The Madness of Crowds--A Novel

by Louise Penny

  Now, thought Armand, there were no answers. How do you explain a Ewen Cameron? A Harold Shipman? How do you explain what happened to Haniya Daoud? How do you begin to explain brown brown?

  Not just that it could happen, but that so many could know about it and do nothing.

  What are you doing out there, Ralph?

  “Why did you want to speak to Reine-Marie?”

  “I wanted to say that the truth doesn’t set everyone free. For some it becomes a burden. A stinking albatross. I wanted to ask Reine-Marie if it was necessary to tell them.”

  Armand stood up and, reaching into his parka pocket, he brought out a linen napkin.

  “From Jean-Guy.”

  Then he bent down and kissed her cheek.

  * * *

  Reine-Marie looked down at the box. Full of things collected over a lifetime. Including one small slip of paper. On Allan Memorial letterhead. Explaining everything.

  She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Haniya said, “Can I ask you a question?”

  When Susan and James nodded, she said, “Was she a good mother?”

  The question took them by surprise. Susan said, “Of course.” But it took James longer to answer.

  “Yes. She could be impatient, sometimes a little unpredictable. But she was great.”

  “Did you know that you were loved?”

  “Why are you asking this?” asked James. “Why’re you even here?”

  “I—”

  “I asked her along,” said Reine-Marie.

  “Why?” said Susan. “Is there a problem?”

  Reine-Marie started to answer, but Haniya gave her a shove and she almost fell off the packing box.

  “I remember my mother,” said Haniya. “But not well. I remember her trying to protect me when the soldiers came. I was eight. I tried to find her years later, but the village was gone.”

  She paused then and thought of the other village. The one covered in snow, in the valley. Frozen, it seemed, in time.

  “I think she was killed,” Haniya whispered. She spoke directly to Enid Horton’s children. “Protecting me. I imagine your mother protected you too. In her way.”

  “She tried, yes,” said James. He turned to his sister. “Remember when the smoke alarm would go off?”

  Susan laughed. “She wasn’t a very good cook and it went off at least once a week. She’d come running into the living room where I was watching TV and shove me outside.”

  James laughed. “I remember.”

  “‘Get out! Get out!’” they both screamed, clearly imitating a hysterical woman.

  “She went back in.” Susan looked at her brother. “I hadn’t thought about that, until now. She thought the house was on fire, but she went back in. For you.”

  James looked stricken. “That’s true. We thought it was funny. We teased her about that relentlessly.”

  “She loved you,” said Haniya.

  “But the monkeys?” asked Susan.

  They looked at Reine-Marie. Who knew the answer. Knew their mother had been tortured. Had been kept awake for days on end, listening to the shrieks of monkeys. Maybe even seen the panic in their wide, knowing eyes.

  Now was the time to tell her children.

  “Your mother loved you. That’s what’s in the box,” she said.

  She laid a hand on the top of the container, as though to say goodbye. Then, reaching out, she helped Haniya up.

  CHAPTER 40

  “Still no word from your friend in Nanaimo?” asked Gamache, as he took off his tuque and, shoving it and his gloves into the arm of his parka, he hung them up.

  “No,” said Isabelle. “I’m afraid the evidence from the desk might’ve already shipped. I’ll call him back in a couple of minutes. Unless you’d like to?”

  He laughed as he tried to smooth his hair. “I wouldn’t deny you the pleasure. Any news?”

  “None,” said Jean-Guy, then went back to making phone calls.

  Isabelle sat forward and said to the Chief, “I’ve been thinking about what you said in the bistro. About the possibility it was Debbie who killed Maria, then Abigail killed Debbie.”

  “Oui?”

  “I think, patron, that you’re off base.”

  “How so?” He sat down and swiveled his chair to face her.

  “I think you and Jean-Guy are fathers and you don’t want it to be Paul Robinson who smothered his daughter.”

  Gamache paused, absorbing what she said before speaking, quietly, reasonably. “I’ve arrested fathers for the murder of their children before, Isabelle.”

  “Yes, but this one’s different. This has Abigail Robinson in the mix. And a disabled child. You asked me what I think, and I’m telling you. I think both you and Jean-Guy want Abigail to be guilty of the murder of Debbie.”

