by Louise Penny
“You’re right. None.”
And he actually was right, Reine-Marie knew. It was none of her business.
James Horton escorted her out and insisted the archival box of their mother’s things stay with them.
“Send us your bill,” he said, while Susan stood behind her brother, her face full of embarrassment and apology.
“No need. I wasn’t much help.”
It was snowing more heavily now, but not blowing. It was a heavy fall of light snow.
Reine-Marie brushed off her car and thought about Mrs. Horton on her deathbed. With the last of her strength, she’d drawn a monkey.
This was becoming less amusing by the moment.
She almost felt bad that she hadn’t mentioned to Susan or James that their mother had another box, as yet unopened, that sat in the study of the Gamache home.
* * *
On her way back to Three Pines from speaking to Édouard Tardif at the courthouse, Isabelle Lacoste’s phone buzzed. It was a message from Jean-Guy.
Making sure not to get stuck in a snowbank, Isabelle pulled over and read, Vincent Gilbert was at Robinson’s talk.
* * *
“The official biography on your website doesn’t mention a sister,” said Gamache, looking into the bloodshot eyes of Abigail Robinson.
“No. I try to keep my personal life private.”
“Private, or secret?”
“What do you think would happen if it comes out that I had a severely disabled sister? People would think that influenced my findings. My conclusions.”
“Did it?”
“You don’t think I’ve asked myself that? It was painful, yes. I saw what having a severely disabled child did to my parents. Their exhaustion, their constant worry. But I loved my sister. My findings, my research, have nothing to do with Maria, and everything to do with the future of the social safety net in this country. We don’t have enough resources to go around and—” She put up her hands, and smiled. “There I go again. You know my arguments. It’s statistics. Cold hard facts. It has nothing to do with Maria.”
Gamache turned to Colette. “You knew about the sister?”
“Yes. Abby’s father told me. Her death was obviously devastating. It wasn’t a secret, Armand. It was a private family tragedy.” She looked at him. “You don’t talk about the death of your parents.”
“True. But I do talk about their lives.” But that reminded him of something. He turned back to Abigail. “I’ve heard about your father, but not your mother.”
“She died when I was quite young. Before Maria died.”
“I’m sorry. That’s difficult. Can you tell me how she died?”
There was a pause, and he was pretty sure one of them would ask to know how it could matter. And he knew he couldn’t answer that. Because it probably did not.
“A heart attack. She was only in her mid-thirties. That left my father and me to look after Maria.”
He could sense the resentment, still smoldering after all these years. Not against her sister, he thought. But the mother. For leaving them behind, even if it wasn’t her choice.
A wild thought passed rapidly across Gamache’s mind. Like some feral idea.
Or maybe it was. A choice.
And then shall forgiven and forgiving meet again,
or will it be, as always was, too late?
CHAPTER 27
Isabelle Lacoste turned her car around.
Within twenty minutes she was again talking to Édouard Tardif.
She showed him the image Beauvoir had sent from the video and saw him squint, raise his brows, then shake his head.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“You know who that is.”
“I don’t. Never seen him before.”
Lacoste placed her phone on the table, angled so that it looked like Vincent Gilbert was staring at Tardif.
“Is he your accomplice? Did he set off the firecrackers?”
Tardif shook his head and repeated, “I’ve never seen him before.”
* * *
“How well do you know Vincent Gilbert?” Gamache asked.
His phone had buzzed with the message from Beauvoir. He’d glanced down just long enough to take it in.
“Dr. Gilbert?” said Abigail Robinson. “I hadn’t met him before last night.”
“But you knew of him? You even compared him to Ewen Cameron. An infamous, even notorious, doctor and researcher.”
Abigail gave a single snort of laughter. “I did, didn’t I.”
“Why?”
“It just came out. I was angry. It’s the worst thing any researcher can be accused of. Being as morally bankrupt, as cruel as Cameron. Are you familiar with his work?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know.”
“What I don’t know is whether you believe Vincent Gilbert is also morally bankrupt.”
“What’s this got to do with Debbie’s death?”
“You had a heated argument with someone. Then, less than an hour later, your friend and assistant is killed in what looks like a failed attempt on your life. Questions must be asked. And answered.”
“You think Gilbert tried to kill me?” Her astonishment was real. “We had a disagreement, but I can’t believe he’d go that far.”
“Your final words to him sounded like a warning. A threat. You said that you know. What do you know about Vincent Gilbert?”
“I know how sensitive our egos are. Scientists might seem rational, but we’re among the most fragile people in the world. Maybe because most of us never learned to control our emotions, so we’re always at their mercy. I wanted to push his big, bloated ego over the edge. I wanted to hurt him back. And there’s no better way than comparing him to Cameron.”
“Or maybe when you said, ‘I know,’ what you meant was that you know he was at your talk the other day.”
With that, he saw something interesting. Not Abigail Robinson’s surprise—she didn’t seem to care. But Chancellor Roberge did.
* * *
“Why do you think Gilbert was at Professor Robinson’s talk the other day?” Gamache asked Colette as she walked him to his car.
