The Madness of Crowds--A Novel

by Louise Penny

  Gamache considered the coroner for a moment. “Sharon, how would doctors feel about mandatory euthanasia? And terminating all pregnancies with defects?”

  “You mean the things Professor Robinson’s promoting?”

  Dr. Harris considered. This surprised Gamache. He’d expected an immediate condemnation.

  “‘Appalled’ is the word. But then many were initially appalled with physician-assisted suicide. But once it became law, we got used to it. We can even see the virtue in it, to ease suffering.”

  They were walking toward the front door as they spoke.

  “It’s the mandatory aspect that’s troubling,” she said. “To say the least. It seems inconceivable that any government would allow what she’s suggesting.”

  “We’ve seen a lot of the inconceivable lately. Merci,” he said, shaking her hand.

  “I won’t wish you happy new year,” she said.

  “Ahh, it’s always worth wishing. Bonne année, Sharon.”

  Dr. Harris watched them walk grim-faced down the corridor, to do the very worst part of a job rife with terrible deeds. Then she walked into the night, the new year biting at her flesh.

  CHAPTER 21

  Not surprisingly, the library was lined with bookshelves. A worn oriental rug was on the floor, and the room was furnished with old leather chairs and a deep green velvet sofa.

  Gamache nodded toward the French doors, and Beauvoir crossed the room.

  “Locked,” he reported.

  Despite the fact the fire had been reduced to ash and a few embers, the room was pleasantly warm.

  Abigail got to her feet when they entered. Chancellor Roberge stood beside her, a hand on her arm.

  Gamache knew there was no gentle way to put this and trying would only prolong the agony. It was best to be quick, clear, though not, if possible, brutal.

  He was also aware that he was simply confirming what Abigail Robinson already knew. But that did not diminish the pain of what he was about to say.

  “A body has been found in the woods.” He paused a beat and dropped his voice. “I’m sorry. It’s Deborah Schneider. She’s dead.”

  Abigail tensed and lowered her head, turning it away slightly. She squeezed her eyes shut, as though hit by a particularly bitter gust.

  Then she lifted them to Gamache. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Abigail compressed her lips and steadied herself, lifting her chin slightly.

  “Thank you. I know this must be difficult for you…” Her voice trailed off, but her eyes remained fixed on Gamache.

  Beauvoir, who loathed what this woman stood for, quickly searched his feelings for any sign of pleasure at her pain, and found none.

  “Please,” he said, indicating the sofa. “Sit.”

  The Sûreté officers dragged up chairs, so they were within feet of them.

  “Did Madame Schneider have family?” Beauvoir asked. “Someone who should be notified?”

  “Oh, God. Her parents. And a brother. They’re all out west. Should I…?”

  “We’ll arrange for them to be told,” Beauvoir said, and saw her relief. “But we will need their address and phone number if you have them. With social media, these things get out.”

  “Of course,” said Abigail and fumbled for her phone. She gave them the information.

  “Can you tell me how?”

  “Not yet.” Jean-Guy hesitated a moment before saying the next part. “Only that it was no accident.”

  Both he and Gamache watched closely for a reaction. It wasn’t hard to see.

  Now both Abigail’s and Colette’s mouths dropped open. But nothing came out. Not even, it seemed, breath.

  “Meaning?” Colette Roberge finally managed.

  “Meaning Debbie Schneider was killed,” said Gamache.

  “Killed?” whispered Colette. “Murdered?”

  “Oui.”

  At that moment there was a tap on the door and Dominique carried in a tray with a teapot, coffeepot, milk and sugar and mugs.

  “Pardon.” Without looking into anyone’s eyes, she put the tray down and left. Fled, really. Never to forget the look in Abigail Robinson’s eyes.

  Hands plastered to her face, she was staring at Gamache. In horror. As though he’d done it. As though he’d killed Debbie.

  And then the dam burst.

  She began to cry. Sob. She was choking. Sputtering. Gasping for breath as the grief heaved out of her.

