by Louise Penny
“What?” said Haniya. “I wasn’t listening. Are you still talking about snow? I’ve been here three days and all you people seem to talk about is the weather.”
“And murder.”
“The two seem to dovetail, yes.”
Reine-Marie heaved a long sigh that fogged up the glass in front of her. Fully realizing she might be making a terrible mistake, she did it anyway. “I have a delicate, maybe even unpleasant task to perform, and I’m wondering if you’d like to come along.”
Haniya’s brows all but disappeared into her bright purple hijab. “Why?”
It was, of course, a very good question.
Why? Reine-Marie asked herself.
“Because I don’t think you should be alone. Because you might be a distraction.”
“Because I’m Black?”
“Because you’re annoying. It’ll make me look more reasonable.”
Haniya laughed, then considered. “Might as well. Nothing else to do except look at that.” She gestured toward the acres of snow.
As she followed Reine-Marie to the car, Haniya scooped up some snow. She stared at the flakes in her mitten. Then tried to separate one from the pack. But couldn’t. She leaned close, trying to see the patterns of each individual flake, but her breath melted them before she could see.
She raised her head and looked at the snowbanks and snowdrifts. At the snow balancing on tree limbs and sitting on the roof of the Inn, and the cars, and the stone walls.
Acres and acres.
As she got into the still warm car, Haniya realized that when Reine-Marie Gamache said she wanted her company, there was one reason she hadn’t given.
Because I like you.
Haniya had been called brave. She’d been called remarkable. She’d been called tireless and inspirational. She’d been called a hero. All of which, she knew, were true.
But no one had called her friend.
On the way over, Reine-Marie brought Haniya up to speed about Enid Horton and the commission to help the family sort Mom’s things before the sale of the home.
“You said it might be unpleasant. Why’s that? Did you find something?”
That’s when Reine-Marie told her about the monkeys. About the strange collection. The books and drawings. The etching on the bedroom wall.
But not about Ewen Cameron. She felt she should tell the family first.
“Monkeys?” said Haniya, shaking her head. “And now you have to tell the family that their mother was crazy. And you brought me along as an example of crazy?”
Reine-Marie pulled into the brick bungalow on the outskirts of Cowansville. “I’ve brought you along as proof that terrible things can happen, and we can still heal.”
“You think I’ve healed?” said Haniya, with a laugh. “You think I’m whole?”
She turned in her seat and stared at Reine-Marie. “No. What you see is a mockery, a mimic. I’m made up of bits and pieces left on the ground, from other broken people. An arm here, a leg there. A memory, an aspiration, a desire. Sewn together so that I look human, but am not quite.”
“The creature from Frankenstein,” said Reine-Marie.
Haniya laughed. “And here I thought you’d comfort me. Tell me I’m wrong. That I’m fully human and beautiful. Instead you call me a monster.”
“The creature wasn’t the monster,” Reine-Marie said, quietly. “The doctor was.” She smiled at her companion. “I told you this was going to be unpleasant, and you came anyway, to keep me company. If that isn’t whole, I don’t know what is. You are beautiful. And you are brave.”
And, and, Haniya waited, you are my friend.
When Reine-Marie didn’t say it, Haniya turned away and looked out the window.
“You say that your snow covers all sorts of wonderful things. Keeps them alive. But I suspect it covers terrible things too. Things that are better off dead, or at least hidden.” She turned back to Reine-Marie. “Perception. Who’s to say who the monsters are? And where they’re buried.”
Reine-Marie got out of the car and wondered if she was about to make a mistake, in telling the Horton family the long-buried truth she’d uncovered. About their mother. And the monkeys. And the modern monster.
Maybe Haniya was right. Some things don’t need to be brought into light. Some truths can remain unspoken.
CHAPTER 38
“I think I know what happened,” said Jean-Guy, taking a seat at the conference table.
They were once again in the basement of the Auberge. Snow from the day before had blown up against the windows, blocking out the sun.
As Jean-Guy spoke, the rough stone walls of the Old Hadley House seemed to lean closer. The specters trapped there eager to hear how a father might murder a helpless daughter.
“Oui?” said Armand. He too leaned forward.
“I think Paul Robinson didn’t kill his daughter.”
At that Armand’s brows drew down. Worried for Jean-Guy, but willing to listen.
“Go on.”
“I think he saved Abby.” Jean-Guy looked from Armand to Isabelle and saw skepticism, and not a little bewilderment. He hurried on. “At least that’s how he saw it. It came to me just now when I was with Idola. He’d never have hurt Maria—”
“Do you mean you could never hurt Idola?” asked Armand.
Jean-Guy turned to him in frustration. “No, well, yes, partly. Look, I admit, it’s hard to separate my feelings for Idola from what Paul Robinson might’ve been going through. And I’m not saying he didn’t do it.”
“What are you saying?” asked Armand, confused now.
Beauvoir regrouped. “I’m saying that I agree with you. Paul Robinson was exhausted. Drained. I think he saw that Maria was failing and in his confused state he did something that made sense at the time but that he immediately regretted. I think in a moment of sheer madness, he didn’t see it as killing her, but as freeing her. And her sister. Separating them, finally. No more Abby Maria. I’m saying he saw it as releasing both his daughters. One to peace, the other to a full life.”