He wanted to get her alone, figuring he had a better shot at the truth away from Abigail.
Snow was coming down thicker now. But while it was heavy, it was also gentle. Like feathers out of a broken pillow.
The world seemed muffled. Quiet, quiet. Except for the soft crunching of their boots.
“How should I know? I barely know the man.”
“Now, that’s not true, is it.” He stopped to look at her. The Chancellor’s cheeks were rosy. Probably from the cold. Maybe from something else. “You withheld information from me last night. You failed to say you and Vincent Gilbert sat on the same board.”
“So? I sit on a lot of boards but don’t know the other members well.”
“This particular one is LaPorte, an organization created to protect men and women with Down syndrome.”
“True. I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Colette. Of course it matters.”
“All right, that was a mistake. I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d read more into it than is there.”
“Like?”
“That Vincent and I are colluding. That we have a shared agenda. That we’ve taken our desire to protect people with Down syndrome to insane lengths and might even be involved in the attempts on Abigail’s life. That we’re some sort of secret assassination society.”
“Well, with the exception of that last part, you have to admit, it’s not exactly a stretch.”
They’d begun walking again toward his car.
“That I’d kill—” she started to say, her voice raised, then she looked around and lowered it. “That I’d kill someone? You don’t really believe that, Armand.”
“The only one I know for sure didn’t kill Debbie Schneider is me.” He paused to consider. “And maybe Reine-Marie.”
Her snort of l
aughter came out in a stream of vapor that incinerated the young flakes in its path.
“I know you have to consider everyone, it’s your job. But don’t waste your time on me. I didn’t do it.”
“But maybe Vincent Gilbert did. How well exactly do you know him?” On seeing her rosy cheeks get redder, a thought struck him. He stopped again and turned to her. “Wait a minute, Colette. Are you two involved?”
She took a deep breath, then glanced toward the house.
“No. Were we attracted to each other? Yes. In an intellectual way. He’s brilliant and unconventional, and it’s stimulating to be around him. But there was never anything physical.”
“A meeting of the minds, not the body?” he said.
“Yes.”
“You also lied when you said Abigail was an only child.”
“Non, you said that and I didn’t disagree.”
He cocked his head. “You’re better than that. Are you really going to hide behind some technicality?”
“The loss of Maria was years ago and private to the family. I couldn’t see how it could matter.”
“Then why not tell me?”
“I should have. I’m sorry.”
“What else aren’t you telling me? Now’s the time.”
“Nothing. There’s nothing more to say.”
They’d started walking again and had reached his snow-covered car.
“You’ve been very careful up to now to tread a fine line,” he said. “Or, really, to stand on the fence. But I need to know. Do you support Professor Robinson or not?”
“I won’t tell you that, Armand.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m the Chancellor of a university and my personal and political views need to remain private so I don’t influence any student or staff.”
“That sounds to me like you support her. And yet…”
“Oui?” she said.
He’d handed her a brush, and was using one himself to clear snow off his side of the car.
“And yet,” he said, stopping to look at her, “I can’t believe you would support such a terrible proposal. What amounts to mass murder.”
“But you think I’m capable of one murder? So I’m either on Abigail’s side, and happy to support mass murder, or I’m against her, and involved in only one murder. An improvement, I suppose. What a mind you have, Armand. I respect you, but I don’t envy you. Living with that view of humanity.”
He started again to sweep the rest of the snow off the windows and roof.
“Not all of humanity. Just a select few. Be careful, Colette. I’m not the only one paying attention.”
As he drove away, he looked in the rearview mirror. Colette Roberge was standing on the path, watching him. And behind her, unseen by the Chancellor, Abigail Robinson was at the window. Watching.
CHAPTER 28
The autopsy report came in just as Gamache arrived back at the Incident Room. It showed nothing they didn’t already know or suspect.
Deborah Jane Schneider’s life ended at approximately midnight between December 31st and January 1st.
Cause of death: blows to the back of her head. Weapon: a length of wood, almost certainly a split log.
Isabelle Lacoste had returned, and now the three sat at the long conference table in the basement, watching the video. Not the whole thing, just that section. Over and over. Then Beauvoir froze it, on Gilbert’s face.
Gamache sat back. “What do you think? Is Vincent Gilbert an accomplice?”
Isabelle shook her head decisively. “Non.”
“He was there,” said Jean-Guy. “Standing right beside the guy.”
“But Tardif hadn’t planned to stand there,” said Isabelle. “He wanted to be much farther forward. He only moved back when he saw us. I’ve talked to Tardif a few times, and I can tell you there’s no way Vincent Gilbert would choose him as his accomplice for anything, never mind murder.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Beauvoir.
“Because Gilbert would be sure to find someone who knew what they were doing. Édouard Tardif’s a nice, hardworking man, a decent man pushed to an extreme. He’s not exactly a criminal mastermind.”
“He was calculating enough to almost pull it off,” said Beauvoir.
“But not get away with it,” Lacoste pointed out. “Gilbert would never agree to a plan that saw his co-conspirator immediately arrested.”
