The Madness of Crowds

CHAPTER 3

The night before the event, when the children had been bathed and put to bed, when the home had fallen silent, Jean-Guy Beauvoir had joined his father-in-law in his study.

He’d actually been on his way to the kitchen for the last mince tart when he spotted the light under the study door.

Hesitating for just a moment, Jean-Guy made up his mind, and knocked.

“Entrez.”

Jean-Guy’s dark hair had some gray now, and a few lines had appeared on his handsome face. His complexion was rosy after a day in the bright sun and gusty wind. Though he’d made it clear he preferred “rugged” to “rosy.”

Now he looked down at the plate he was holding. A dollop of hard sauce was melting on top of the fragrant mince tart, which Jean-Guy had warmed in the microwave.

He swallowed some saliva, then put the plate down in front of his father-in-law.

“Here. Myrna dropped it over this afternoon when we were building the snow fort and you were napping.”

Jean-Guy smiled. He knew perfectly well his father-in-law had been out working. He’d offered to go along, but in this rare instance, Armand had said he should enjoy his vacation. And in this rare instance, Beauvoir had not insisted.

Jean-Guy and his family had moved back to Montréal from Paris, and he’d recently rejoined the Sûreté, sharing second-in-command duties with Isabelle Lacoste.

After the rigors, the horrors, of the pandemic, this Christmas vacation in Three Pines was a welcome respite. A relief.

Once home, the children had gotten into warm dry clothes and sat on the sofa with a hot chocolate while the dogs, Henri and old Fred, slept by the hearth along with little Gracie. Who might, or might not, be a dog. Or a ferret.

The smart money among the villagers was on the tiny creature being a chipmunk. Though Stephen Horowitz, Armand’s godfather, who now lived with them, took pleasure in insisting Gracie was a rat.

“They’re very intelligent, you know,” the ninety-three-year-old told the children when they crawled onto the sofa beside the former financier.

“How do you know?” Zora, the serious one, asked.

“Because I used to be one.”

“You were a rat?” Florence asked.

“Yes. A big fat one, with a long, long silky tail.”

Their eyes widened as he regaled them with tales of his adventures as a rat on Wall Street and Bay Street. On rue Saint-Jacques in Montréal and at the Bourse in Paris.

That was in the afternoon. They were all in bed now. Asleep.

Though one was still stirring.

Armand hit pause on his screen and looked up. He heard the familiar creaks and cracks as the temperature dropped and frost settled into the bones of the old home. There was something profoundly peaceful about knowing his family was safe in their beds.

“Merci.” Armand nodded toward the tart and smiled his thanks to Jean-Guy.

Then he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“This the person you’re protecting?” Jean-Guy asked, taking a seat and gesturing toward the computer.

“Oui.”

Armand’s answers were unusually curt, and now Jean-Guy paid more attention to the image on the screen.

It showed a middle-aged woman at a podium, smiling. It was a pleasant smile. Not a sneer. There was no malice, no guile. It was neither smug nor maniacal. She looked nice.

“Something wrong?”

Jean-Guy looked at his father-in-law and what he saw was a man deeply unsettled.

Armand tossed his glasses onto the desk and nodded toward the screen. “This’s a recording made at Abigail Robinson’s last event just before Christmas. After I watched it this afternoon, I called the President of the University to ask that the event tomorrow be called off.”

“Really? What did he say?”

“That I was overreacting.”

Armand had wanted to believe the President. He wanted to roll up the blueprints, close his notebook, put on his parka and join his family.

He wanted to sit with his grandchildren, a heavy rug covering their legs, and watch Gloria’s swaying tail as the horse pulled the big red sleigh up the north road out of the village.

Instead he’d gotten in his car and driven over to North Hatley to see the Chancellor.