. Knew their mother had been tortured. Had been kept awake for days on end, listening to the shrieks of monkeys. Maybe even seen the panic in their wide, knowing eyes.

Now was the time to tell her children.

“Your mother loved you. That’s what’s in the box,” she said.

She laid a hand on the top of the container, as though to say goodbye. Then, reaching out, she helped Haniya up.