“True,” said Beauvoir, nodding slowly.
“I don’t think Tardif would choose Gilbert either,” Isabelle went on. “They’re not compatible. An arrogant academic and a naïve woodsman?”
“You like him,” said Gamache. “Tardif.”
Lacoste considered. “I understand him.”
“And sympathize?” asked Gamache.
She nodded slowly. “My mother’s getting on too. I’d feel the same way.”
“Don’t,” said Gamache. “Édouard Tardif didn’t suddenly pick up a gun and shoot. He planned it. Over days. Setting up a diversion. Almost causing a riot. This isn’t a crime passionnel. This is cold-blooded attempted murder that put hundreds of lives in danger. Let’s not romanticize Monsieur Tardif and his motives or his actions.”
It worried him that his hardheaded lead investigators were doing exactly that.
This case was triggering all sorts of strong emotions, in them all. Including himself.
“Désolée, patron,” said Isabelle. “But there is a problem. While I don’t think Dr. Gilbert was the accomplice, I’m not convinced the brother, Alphonse, is either.”
“Why not?” said Beauvoir.
“Like I said before, he gave in far too quickly, and he was shocked by what he saw on the video. It didn’t seem he expected it. I want to speak to him again.”
“I don’t think we can rule out the Asshole Saint,” said Jean-Guy. “He might not be the accomplice, but he misled us about his relationship with the Chancellor. He didn’t tell us he was in the auditorium, and he was at the party last night. He’s the only one who was at both attacks.”
“Except Robinson herself,” said Gamache.
“And you.” Isabelle narrowed her eyes at Jean-Guy. If there was one thing she enjoyed, it was needling him.
“Don’t make me have to sit between you,” said Gamache. “I think it’s probable the two attacks aren’t related. The first was planned. The second was not. And we still don’t know if Debbie Schneider was the intended victim.”
“I spoke to her father,” said Beauvoir. There was no need to describe the man’s shattered mind. Or broken heart. “He tried to be helpful but couldn’t remember much. He did confirm that Debbie and Abigail had been friends since childhood.”
“Did he know about Abigail’s sister, Maria?” Gamache asked.
“I didn’t know about her when I was talking to him, so I didn’t ask.”
“Can you call him back and ask if Abigail had a sister?”
“Absolument.” Beauvoir made a note. “Monsieur Schneider said he couldn’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt his daughter, and since she’d never been to Québec, he couldn’t see why anyone here would.”
“Her ex-husband?” asked Lacoste.
“She hadn’t seen him in years and they parted on friendly terms. Doesn’t seem to be anything there. I also spoke to the head of Professor Robinson’s department.”
Gamache leaned forward.
“What came through, though he never actually said it, is that he’s incredibly disappointed in Professor Robinson. He said she’s brilliant. They were very proud when she was chosen to do the post-pandemic statistical study for the Royal Commission. But after he read her preliminary report, he asked her to stop. Explained that the math was right, but her conclusions were wrong.”
“But she didn’t, of course.”
“No. Caused a real shit storm in the department.”
“His word?” asked Isabelle.
Beauvoir smiled. “He was actually quite complimentary. Said she had a quicksilver mind.
”
Gamache grunted. “Clever.”
“Yes, isn’t that what he meant?” said Lacoste. “A clever mind?”
“But ‘quicksilver’ is also the nickname for mercury. Which is a poison. He couldn’t think of anyone Professor Robinson had specifically hurt?”
“No. There was just the general sense that she was harming the reputation of the department, of the university, with her work. But I can’t see him getting on a plane and coming here to kill her with a fireplace log.”
“Didn’t Abigail’s father also work at the university?” asked Isabelle.
“Yes. They knew each other. They were associate professors together. He said Paul Robinson was”—Jean-Guy checked his notes—“a superb mathematician. Worked mostly on probability theory. Was well-liked by his colleagues and students. Collaborated a lot. His death came as a shock.”
“So, back to last night,” said Isabelle. “It looks like Professor Robinson must’ve been the target. Someone who was at the party has a mother or father who’ll be affected if her recommendations are accepted, saw their chance and took it.”
“Or a child,” said Armand. There was a pause that threatened to become awkward before he broke it. “Or grandchild.”
“My God,” said Jean-Guy. “You’ve actually seriously considered me?”
“Not seriously, no.”
“But you did wonder.”
Gamache held his son-in-law’s eyes. Then smiled. “Only to the extent that someone else might. But did I think you’d picked up a log and hit her from behind in a moment of insanity? No. Any more than you considered me.” Again the awkward pause. “Did you?”
Jean-Guy smiled. “Did I wonder if you could have? Given not just Idola but what happened in the pandemic? Yes. Did I suspect you, even for a moment? No.”
“Well, that’s two we can strike off the list,” said Isabelle. “That leaves about fifty others.”
“There was someone in that room last night who I think has killed before,” said Gamache. “And would again, without remorse, given the right motive. And the right motive was also in the room.”
“Haniya Daoud,” said Beauvoir.