The Madness of Crowds

CHAPTER 46

Beauvoir brought out his gun.

“Non,” commanded Gamache.

Beauvoir didn’t lower the weapon. Holding it steady in both hands, he kept it on Abigail. Prepared to fire. Longing to fire.

Come on, come on. One little movement, please. Come on.

“There’s something you don’t know,” Gamache said to Abigail. His arms were out, trying to restore calm.

She was breathing heavily, the muzzle of the rifle lifting and falling with each breath. But she was so close to Vincent Gilbert she couldn’t miss. It was just a question of inhale or exhale. Chest or head.

“Your father made a copy of his suicide note.”

“So? You found the original at Colette’s.” She kept her eyes on Gilbert. “You’ve read it.”

“But Debbie hadn’t. I don’t think you wanted her to.”

Now Abigail’s eyes darted to Gamache. “Yes, she did. At the cottage, when Colette gave it to me.”

“You read it, Abby,” said Colette, taking a small step forward. “And you told Debbie what was in it, but she never actually read it.”

“How could it matter? What more was there?”

“A great deal more,” said Gamache, his voice calm. Calming. “I think she found the copy of the letter among your father’s things when she was helping you clear them out. It was probably in his agenda along with this.” He nodded to Lacoste, who placed the old photograph on the table, then backed away.

Abigail glanced at it. “How can any of this matter? Gilbert killed Debbie to get back the letter that he wrote Dad. He did it to protect himself. This has nothing to do with what Dad did. With what happened to Maria.”

“It has everything to do with it,” said Gamache. “When Debbie read the suicide note your father left, she realized it wasn’t quite the same as you’d said. Inspector Lacoste saw it too. She pointed out that Paul Robinson never actually confesses to killing Maria.”

“He does,” said Abigail. “He says it. He did it for me. So I wouldn’t have to look after Maria for the rest of my life. So that I could go away to university, do my research. He did it for her too. To free her too. And then he killed himself, to free himself of the guilt. And yes, whether he meant to or not, he put that guilt on me. Do you know what that did to me?”

“It made you write a report on the pandemic that suggested euthanizing the frail and vulnerable,” said Gamache. “It made what happened to your sister no longer murder, but a mercy killing.”

“That’s a lie.” Her voice rose higher, strained, her breathing heavier now, more rapid.

Chest, head. Chest, head.

If Gamache had come to the cabin looking for emotion, he’d found it.

“But suppose your father didn’t kill Maria,” he said.

“What do you mean?” asked Abigail.

“Why would he confess to a murder, to killing his own daughter, for God’s sake,” said Haniya, “if it wasn’t true?”

“Ahhhh,” said Gamache. “And that’s where we come to it. You might be here for your own reasons, but that’s why we’re here. To answer that question.”

“Answer it if you want, if you can. But it’s too late,” said Abigail. “Too much damage done. The only truth that matters is that he”—she shoved the rifle toward Gilbert—“helped Cameron kill my mother, my sister, my father. And now he’s killed Debbie. It stops here. Now. Nothing else matters.”

She hiked the rifle up.

Gilbert took a step back and stumbled on the chair behind him, while Beauvoir warned Abigail. “Don’t!”

“Your father’s letter wasn’t written out of guilt,” said Gamache, taking a small step forward. His voice was soft, almost mesmerizing. “It was love.”

He could see her hesitating.

“It was love,” Gamache repeated, his voice dropping, forcing her to listen. “He didn’t kill Maria. The letter was to you, always to you. He didn’t want you to be alone, to be afraid, when you read it. That’s why he sent it to someone he knew he could trust. With his life and with yours.”

Gamache glanced at Colette, who gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

“When your father got home from the conference that day,” he continued, “Maria was already dead, wasn’t she? He could see she’d been smothered. He knew it could only have been you or Debbie. I think he had to assume the worst.”

“The worst?” asked Haniya. She looked at Abigail. “You? You killed your sister?”

Colette shook her head. “No, she didn’t. But Paul had to assume she had, in case it was true. So he covered it up. And took the blame.”

Jean-Guy tried to keep his focus on Abigail. Tried to erase an image that would never completely go away. Of Paul Robinson hurriedly making the peanut butter sandwich, while one daughter called for help and the other lay dead. And then, picking up the sandwich, he …

“No,” said Abigail, adamant. “My father would never think that of me. He’d know I couldn’t do such a thing. I loved my sister.”

And yet, Gamache considered, Paul Robinson had thought exactly that.

“Your father lost his mind,” said Colette. “He was overcome with a sort of fugue, a temporary insanity. All he could think of was protecting you.”