He looked from one to the other, trying to read their expressions.
There was silence as Armand and Isabelle, both parents, imagined that moment when Paul Robinson looked into the abyss.
It wasn’t completely unknown. Not just with parents and suffering children, but with adult children and frail parents. With spouses. With friends. When there was interminable pain. Terrible suffering. When the end was inevitable but taking too long.
Plugs were pulled and respirators turned off. Hands were held, and prayers and promises and goodbyes whispered.
But what happened when the suffering continued? Or when there were no plugs to pull? Just a loved one wracked with uncontrollable pain and begging for help.
What happened when nature was taking its time to take its course? When the necessary permission for assisted suicide hadn’t been given in time?
Was a nudge necessary?
Did mercy sound like a soft footstep in the middle of the night? Did it look like a syringe? A pillow?
But was it always mercy?
If looked at from a certain angle, in a certain light, did the kind angel become wicked? Dispatching not a tormented loved one, but an inconvenience. Wasn’t that the debate they were locked in now, thanks to Abigail Robinson and her campaign for mandatory euthanasia?
The word “burden” was never used, but it hung in the fetid air. Only a fool would refuse to see it. To hear it.
Only a fool was deaf to the whispers in the halls of power, now emboldened by Professor Robinson’s success, that most of those who died in the pandemic had underlying conditions. They’d have died soon anyway.
Perhaps, they whispered, it wasn’t such a bad thing. Perhaps it was a blessing. Perhaps the pandemic had, inadvertently, done them all a favor. Freed some to peace, freed the rest to get on with their lives.
Everyone was quick to say what happened was heartbreaking. But really, privately, they considered the tragedies of
the pandemic a cull. Of the weak.
Armand Gamache was no fool. He heard the whispers. And he’d witnessed the so-called mercy. Smelled it. He’d seen the handprint on the window. The streak. An arc, like some mockery of the rainbow children worldwide had drawn.
And Armand Gamache knew that the underlying condition, the infirmity everyone talked about, did not lie with those who died, but with those who had allowed it to happen.
And now it was about to move from a tragic miscalculation to calculation.
Where was mercy now, he wondered, and what did it look like? Where was courage now, and what did it look like?
“You’re saying that Paul Robinson killed his daughter out of kindness?” asked Lacoste.
Beauvoir nodded, then shook his head. “No. Well, partly. Yes. I think that was the justification he used. But really, it was exhaustion. He just couldn’t go on.”
While Beauvoir looked down at his hands, and Gamache remained silent, Lacoste worked her way through what might have happened.
“So he smothers Maria,” she said. “Then years later kills himself. A kind of execution. A self-imposed death penalty for what he’d done?”
“Oui,” said Beauvoir. “He still had Abigail to raise, so he waited until she was settled in Oxford. Away from home. Safe with Colette Roberge.”
At the sound of that name, Gamache looked up. But remained quiet. Thinking.
Finally, he lifted his hands.
“We have no idea what actually happened. Did Professor Robinson’s father kill Maria? Maybe. We can never know for sure. Let’s focus on the murder we do know about.”
And yet, as the morning progressed, Gamache couldn’t quite shake it. This convergence of events. And the thought, the feeling really, that it did matter. That, thanks to Beauvoir, they were onto a continuum. That each step mattered. And had brought them here. To a basement, investigating the brutal murder of Debbie Schneider.
But he also felt there’d been a misstep along the way. Something off. And that was why it hadn’t brought them straight to the murderer. Straight to what had happened two nights ago, as they’d watched fireworks light the sky, while a woman was being bludgeoned to death just meters away.
* * *
The prearranged video call from Nanaimo came through for Isabelle, and she excused herself. Returning to her desk and putting on her headset, she answered.
“Inspector Lacoste?” A middle-aged man in plain clothes appeared. “It’s Sergeant Fillmore. Barry.”
“Salut, Barry. It’s Isabelle. Thank you for doing this.”
“No worries. Should we begin?”
The Nanaimo investigators had already been through Debbie Schneider’s house once, but Isabelle wanted to see it for herself.
She always found it interesting, and often revealing, to see the private space of a victim, or a suspect. Actually, she just liked looking at people’s homes, often going for walks with the kids around their neighborhood in the evening, hoping to get a peek into lighted living rooms.
Now she hit record and watched as Sergeant Fillmore took her through the modest bungalow in Nanaimo. Two bedrooms. Galley kitchen. There was a TV in the living room and what looked like good, but dated, furniture. Probably inherited from parents. Framed photographs sat on side tables and bookcases.
The home was tidy. Comfortable. Left by someone expecting to return.
The final stop was what Isabelle really wanted to see. The second bedroom had been made into an office. That was less tidy.
Fillmore panned around, then turned to the desk. “The top drawer was locked when we found it. We had to break in.”
“But there wasn’t much in it, from what I remember.”
“No. We emptied it onto the top of the desk.” He pointed his phone at the collection of items.