  “Are you saying you think that I’m ignoring, even twisting evidence, in order to build a case against Abigail Robinson? Because I don’t like her or her views?”

  Put so starkly, Lacoste didn’t quite know what to say. But the fact was, that was exactly what she thought. That they’d pivoted away from the obvious suspect, Vincent Gilbert, and the obvious motive, in favor of the least likely.

  It would be so much better all around if Abigail Robinson was arrested and convicted of the crime.

  “Not intentionally,” she began.

  He lowered his head and glowered at her. “By mistake?”

  Now she was confused. Clearly, the Chief Inspector, the head of homicide, the man who’d recently headed the entire Sûreté du Québec, did not do things by mistake. He might make mistakes, but his actions, his decisions, were well thought out.

  “I think,” she began, gathering her thoughts, “I think you’re going after Abigail Robinson on purpose. Not because you really believe her to be guilty, but because you want her to be guilty.”

  Armand Gamache couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He stared at her, speechless.

  Isabelle Lacoste had, in the past, disagreed with him. They’d sometimes argued over evidence, or suspects, over an arrest even.

  And yes, he could be wrong, and had been wrong in the past. But neither Lacoste nor anyone else had ever questioned his motives. Until now.

  “You think I’m railroading Abigail Robinson out of prejudice? My own personal agenda?”

  “No, I’m just—”

  “You think I’d turn my back on solid evidence and arrest someone for a murder I knew, I knew, they didn’t commit?”

  His voice instead of rising had dropped to a whisper so that she had to lean closer.

  “Because it sounds like that’s what you’re accusing me of. It’s one thing to disagree with a line of inquiry, Isabelle. It’s another to accuse me of wanting to arrest someone I knew to be innocent.”

  Her cheeks were burning so hot Isabelle wondered if she might melt. She also wondered if she’d crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. If she’d gone far too far.

  And now she faced a choice. To scramble back and beg forgiveness. Plead a sugar high from the four brownies she’d eaten.

  Or …

  “No one has more respect for you than I do, patron. I don’t think I need to prove that. We’ve been through too much together. But you’re human. Jean-Guy is human. Lots of what we do is science, but a lot is driven by intuition. By emotion. You say so yourself. And you’re no different than the rest of us.”

  She watched him as he watched her. His eyes astute. And hurt.

  “You have a granddaughter you adore and whose future concerns you. You see Abigail Robinson threatening that future. And…” She hated to do this, but felt she had to. “And I saw some of the footage you took inside that nursing home.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  She had a lump in her throat now. Remembering those images.

  That experience in the pandemic would become part of their DNA. His DNA. Part of every perception, every sight, every sound, every meal, every celebration. Every moment.


  Every decision. For the rest of his life. Including this one. Couldn’t help but.

  “You beat yourself up for not being there earlier. I know you do. And now I think you’d do just about anything to make up for it. I think you see Abigail Robinson threatening tens of thousands of people, including, maybe, Idola. And, like Dr. Gilbert, you want to stop her. You can’t kill her, but you can imprison her.”

  Armand could feel his rage trying to claw its way out. Becoming outrage.

  From an adversary, and he had plenty, this charge would be insulting enough, but from a trusted ally? A colleague he’d brought not only into the department, but into his life. His home. His family.

  He stared at her, speechless. No, not speechless. Afraid to say anything, for fear of what he might say.

  And to her credit, though he wasn’t yet willing to give her any, Isabelle Lacoste did not back away. She sat still, in the full force of his glare. And waited.

  “Merci,” he finally said.

  “Patron,” she began, sensing that something precious had just torn. “I—”

  “Thank you,” he said, turning away.

  She’d been dismissed.

  But …

  But her words had not been. As he stared at his screen, he knew that what he was really feeling wasn’t anger, it was fear.

  He was afraid that what she said was true. That he wanted to stop Abigail Robinson and the only weapon he could use was his office. As head of homicide.

  He could arrest her for murder. Whether she committed that actual crime or not would be immaterial. She was in the process of planning hundreds, thousands, of murders. And he wouldn’t let her.

  He would act. He would protect Idola. He would protect Stephen and Ruth. He would protect those unborn, and those born long ago.