  Colette rubbed Abigail’s back and made soothing sounds, as a mother might to a child. Until the sobbing slowed to gasps and hiccups.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  Having already found a box of Kleenex, Gamache handed her tissues.

  Off in the corner, the young agent was staring. Terrified by what she was seeing. A grief so great it threatened to swallow them all. She glanced at the Chief and saw sympathy. But she also saw that he was completely focused, his eyes shrewd.

  She double-checked that her phone was recording and leaned forward.

  Abigail balled the Kleenex in her hand and looked around. For her friend. Who would take the damp tissues from her. Who would always take any unpleasantness away.

  Then her hand dropped to her lap and her eyes came to rest on Gamache. “How?”

  “We can’t tell you that,” said Gamache.

  “Can’t,” said Colette Roberge, “or won’t?”

  “Won’t. But we believe death was quick.”

  He nodded toward Beauvoir, who took over the questioning.

  “When was the last time you saw Madame Schneider?”

  Pausing for a moment to gather her thoughts, Abigail turned to Colette. “Before midnight. You went out for a walk. I saw you both by the bonfire.”

  “When was this?” Beauvoir asked the Chancellor.

  “After the, umm, the discussion with Dr. Gilbert,” said Colette. “Debbie and I got the coats. We were going to go home. We waited for you”—she looked at Abigail—“outside.”

  “In the cold?” asked Beauvoir.

  “It seemed more hospitable than the party. Besides, we were getting hot in our coats.”

  “Did you join them?” Beauvoir asked Abigail.

  “No. I’d wandered over to a group and got caught up in a conversation about my work and the pandemic.” She focused on Beauvoir, as though seeing him for the first time. “You were there.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a police officer?”

  “He’s my second-in-command at homicide,” said Gamache. “And my son-in-law.”

  Abigail’s mind, mired in shock, tried to work that out. “So, the young woman’s your daughter?”

  “Yes,” said Gamache.

  “And the older woman I was talking to about the rainbow drawings? Your wife? That would make the child your granddaughter.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” said Abigail, nodding. “I understand.”

  “Understand?”

  “Your objections to my findings.”

  “Abby…” Colette warned.

  But Gamache wouldn’t be drawn. If anything, he was curious. It crossed his mind that Abigail Robinson had instinctively, or perhaps intentionally, moved the conversation away from the murder of her friend and into a territory she understood. Had, in fact, mastered. The endless debate about her work.

  Beside him, he could feel Jean-Guy stiffen.

  Up until that moment Jean-Guy had managed to separate Abigail Robinson, the grieving friend of a murder victim, from Professor Robinson.

  But now the two collided.

  “Idola isn’t an objection,” Armand said before Jean-Guy could respond. His tone was calm, reasonable. Firm. “She’s my granddaughter and has no place in this conversation. Let’s move on.”

  “Are you so sure?” asked Colette Roberge.

  “What do you mean?” demanded Beauvoir. There was a warning there no one in that room could miss.

  “Do you think the attack on Debbie was random?” th
e Chancellor asked Beauvoir.

  “Of course it was,” Abigail interrupted. “What else could it be?”

  She glared at Colette. Hating her in that instant for putting what they were all thinking, the unthinkable, into words.

  “You know,” said Colette, quietly, then turned to Gamache. “So do you. Why would anyone kill Debbie? It makes no sense. But something else does.”

  “No,” snapped Abigail. “It was a random attack, maybe even an accident. A drunk kid, fooling around. There were lots of them. And somehow Debbie got in the way. Or she slipped and fell. Or … or…”

  “Or you were the intended victim,” said Beauvoir. Getting his swipe in. He was honest enough with himself to admit it felt good.

  “No.” Abigail shook her head decisively. “Not possible.”

  “Why not?” he asked, feeling his emotions, so well controlled up until Idola had been mentioned, spinning out of control.

  “It was dark,” he continued. “She was in a big coat, with a hat. No one could tell.”

