The Madness of Crowds--A Novel

by Louise Penny

  Her eyes flew open, and she sat up so quickly wine slopped from her glass onto Henri, asleep by the fire. He didn’t stir. With Ruth such a constant visitor, he was used to it.

  Reine-Marie put down her glass and got to work, while over in the bistro Jean-Guy sat in front of the fire and told his horror story.

  * * *

  “Ewen Cameron?” Armand’s eyes moved from Jean-Guy to Myrna, then back again. “Vincent worked with Cameron?”

  “Who?” asked Isabelle. Like Jean-Guy, she was too young to know the name. But it was about to become one she would never forget.

  They told her, while Armand sat back, his hand to his face, listening, thinking.

  When they’d finished, Isabelle had quizzed Jean-Guy and Myrna, unwilling to accept that this had actually happened. In Québec. In Montréal. At McGill. Within living memory. And no one had stopped it. Stopped him.

  “And Vincent Gilbert was part of it?” she asked.

  “There’s no actual proof of that,” said Jean-Guy. “We know he looked after the lab animals. If he’d been part of the experiments, wouldn’t there be papers in his file?”

  “Evaluations of Gilbert by Cameron or others,” said Myrna. “You’d think.”

  “Still,” said Armand, sitting forward. “It’s hard to believe Dr. Gilbert wouldn’t have at least known what was going on. By then Cameron had been at it for almost a decade.”

  The Asshole Saint had gone, they noticed, from “Vincent” to “Dr. Gilbert,” as Gamache put distance between them.

  He turned to Myrna, but before he could ask her to leave, she got up.

  “I’m off. Work to do in the store.”

  When she’d gone, Jean-Guy said, “Didn’t Cameron’s name come up last night? You mentioned it to Gilbert when we interviewed him.”

  “Yes,” said Gamache. “I’ve been trying to remember the exact words Robinson used. She didn’t make a direct accusation. It was more subtle than that. She’d been talking about monsters and mentioned Cameron. And then she’d intimated that Gilbert was no better than him. That’s why I wanted to know what was in Dr. Gilbert’s files at McGill. But I never thought…”

  Who would?

  “But if she knew something definite,” said Beauvoir, “wouldn’t she come right out and say it? Why just hint?”

  “She could’ve been toying with him,” said Isabelle. “Like a cat with a wounded bird.”

  Armand could not see the Asshole Saint as a wounded bird. He was more likely the cat. Still, it was a good point. And a possible motive.

  “You found nothing definite?”

  “No, nothing,” said Beauvoir.

  “They’d still be alive,” said Isabelle.

  “Who?” asked Beauvoir.

  “Cameron’s victims. Gilbert’s victims. Most must’ve been from Québec. Maybe even from around here.”

  “They’d be quite old by now,” said Beauvoir. “This was years ago.”

  Armand looked toward Clara’s home. Where Ruth had gone.

  Ruth?

  Who hurt you once so far beyond repair

  That you would greet each overture with curling lip?

  Did they have their answer?

  “When I had lunch with Dr. Gilbert,” said Gamache, “he admitted he’d been at Abigail Robinson’s talk in the gym.”

  “Could hardly deny it,” said Beauvoir.

  “True. He also admitted that he saw the gun in Tardif’s hand. He says he froze.”

  “But?” said Isabelle.

  “When pressed, he all but admitted he wanted it to happen, wanted her to be killed,” said Gamache. “It was a split-second choice. He hadn’t done anything to protect people in the pandemic. He saw his chance to make up for it.”

  “Not just in the pandemic,” said Isabelle. “He didn’t do anything to protect people from Cameron. Seems like a pattern in his life.”

  Gamache was nodding. Had Gilbert finally decided to act?

  Like a battlefield surgeon, had he, last night, decided to amputate the leg in order to save the body? Kill Abigail Robinson in order to save thousands?

  Or was the motive, as it often was with Gilbert, far more complex, more selfish? Was it to protect himself? To stop Abigail Robinson from revealing his one great secret. His great shame.