“But I didn’t—”

Once again Gamache held up his hand. “He was a careful man. He’d close all holes, make absolutely sure there could never be any doubt. He wrote that letter, then took his life as his final act of love, to make absolutely sure you’d never be accused of the crime. But his confession was worded in such a strange way.”

He brought the letter out of his breast pocket. It was warm from sitting against his rapidly beating heart.

“He writes”—Gamache found the place—“It wasn’t deliberate. I know that.” He looked up. “He’s writing to you. To tell you that he knows you didn’t really mean to do it. He wants you to know that he forgives you, and that you’re free now, to live your life. To continue your studies at Oxford. To fulfill your potential. He wanted you to know that you’re safe.”

“That’s why he sent it to me,” said Colette. “He wanted me to know the truth. And to watch over you. To carry on his work of protecting you. I did it from far away, but I was always there. Always watching.”

“That was his eternal gratitude,” said Beauvoir.

“Yes.”

“No, that’s not the truth, I didn’t kill Maria,” said Abigail, exasperated. “And how can this have anything to do with what happened to Debbie?”

“That was the question,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “If your father didn’t kill Maria, and you didn’t, then who did?”

A silence descended on the cabin, broken only by the shrieking birds outside.

“Debbie?” suggested Gilbert, tentatively. “She did it?”

“Debbie?” demanded Abigail. “Why would she hurt Maria?”

The rifle was getting heavy, the tip dipping, then lifting.

Chest, abdomen. Chest, abdomen.

“Jealousy,” said Lacoste. “That picture says it all.” She nodded toward the photograph on the table. “Debbie locked it away in her desk because she didn’t want to see it. She didn’t want to see the little girl she’d killed, and she sure didn’t want to see how much you loved her. Look at it.” They did. “Look at Debbie’s expression. Look at how she’s tugging your arm. She’s practically ripping you away from your sister. You must’ve known.”

“I knew she was possessive, yes. That’s part of the reason I wanted to cool the friendship. She was smothering me.”

If Abigail realized the word she’d just used, she didn’t show it.

“There’s another reason Debbie might’ve killed Maria,” said Gamache. “The same one your father wrote in his letter. To free you of a burden.”

“No, Maria was never a burden.”

“I’m telling you what Debbie might have thought. Is that what she told you, when she confessed?” he asked. “That she did it for love?”

“Confessed? What’re you saying?”

“What are you saying, Armand?” demanded Colette.

“You know what I’m saying.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off Abigail. “She confessed, and you killed her.”

“No!”

“Yes.” His voice was grave. Sad. There was no triumph.

“Armand.” Colette reached for him, but Lacoste stepped between them.

“When Debbie found and finally read your father’s suicide note,” said Gamache, taking another step forward. He saw Abigail grip the rifle, steady the rifle. He saw, in his peripheral vision, Beauvoir brace himself, to take the shot. “She realized your father blamed you for what happened. She decided to tell you the truth.”

“No!”

“That night, New Year’s Eve.” He had her full attention now. “When Colette left Debbie and returned to the Inn, you went out to look for her, to tell her you were leaving. You found her on the trail. She told you then. That your father hadn’t killed Maria, she had. I think she had both letters with her. The one from Gilbert to your father. The one you wanted to threaten Gilbert with. But she had another. The one from your father.”

“None of this happened,” snapped Abigail.

“Did she try to explain that it was done for love? Did she beg forgiveness?” Gamache studied her. “I don’t think so. I think she genuinely believed you’d be pleased. Grateful even. You might even thank her. Is that what pushed you over the edge? That there was no remorse? No recognition of what she’d done?”

“No! This’s absurd.”

And in a flash he saw she was right. He’d made another mistake. His mind had traveled too quickly and overlooked one vital detail.

The murder weapon.

The scenario he’d just described depended on Debbie confessing, and Abigail lashing out. But if so, how did she get a fireplace log in her hand? As Beauvoir said, no one was likely to have been walking around with one.

And no one had a chance to get one. Except …

He looked at Vincent Gilbert, who was staring at Abigail and gripping the poker.

Gamache’s mind rapidly backtracked. Going back over images. Statements. And then he had it.

“Your coat,” he said to Gilbert.

“What of it?”

“You had it on. You came outside during the fireworks and you were wearing your coat.”

“Yes. So?”

“How did you get it?”

“What’s this got to do with anything?” asked Haniya. “Did she kill her friend or not?”

But Gamache wasn’t listening. He was staring at Gilbert.

“I went up to my room, of course.”

“When?”

“Just before midnight.”

“But you told us you only left the library at midnight.”

“Well, I guess it was a couple of minutes before.”

“And you”—he turned to Colette—“say you got to the library just after midnight?”

“Yes. The fireworks were already going off.”