There were birthday cards, assorted office supplies. An agenda sat on top of a partially obscured photograph.
“Can you get a clearer picture of the photograph, please?”
He pulled it out and Isabelle’s face softened. There, unexpectedly, was Maria.
And not just Maria. There was young Debbie and Abby and a man who could only be Paul Robinson. All gathered around the wheelchair. Smiling.
“Can you box up the things from her desk and send them to me, express?”
“Fine.” Though he sounded less than pleased.
“Merci.”
After hanging up, Isabelle went back over the video, pausing at the photograph. She took a screenshot and printed out copies. Then she contemplated it.
The picture was taken at the oceanfront, one sunny summer’s day.
Isabelle guessed that Abigail and Debbie were about fifteen and Maria would have been nine.
Lacoste looked closely at the little girl with the huge brown eyes and twisted body. Was this the last year of her life? The last month? Week? She’d died on August 27th, the coroner’s report said. On a sunny summer’s day?
Isabelle sat back in her chair and stared. Now why, she asked herself, was this photograph hidden away and not up with the others? It seemed innocuous enough. It looked pretty much like any family photograph. The very pedestrian nature of it fascinated her.
Paul Robinson was bending down, his face close to Maria’s. Smiling. This was not, Isabelle thought, a man on the verge of nervous collapse. He didn’t look exhausted and spent. And contemplating the unthinkable.
He looked happy, carefree even. Though Isabelle knew that while a picture might be worth a thousand words, many of them were lies. Or at least misleading.
She’d smiled in pictures but had been seething inside. Or sad. Or bored. People were programmed to smile for pictures. To say “Cheeeeeze.” It meant next to nothing.
But still, there was an ease about this image.
Paul Robinson had one hand resting casually on the back of Maria’s wheelchair, the other on Abigail’s shoulder. Protectively.
Three of the four people in the photograph were now dead. One apparently accidental death, one perhaps by his own hand, and one had been murdered not two days ago.
One thing Inspector Lacoste did not doubt was that everything had begun with two people not in this picture.
The tragedies had started with the mind control, the mind-boggling experiments conducted in full view at one of the continent’s great universities. By a prominent madman. And by an intern who’d go on to become one of the nation’s leading academics. A healer. A humanitarian.
And when she found among her father’s things the old letter from the Allan Memorial signed by Vincent Gilbert, Abigail Robinson knew it too. And while she couldn’t get at Cameron, she could get at Gilbert.
And had he, with one swing of his arm, attempted to rid himself of that threat?
Isabelle got up and started to pace.
* * *
Jean-Guy was at his desk, tipping back in his chair, so that its two front legs were off the concrete floor.
He balanced there, absently pulsing back and forth. Back and forth. Rocking himself and staring at his blank screen.
Why was Debbie Schneider murdered?
Why not Abigail Robinson, or the Asshole Saint? Why kill Debbie?
That must’ve been a mistake. Robinson must have been the target.
But suppose she wasn’t? Suppose Madame Schneider was the intended victim? Suppose she knew something? Saw something? Possessed something?
The only viable theory so far was that Vincent Gilbert, desperate to get back the letter proving his connection to Ewen Cameron, had killed Madame Schneider, then burned it along with the weapon.
But that didn’t make sense to Jean-Guy. There were other letters out there. They’d already found one, among Enid Horton’s things. More would probably come to light as victims died of old age and attics were cleared out.
Besides, Debbie wasn’t the only one who knew the connection. Abigail Robinson did too. She was the driving force. Killing Debbie would solve nothing.
No. Vincent Gilbert might be a little ec
centric, but the man was far too smart, far too cunning, had far too great a survival instinct, to go killing someone for that reason. For essentially no reason.
If Debbie Schneider was the intended victim, it would be for a whole other reason. One they hadn’t yet thought of.
Beauvoir stood up and started to pace.
* * *
Abby Maria. Abby Maria.
The words haunted Gamache, breaking into his thoughts as he went back over the murder of Debbie Schneider.
He pushed the words away and refocused, studying what they knew. What they had.
Abby Maria. There it was again. There she was again. The little girl.
Finally, in frustration, he took off his reading glasses and admitted defeat. Getting up from his desk, he started to pace the room, his hands behind his back.
Abby Maria. Ave Maria. Hail Mary. What am I missing?
There was, he realized, one person in the case that he hadn’t fully considered. In passing, yes, but not seriously. Now it was time.
Colette Roberge.
She was the unlikely linchpin. The person around whom all this moved.
She’d known Abigail’s father well enough to be entrusted with his daughter.
She’d acted as more than a mentor, she was a surrogate parent to the girl so far from home. And had offered comfort when news of her father’s death arrived.
Years later Abigail had trusted Colette enough to send her an advance copy of the controversial report for the Royal Commission.
The Chancellor had then given it to Vincent Gilbert. And while both professed to be appalled by her recommendations, neither had done anything about it.
As he paced the basement, his mind traveled down this new path. One he’d all but ignored, in favor of the more obvious thoroughfares of Abigail Robinson and Vincent Gilbert.