  “Of course,” said Beauvoir, “it’s possible he didn’t stop Tardif from shooting because they were working together.”

  “I have news on that,” Isabelle said to Jean-Guy. “While you were in Montréal, we found the accomplice. Not Gilbert, not the brother. The son.”

  She brought Jean-Guy quickly up to speed about Simon Tardif.

  Beauvoir immediately understood the important detail. “He also worked the party. Kids were going in and out of those woods all night long. One more wouldn’t be noticed. Simon Tardif could’ve tried to finish the job his father started.”

  “The thing is, I’m not convinced,” said Lacoste. “I don’t think he’d have the nerve.”

  “Neither do I,” said Gamache. “But I’ve been surprised before.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Within moments of taking the lid off the final box, Reine-Marie knew that this contained the motherlode. The earliest items from Enid Horton’s life.

  No more report cards, Mother’s Day cards, Christmas cards from her children.

  These cards were from, and about, Enid herself.

  The world receded around Reine-Marie as the librarian and archivist stepped from her life into Enid’s.

  There were cracked and faded photos of her as a child, running in an immense snowsuit and dragging a long, frozen wool scarf behind her, outside an old Québécois chalet in the Laurentian Mountains.

  Photos of her sitting between two siblings. An older sister and younger brother.

  A little white Bible was dedicated to Enid Blythe, on the day of her christening. Given to her by a godmother.

  And there were letters. Lots of them.

  Taking out a pile and smoothing them on her lap, Reine-Marie picked up the top one and wondered, not for the first time, what the next generation of archivists and biographers would do. No one wrote letters anymore. No one had printed photographs and albums for historians, or even family members, to pore over. Everything was in a cloud and needed a password.

  But that wasn’t her concern, not today at least.

  At first Reine-Marie read every word of the letters, but then she started to skim.

  Here was Enid, growing up with all the natural questions and insecurities of a girl. Of a young woman. Of a young bride. Of a young mother.

  But … then …

  Reine-Marie turned the page and looked at the next letter.

  Her eyes first went to where it was from. Then who it was from.

  And then they stopped. At the doodle in the margin.

  She almost shoved the paper off her lap, as though some snake had landed there.

  But it wasn’t a snake. It was a monkey.

  * * *

  Ruth stood in the middle of the studio staring at the canvas on the easel.

  Without turning around she said, “What is it? Oh, wait, don’t tell me. Is it a bunny?” Before Clara could answer, Ruth had cocked her head and raised her hand for silence. “No, I’ve got it. It’s a car. It’s a bunny in a car.”

  She turned astonished eyes on Clara, who was standing, arms crossed, at the door to her studio.

  “You’re exhibiting signs of creativity,” said Ruth. “It’s still shit, of course, but at least it’s unexpected merde.”

  “If I paid you to kill her,” Clara said to Haniya, “would that cost you the Peace Prize?”

  “I doubt it. I’m up against a brutal dictator and a man who ordered that refugees be separated from their children and put into cages.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Clara. “For the Nobel Peace Prize?”

  “I think it’s not about how much good a person’s done, but how much worse they could have been.”

  Clara, who k
new who Haniya was talking about, muttered, “Not much worse.”

  “No, wait,” said Ruth. “Rosa thinks it’s a Bundt cake. Are we getting close?”

  “I think,” said Haniya, “it might even work in my favor.”

  Clara smiled and turned away. “Tea?”

  They walked back into the large country kitchen. “Why do you put up with her?”

  “Ruth?” said Clara, putting on the kettle and opening a tin with butter tarts. “Maybe she’s my peace prize. It’s not about how good she is, but how much worse she could be.”

  The truth was, Clara had put that especially horrible canvas up just for Ruth. It was a running joke between them. Each morning Clara would work on her actual painting. Then, just before stopping for the day, she’d put the other canvas up and slop paint on it, choosing colors and brushstrokes at random.