That was the window, the time when the murderer could get the weapon.

But that would mean …

Almost there.

“No,” Gamache said, taking another step forward. “I was wrong. When Debbie read your father’s letter, she saw it wasn’t a confession. She knew that your father hadn’t killed Maria. But she also knew that she hadn’t.” He stared at her. “That’s it, isn’t it.”

He’d finally stuck the landing. It took the rest of them an elongated moment to see it.

“You?” said Gilbert, staring at Abigail.

“That’s the answer to our question,” said Gamache. “Why your father would confess to a terrible crime, and one he didn’t commit. He didn’t believe it was you. He knew it was. He knew you. Where he was selfless, you were selfish. Where he was sincere, you were manipulative. Where he put family first, you put your ambitions first.”

“Far from the tree,” said Beauvoir.

Armand nodded. “You fell far from the tree. But he loved you and wanted to protect you. When Debbie found the copy of his suicide letter and finally read it for herself, she could see what he was really saying. When did she tell you that she knew? Was it before you even traveled to Québec? Did she promise your secret was safe with her?”

“My God,” said Abigail. She looked at the others. “Can’t you see what he’s doing? He wants me to be guilty.”

“Is that why Debbie kept repeating ‘Abby Maria’?” said Gamache, ignoring her outburst. He took another small step toward Abigail. On solid ground at last. “It was meant as reassurance. A sort of code between you. A secret you shared. But each time she said it, you heard a threat. A warning.”

“This’s bullshit. You’re setting me up.” She appealed to Colette. “He hates me because of my study. Can’t you see that?”

“When Debbie said that your father believed that the truth should come out, no matter how unpleasant, that must have really set off alarms,” Gamache continued. Unrelenting now. “Did panic set in?”

Abigail’s face hardened. She was, he could tell, steeling herself to act. And he thought he knew what it might be. He’d seen that expression before. From men and women standing on a bridge, high over a river. Just before …

Abigail’s breathing was steady now. Quiet.

“I don’t think you woke up that morning intending to kill Debbie.” Gamache’s voice was calm now, reassuring. “I don’t think you even went to the party with that in mind. But it was simmering. And then Debbie mentioned Abby Maria in front of Dr. Gilbert. It was a step too far. You knew then that you couldn’t trust her. Whether intentionally or not, Debbie would let out too many hints and eventually someone would start digging.”

“Armand,” warned Gilbert. He could see that she was about to snap.

But Gamache had to keep pushing. They had no real evidence. His theory fit the facts, but an even moderately competent defense lawyer would get her off. They needed a confession. He could see that while Jean-Guy had the gun in his hand, Isabelle had her phone out. Recording.

“You’re wrong, Armand,” said Colette. “Debbie killed Maria. I know because she told me on our walk.”

Gamache turned and looked at her. “Are you saying you then killed Debbie Schneider?”

“Yes.”

“Non.” He shook his head. “You didn’t. You’d never risk Jean-Paul’s future like that. What would become of him, if you were arrested? No.” He held her eyes. “You can stand down now. You’ve earned Paul Robinson’s eternal gratitude. He just didn’t realize what he was asking.”

He turned back to Abigail. “You killed her.”

“No.” But her voice held little conviction.

Putting up his hands, he said softly, “Abigail—”

And then she did what he had feared. She swung the rifle away from Gilbert. To Jean-Guy.

“No!” shouted Gamache.

Beauvoir braced himself and pulled the trigger. But not all the way. Almost. Almost. Another hair …

“Do it,” she shrieked. “Do it. Take the shot.”

And he wanted to. With every fiber. Now was his chance. It wouldn’t be murder, it would be self-defense. Everyone would see that. And then Idola would be safe. They’d all be safe.

“You want to,” shouted Abigail. “I knew it from the start. You hate me because you agree with me. Your daughter should’ve been aborted.”

“Abigail!” Colette made to move forward, but Gamache stopped her.

It was all Armand could do not to step between Jean-Guy and Abigail himself. But it was up to Beauvoir now. To resolve this. He held his breath, his eyes wide. His heart pounding.

“It’s me or your daughter,” Abigail screamed, and thrust the rifle forward.

Tears were streaming down Jean-Guy’s face and he made a sound like a mortally wounded animal.

“Shoot, you fucking coward!”

He lowered his gun and shook his head. Isabelle stepped forward and grabbed the end of the rifle, lifting it to the ceiling.

“Do it,” Abby begged, even as the rifle was twisted out of her grip and she slumped to the floor. “Please.”

“Abigail Robinson,” Jean-Guy began, “I’m arresting you—”

He could go no further. His knees began to buckle.

Armand grabbed him, holding him up. Holding Jean-Guy in his arms as he sobbed.