The Madness of Crowds

CHAPTER 44

It was just before six when she opened the door. She was in her housecoat, and while surprised to see them, Chancellor Roberge did not look shocked.

After she took them into the now familiar kitchen, and offered coffee, they sat at the table.

Without prelude, Armand said, “Paul Robinson trusted you with the truth, and now we need to hear it.”

“No. What Paul trusted me with, Armand, was Abigail. He loved her. He loved both his daughters more than life itself. That’s the only truth you need to know.”

“If he loved her so much, why would he tell you to show her his suicide note?” asked Isabelle. “Why would he hurt her like that?”

The Chancellor crossed one arm over her lap and rested her other elbow on it, bringing her hand to her mouth. She could not have been more armored if she’d been wearing chain mail.

Gamache could see Isabelle’s frustration, shared by Beauvoir. Shared by himself. But he also felt a frisson of elation.

This was the question.

Why would Paul Robinson write such a letter, then ask Colette to show it to his daughter? What was he trying to tell her? What was that precise man, that loving father, trying to say?

Why couldn’t he make this last connection? What couldn’t he see?

“Tell us again about that weekend in the Cotswolds,” Gamache said. “When you showed Abigail and Debbie the letter.”

Though still guarded, the Chancellor relaxed, slightly. “I remember it was Saturday afternoon. Dreary. We’d been on a long walk and stopped for lunch at a pub. Sat in front of the inglenook and had a ploughman’s.”

Though not a lot of that sentence made sense to Beauvoir, he followed the gist. “You remember that much detail?”

Colette turned to him. “I couldn’t tell you what I had for lunch the day before, or after. I remember because I knew what I was about to do. I had the letter on me, and as we sat with our pints, chatting, it seemed the perfect time to show Abigail. Everyone was relaxed. Comfortable. I actually had it in my hand, then put it back in my pocket. It was too public. By the time we left it was drizzling. One of those cold, damp English days.”

Armand remembered them well, and with fondness, from his time at Cambridge. Sitting in the pub by the fire with a pint, studying, as a heavy mist settled outside.

“When we got home, I made tea and took the tray into the living room. Jean-Paul was laying the fire while the girls got into warm, dry clothes. I knew it was time.”

She paused. Reliving that moment. What she was about to do.

Armand knew what it felt like. He again had the sense of standing in front of the closed door. Two inches of wood between the family inside and catastrophe.

He saw his hand lift. Made into a fist. Ready to rap on the door and change a life, end a life. He’d look into those mild, inquiring eyes. I’m sorry, but I have news about your daughter. Son. Husband. Wife. Mother.

Father.

“I brought out the letter,” said Colette, “and gave it to her.”

“What was her reaction when she read it?” asked Jean-Guy.

“I watched her face, of course,” said Colette. “I could see exactly where she was in the letter. When she came to the part about him killing Maria, she crumpled it in her lap and made a noise. Sort of deflated.”

“Did she say anything?” asked Jean-Guy, quietly.

“She whispered, ‘Oh, God. Daddy. You did that?’” Colette shook her head. “I’ve asked myself a thousand times if I did the right thing, in showing her. It seemed…” She searched for the word.

Cruel? thought Jean-Guy.

Unkind? thought Isabelle.

“Unnecessary?” suggested Armand when Colette seemed stuck.

She looked at him. “Yes. That was it. I couldn’t understand why he’d want or need her to know. But he did. And it wasn’t for me to question. I was like the executor of his will, with a small w. Paul had his reasons, and he knew his daughter better than I did.”

“And Debbie?” Armand asked. “Jean-Paul said she reacted even more strongly when she read it.”

“Yes.” Then her brow creased in an effort to recall. “But she never actually read the letter.”

“Pardon?”

“She reached for it, but Abigail did this.” Colette mimed turning away and clutching something to her chest, protectively.

“So how did she know what was in it?” Isabelle asked.

“Abigail told her.”

“Read it to her, you mean?” asked Armand. It was important, vital at this stage, to be precise.

“No. She described the letter.”

“Accurately?” asked Isabelle.

“Oui. Debbie started to cry. Abigail didn’t. At least, not that I saw. I think she was just too shocked.”

“Did you and Abigail have a chance to talk about the letter privately?” asked Armand.

“Yes. I told her that her father loved both his daughters. And that it was his choice, his decision. And not her responsibility.”

“And you kept the letter,” said Armand.

“I asked Abby if she wanted it, but she didn’t. So yes, I’ve had it all this time.”

“And as far as you know, Debbie never actually read it?”

“That’s right. Why?”

“Paul Robinson made a copy of it. I’m wondering where it went.”

Now Colette smiled and nodded. “Yes, I can see him doing that. I’d do that.”

“I imagine you’d also be clearer, Colette.”

Her smile flattened and she stared at him, then at the other two. “You noticed that, did you?”

“You did too?”

“Not at first, but I read it again a few years later, and it struck me that he never really came right out and said he’d killed Maria. It’s near impossible to read it and not come to that conclusion. And yet…”

“Why didn’t he just say it?” Armand asked.