  The real painting would be carefully placed against the wall of the studio, hidden under a sheet. Clara was very protective of her works, and even more so since those scathing reviews of her last exhibition had all but destroyed her career.

  She heard the front door open and still, to this day, half expected it to be her husband, Peter. Instead a familiar voice called out, “Bonjour? Clara?”

  “In the kitchen, Armand.”

  He greeted the two of them, then looked around. “Where’s Ruth?”

  “In my studio.”

  “Do you mind?” he asked, cocking his head toward it.

  “Not at all.”

  He found Ruth staring at a canvas propped against the wall. She turned quickly, dropping the sheet so that it fell back over the painting.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’d like to talk.”

  “About?”

  “About Ewen Cameron.”

  There was a pause, then Ruth said, “I smell blood and an era of prominent madmen.”

  “So do I,” said Armand.

  * * *

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir hung up from the first call, made notes, then placed the second.

  After a few questions, he thanked the head of the mathematics department and hit end call.

  Sitting back in his chair in the basement Incident Room, he thought for a moment. Then, after placing a third call to British Columbia, he finished his notes and went upstairs to wait for the Chief Inspector.

  He saw Vincent Gilbert sitting by the fire in the living room. Relaxed, cross-legged, reading a book. He wore gray flannels, a cashmere sweater with a crisp white shirt and tie. His white hair was trimmed and his glasses were round tortoiseshell.

  A professor.

  A doctor. Right out of central casting.

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir returned to the basement.

  * * *

  Reine-Marie Gamache stared into the flames, then looked down at her fist.

  She was clutching the paper, the letter. Crushing it in her hand. Opening it, she smoothed the paper out, read it again, then got up.

  She had to find Armand. Had to show him this.

  He was, she knew, at the bistro.

  Putting on her coat and boots, she tried to explain to Henri and Fred that she’d take them out soon, but not now.

  They didn’t understand.

  “Join the club,” she muttered, as she shoved her hat down over her ears and went out into the snowy evening.

  She got partway to the bistro when she heard her name through the flurries. “Reine-Marie!”

  She saw Armand jogging across the road from Clara’s home. They met in front of the pines, their faces lit by the Christmas bulbs.

  “I have to tell you…,” they both began.

  “You first,” he said.

  “No, you.”

  “I was just talking to Ruth. It took a while, she didn’t want to tell me, but finally she did. That woman whose documents you’ve been going through, Enid Horton—”

  “She was a patient, a victim of Ewen Cameron,” said Reine-Marie. “I just realized that myself. I have to show you something.”

  * * *

  Armand and Reine-Marie sat in the small study off their living room.

  Beyond the closed door they could hear Stephen greeting Daniel and Roslyn. They could hear Annie return home with Idola.

  The comforting sounds of normality. Of a family doing what families did. Just outside the door.

  While inside, Armand and Reine-Marie looked at the paper Enid Horton had kept and Reine-Marie had found.

  It was on Allan Memorial letterhead. A fairly polite but firm request that an earlier bill be paid. It was for the services of Dr. Ewen Cameron. For twenty-three days of inpatient treatment of postpartum depression for Enid Horton.

  In the margin was a doodle. A monkey. As yet barely formed. Just taking shape. The first crude attempt. The head, ears, curling tail. And the wide, terrified eyes.

  The letter was signed by Dr. Vincent Gilbert.

  * * *

  “Monsieur Tardif,” said Isabelle Lacoste, as the prisoner was led into the interview room.

  His avocat had been summoned and had had a brief word with the Sûreté Inspector before they joined Édouard Tardif.

  “We’ve arrested your son,” said Lacoste.

  There was a long silence as Édouard Tardif opened his mouth, not to speak, but to catch his breath.

  “It’s not his fault,” he said, softly. “He didn’t know. He thought … I told him … He believed the gun had blanks. I told him I just wanted to interrupt her talk. He didn’t know.”