  “No.” Abigail folded her arms, viselike, across her body.

  “Yes,” snapped Beauvoir. “That should’ve been you out there.”

  “Inspector!” Gamache’s voice acted as a slap, and Beauvoir’s cheeks reddened, but he continued to glare at her, before turning blazing eyes on Gamache.

  He took a deep breath and managed, “Désolé.”

  Gamache took over the questioning. Turning to Chancellor Roberge, he asked, “When did you last see Debbie Schneider?”

  “As I said, we were outside waiting for Abby, but we could see through the window that she was deep in conversation, and we both knew that could take a while, so we decided to take a walk.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Just around the house. We stopped at the bonfire, then looked at the stables. It was getting colder. I wanted to go back in, but Debbie said she’d wait for you.” She looked at Abigail. “She was sure you’d come outside and she didn’t want to miss you.”

  Abigail was staring at her hands gripping each other in her lap. “I forgot.”

  They all imagined Debbie Schneider, alone in the dark and cold. Waiting for a friend who’d forgotten her.

  “Was there anyone else out there?” Gamache asked.

  “Just some older kids. I think they were drinking in the woods.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I came inside.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I think it was a few minutes before midnight. The TV was on and tuned to Bye Bye.”

  “I didn’t see you,” said Gamache.

  “No. You two were out at the bonfire by then. I decided it was so close to midnight, I might as well stay. I went outside briefly to see the fireworks, then came in here. I always find the company of books soothing.”

  “Why did you need to be soothed?” Gamache asked.

  “Couldn’t you feel the tension, the animosity in that room? And it wasn’t just aimed at Abigail. Debbie and I also felt it. Guilt by association. I just wanted to relax for a few minutes before going out to find Abigail and Debbie and heading home.”

  “When did you leave the room?” Gamache asked.

  “When I heard the commotion. I guess about ten past midnight.”

  “Not before?”

  “No. I was only here for a few minutes.”

  Gamache noted the pile of split logs by the hearth. “Was a fire lit?”

  “Yes. I was cold, so I put another couple of logs on.”

  “What were you reading?”

  She smiled. “Does it matter?”

  “It might.”

  “It’s over there.” She looked toward a table beside the wing chair closest to the fireplace.

  Gamache got to his feet and walked over. Picking up the book, he raised his brows.

  It was one he knew. He’d found the same obscure old volume among his parents’ collection. It was now in his bookcase at home, though he’d never read it.

  He turned to her and she answered his unasked question.

  “Extraordinary Popular Delusions,” she said, holding his eyes, “and the Madness of Crowds. You see, Chief Inspector, I was here.”

  He brought the book back with him, crossing his legs and balancing it on his knee. “Did you see Madame Schneider at the fireworks?”

  “No. But I wasn’t really looking. I was watching the display.”

  “Did you see Professor Robinson?” He nodded toward Abigail, who’d lapsed into silence.

  “No, but again, I was looking up into the sky. A beautiful display. Then we all came back inside and I came in here.”

  “Professor Robinson, where were you during the countdown to midnight?”

  “I was with all of you, around the television.”

  Gamache nodded slowly. “And what was on the television?”

  Now she smiled, a little. “You don’t believe me?”

  He met her smile and waited.

  “It was some French show with skits.”

  That was close enough. “What happened at midnight?”

  “What happened? What do you mean?”

  “What did people do?”

  “What they always do. Everyone yelled ‘Happy new year,’ and hugged.”

  Beauvoir shifted in his seat but said nothing. He’d noted she’d used the English phrase, where actually everyone, even the Anglos, had yelled, “Bonne année.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I looked for Debbie.”

  “Why?”

  “To hug her. Wish her a happy new year.” She closed her eyes, a moment of privacy, to gather herself before continuing on. “But I couldn’t find her. I thought she was still outside, so I put on my coat and went out. The fireworks had started by then. I looked around, and when I couldn’t see her I waited by the bonfire with everyone else, thinking she’d show up. I saw you there,” she said to Gamache and Beauvoir, then turned to Colette. “But I didn’t see you.”