He thought back to the notes he’d written before heading into an action he was leading. One he knew could go very badly. The scribbled words of love. And then sliding his wedding ring off and sealing it in the envelope, to be left in his desk drawer.

In case.

There was no ambiguity about those few words. And neither should there have been about Paul Robinson’s. He’d had, after all, time to consider. Years in fact. To choose each word.

Armand Gamache had no doubt that Robinson had indeed killed himself. And he had absolutely no doubt Robinson had written the suicide note. But what was he saying?

And to whom?

Colette Roberge? Abigail?

“What was he trying to say, Colette? I think you know.”

“All I know for sure, as I said before, is that Paul Robinson loved his children. Everything he did, he did for them.”

“Including killing himself?” asked Jean-Guy. “How could that be for his one remaining child? To be left alone, and then told everything that happened was partly her fault?”

Colette shrugged. Not dismissively, but to show she had no answer.

“How does Debbie Schneider figure into this?” asked Armand. When Colette said nothing, he pressed. “Did Paul Robinson kill Maria?”

“He says he did.”

“No, he doesn’t,” said Armand. “We’ve just been through this. As a precise man, he is shockingly, glaringly imprecise in his final letter. And yet I think his message is clear. To someone.”

“Well, when you figure it out, Armand, you let me know.”

“I’ll let that go, Madame Chancellor, because I know you’re not used to your work having real-world consequences. But ours does. A little girl was killed decades ago, and then days ago a grown woman was murdered. The two are connected, and I think you know how.”

“Are you sure you haven’t stumbled into a spurious correlation?”

He leaned forward. “Why was Paul Robinson eternally grateful to you? What were you doing for him? Keeping his secret? Protecting his daughter? Are you still protecting her?”

The color rose up Colette’s neck and into her cheeks. “I need to make sure Jean-Paul’s all right.”

She got to her feet.

Gamache also rose. “You saw the vague wording of the letter and knew it wasn’t really a confession. He couldn’t possibly put a pillow over his daughter’s face. But someone else could. Someone else had. And he thought he knew who.”

“What I know is that Paul Robinson loved his children.”

“More than life itself.”

“Yes.”

Gamache considered the calm, serious woman in front of him, and weighed his options, considered the consequences. And made his choice.

“When Paul Robinson returned home from that conference, he found Maria already dead, isn’t that right? And all his subsequent energies, including that letter, went into covering up what happened.”

“And that was?” But they could see that she knew. Or suspected.

“That Paul Robinson believed his other daughter had done it.”

Colette Roberge gave a single whoop of laughter. “You’re kidding. That’s nonsense. Abigail loved Maria.”

“Yes. I agree. I’m not saying he was right.”

“What are you saying?”

“He could see that Maria had not died naturally. Suppose in his shock he leaped to the worst possible conclusion, and had to act on it. In case it was true.”

He knew he’d hit the open wound that Colette Roberge had gauzed over for decades. But that had continued to weep, to seep, until it became septic.

“The coroner at the time noted petechiae on Maria’s face. Tiny—”

“I know what that is, Armand.”

“Then you know what they indicate. I think the coroner might have suspected. But there was the overwhelming evidence of the sandwich lodged in the girl’s throat.”

“Wait.” Colette put up her hand to stop him. “You said suppose Paul got home, found Maria dead, and assumed Abby had done it. But you also said suppose he was wrong. So if not Paul, and not Abby…”

Her voice trailed away, and her eyes drifted out the window to the acres of snow, just beginning to catch the first light.

Then she turned back and searched Gamache’s face. And found a disconcerting quietude. A patient man waiting. His hand holding a worn thread.

“Debbie?” she asked.

She began to nod. Began to see.

“Debbie was so devoted to Abigail. She could see that Maria would always hold her back. But no. I think if she did such a thing, it would be far more personal. They were fifteen. It’s a difficult age. She had complex, maybe even confusing feelings for her best friend…” She looked at Armand. “Jealousy. She was devoted to Abby, but Abby was devoted to Maria.”

“Perhaps.”

“Is that why Paul sent not just the letter, but the book? Extraordinary Popular Delusions. Was he telling me that what he’d written was a lie? That he hadn’t killed Maria? He thought Abby had done it in a moment of madness, and he wanted me to protect her.” She hesitated, working her way through this. “But you’re saying he got it wrong? It was Debbie? But there’s no evidence, is there? Why would you think Debbie killed Maria?”

“Because she’s dead.”

“And you think Abby found out what happened and killed her?”

The sun was just up now, the sky a soft morning blue behind Chancellor Roberge. Armand stepped toward her and shook his head.

“Me?” she said, in astonishment. “Why would I do that?”

“So that Abigail wouldn’t have to. I think you’re still working to earn that eternal gratitude.” He paused. “Go check on Jean-Paul, then get dressed and call someone to be with him. You’re going to have to come with us.”

“Are you arresting me?” she asked, half laughing.

“Not yet.”

Like Paul Robinson before him, he’d chosen his words carefully. To be both clear, and ambiguous.