  “And your brother?”

  “He had nothing to do with it.”

  “Then why did he confess?”

  “He must’ve guessed that Simon had helped me, and he wanted to protect him.”

  Isabelle nodded. This was a close family. A loving family. That had, inadvertently or not, colluded in attempted murder.

  “Don’t say anything,” said Maître Lacombe. She turned to Lacoste. “Monsieur Tardif was in extreme distress. His mother was in a home where more than twenty elderly residents had died of Covid. She’d survived. But he was afraid she wouldn’t survive Professor Robinson. He was protecting his family. Or thought he was. Surely you can see that.”

  “I have sympathy, but the fact remains, your client shot a gun in a crowded auditorium. Barely missing the professor and a Chief Inspector of the Sûreté.”

  “Yes, he has to face the consequences,” agreed the avocat, while Tardif looked on. “But he wasn’t of sound mind.”

  “Simon didn’t know,” Tardif repeated.

  “He was at the Inn last night. He was working the party when Professor Robinson’s assistant was murdered.”

  “He was?” Then his eyes widened. “You can’t believe Simon did that.”

  “Given he was your accomplice in the attempted murder of Professor Robinson, it’s hard to believe he didn’t.”

  “But he never … he couldn’t. He doesn’t have it in him. He was just doing what I asked. He has his whole life ahead of him. Please, for God’s sake, believe me. Let him go. Charge me with anything you want, but let him go. Don’t ruin his life.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not the one who’s ruined his life.”

  * * *

  “So,” said Beauvoir, looking up from the letter, “this proves it. Vincent Gilbert did know what Cameron was doing. And was part of it.”

  “Yes,” said Gamache.

  He’d walked up to the Auberge and gone in the back way to avoid running into Gilbert.

  With each mention of Ewen Cameron, the faces in the basement wall seemed to grow more prominent. Pushing forward.

  Was Cameron himself in there? Had he been summoned from Hell?

  Gamache knew this was fantasy. And yet …

  “We need to have another word with Dr. Gilbert,” he said.

  Beauvoir got up. It had been a while since he’d so looked forward to an interrogation.

  “But first,” said Armand, motioning him to sit back down, “I want to hear what you found out from your calls out west.”


  “Oh, right. Seems they all knew about the second daughter, Maria,” said Jean-Guy. “She was no secret. Her death had been especially hard on her father. He blamed himself.”

  “Why?”

  “The little girl choked on a peanut butter sandwich. One he gave her for lunch.”

  Armand took a long, deep breath. Imagining, and trying not to imagine, what that would be like. The minutes when it happened, and the years that followed.

  “I also called the coroner’s office in Nanaimo,” said Beauvoir.

  “Why?”

  “Well, it just seemed to me there were quite a few deaths in that family. First Abigail’s mother, then her sister, and finally her father.”

  Gamache frowned, then slowly nodded. “Good idea. Anything?”

  “Not yet. I asked for the death certificates and any autopsy reports.”

  Armand pushed himself out of the chair. It was time.

  CHAPTER 34

  Vincent Gilbert watched as Chief Inspector Gamache closed the door to the library. That was expected, in a private conversation.

  What happened next was not.

  Gamache turned the key in the lock. And pocketed it.

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir sat in one of the leather chairs across from Gilbert, while Gamache took the other.

  A chill crept over the doctor and he looked at the hearth. There was no fire. Not even one laid and ready to be lit. Instead it was just a dark hole, with ash in the grate and a slight smell of burning.

  Gamache brought a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to him.

  Gilbert unfolded it, saw the letterhead, and let it go. It fell to the coffee table, unread. Had there been a fire in the grate, he might have tried to throw the letter in. Consign it to where it belonged. Though he wasn’t sure it would burn.

  But there was no fire. There was no escape. Not into an illustrious career. Not onto boards of charities. Not deep into the woods.

  Vincent Gilbert had known for years, decades, that this day would come. That one day he’d be found.