  “And I didn’t see you.”

  Throughout this interview Gamache had the impression that these two were nudging each other toward him. To get him to focus on the other. It reminded him of a Far Side cartoon that Jean-Guy had cut out and left on his desk. It showed two bears in the crosshairs of a hunting rifle. One bear was grinning and pointing to the other.

  While there was no grinning here, there seemed a lot of pointing.

  “Then what did you do?” Gamache asked.

  “After the fireworks?” Abigail asked. “I came back inside. I was tired and wanted to go back to Colette’s place, so I looked around for Debbie and you.” She turned to the Chancellor. “But didn’t see you. I guess you were in here. And then the kids started yelling, and you ran outside.”

  “We met up in the living room,” said Colette, “and looked around for Debbie. We didn’t think anything had really happened. Not to Debbie anyway. But when we couldn’t find her, and then we were all told not to leave, and time went on…”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us about tonight?” Gamache asked. “Anything you saw or heard?”

  Both shook their heads. Then Abigail paused. “There is one thing, but you’ll think I’m just being vindictive.”

  “Don’t worry about what we think,” said Gamache. “Just tell us.”

  “There was someone else I didn’t see by the television or inside after. Vincent Gilbert.”

  Gamache cast his mind back and realized he hadn’t seen Gilbert there either. He turned to Chancellor Roberge, and she shook her head.

  There was just one more thing to ask.

  He leaned toward Abigail Robinson. “Why did you come here? To the party?”

  “If you must know, I came to meet someone.”

  So she did come to see, maybe even confront, Vincent Gilbert, thought Gamache.

  “Ruth Zardo,” said Abigail. “To thank her for the use of her poem. She’s been very supportive.”

  CHAPTER 22

  They got t
hrough the next interviews fairly quickly.

  The parents of young children didn’t see much, beyond trying to corral overtired and sugar-hyped kids.

  Annie, Daniel, and Roslyn were interviewed, and when they admitted they too had seen nothing, they left, carrying the children down the hill to bed.

  At the door, Jean-Guy kissed Annie and the children. “I’ll be home when I can.”

  By then Professor Robinson and Chancellor Roberge, with a Sûreté escort, had left for home.

  The Scene of Crime unit was still at work. The body of Debbie Schneider was still in the tent and would be taken to the morgue once they were done.

  It was close to three a.m. when they got to the teenagers and their parents.

  The kids seemed to have taken a solemn oath of silence that lasted until Beauvoir’s first question. Then it came out. They’d stolen beer and cider and Tia Maria from parents and stashed it in a snowbank in the woods.

  Beauvoir felt some sympathy for the Tia Maria boy, who looked especially green. He remembered his own first drunk. He and his friends had poured whiskey, beer, wine, and Drambuie together in what they decided was a cocktail.

  The rest he couldn’t remember, except waking up facedown in the grass in his own vomit.

  The last teen they spoke to was Jacques Brodeur. He was the one who’d found the body.

  Athletic, handsome, he seemed the leader of the group. But Beauvoir quickly discovered a frightened boy beneath the bravado. Jacques’s parents sat on either side of him, as he told the story.

  “We put the bottles in the snowbank. We’d heard warm alcohol makes you sick.”

  “It’s not the temperature that’ll make you sick,” said Beauvoir. His tone had softened. Recognizing the boy wanted to talk. Needed to talk. “You’re not in trouble. At least not from us. Just tell us what happened.”

  Jacques looked at his parents, who nodded.

  “We were all pretty pissed by midnight. I had to pee, so I went into the woods. The fireworks lit up the ski trail, so I just followed it until I thought no one could see, and I let loose against a tree.”

  Just the memory of that relief made the boy sigh.

  There was a sharp inhale of disapproval from his father, while his mother compressed her lips in what might have been anger, or amusement.