  Was that really it? Was Isabelle right? Was he trying to make up for his earlier failure, in the pandemic, to protect the most vulnerable?

  Gamache stared straight ahead, straight at the thing uncurling before him. Was it the truth? Or was it residual guilt?

  And then his eyes focused, and he realized that what he was really staring at was the photo Jean-Guy had found from the conference just days, maybe hours, before Maria had died. He was staring into the eyes of Paul Robinson. And then his gaze shifted and he leaned closer to the screen, narrowing his eyes and zooming in.

  Beauvoir interrupted his thoughts. “Patron?”

  “Yes, what is it?” Gamache looked up.

  Jean-Guy had pulled up a chair. “Let’s say Abigail did kill Debbie in revenge for the death of her sister, why did it take so long? Maria died years ago.”

  Chief Inspector Gamache looked from Beauvoir to Lacoste. Here was his chance. To change course. All he had to do was tell Beauvoir to drop that line of inquiry. That the death of Maria was sad but not pertinent. They were going to focus on the most likely suspect in the murder of Debbie Schneider. Vincent Gilbert.

  Beauvoir waited. Lacoste looked up.

  Except …

  “I think Ruth gave me the answer to that.”

  Jean-Guy turned to Isabelle. “This should be good.”

  Gamache pushed away from his desk, away from Paul Robinson’s stare. He’d been slow to see it, and only now did it all come together.

  “She and I were talking about Reine-Marie’s work, going through Madame Horton’s possessions, and the fact that when someone dies it falls to family to sort through their things.”

  “Right,” said Jean-Guy. “All the crap in closets and drawers.”

  “Attics and basements,” said Isabelle.

  “Exactly. There are hundreds of decisions to be made. Often painful ones, deciding what to keep and what to get rid of. Items become charged with emotion, with memories. So relatives often just pack the stuff up and put it away. That’s what happened when Paul Robinson died. Abigail was young, in shock. She packed up his things and put them in the attic, and didn’t think of them again until her home was sold.”

  “Six weeks ago,” said Jean-Guy. “That’s when she found the letter from Ewen Cameron demanding payment for the treatment.”

  “That’s when she realized what had happened to her mother,” agreed Gamache. “And that Gilbert had been part of it. But suppose she also found that photograph.”

  He nodded to the one on his desk. The one of the four people at the seashore.

  “But if Abigail found the picture, why did Debbie have it?” asked Isabelle. “And why would she lock it in her desk?”

  “There must be something incriminating in it,” said Jean-Guy. “Something that proves Debbie killed Maria.”

  They stared down at the photograph. But it still just looked like a happy family, and a friend.

  “If there is something there that we can’t see, but they can, why would Abigail give it to Debbie? And why choose the New Year’s Eve party to kill her?”

  “Something must’ve provoked it,” said Jean-Guy.

  “‘Abby Maria.’”

  They looked at Gamache. “I’m sorry,” said Jean-Guy. “What?”

  “Debbie kept repeating it, then had to apologize since it so clearly upset Abigail. But why the anger? Why the apology? She said it again at the party, this time in front of the worst possible person. Vincent Gilbert. That was just before she was killed.”

  “But Abigail already explained that,” said Isabelle. “She didn’t want anyone to know about Maria. She thought it would undermine her arguments.”

  “That was a lie. Maria wasn’t a secret. Lots of people knew about her. No, there’s another reason it upset, angered, Abigail.”

  “You think Debbie killed Maria,” said Beauvoir. “And every time she used that pet name it felt to Abigail like she’d been stabbed.”

  “I think it’s possible. Something provoked the attack that night.”

  “What provoked it was Abigail threatening Vincent Gilbert,” said Isabelle. “And he killed her, or rather, he killed Debbie by mistake. It had nothing to do with Maria or her death.”

  “Okay,” said Beauvoir, “but maybe it does. Suppose Abigail has her suspicions of Debbie but nothing concrete. All this talk of Abby Maria pushes her past the breaking point. She needs to have it out with Debbie.”

  Since Isabelle wasn’t encouraging, he turned to Gamache, who was listening closely.

  Beauvoir leaned forward. “Abigail goes outside, and when the Chancellor leaves, she catches up with Debbie and confronts her. Demands the truth about Maria. And Debbie admits it. Probably knew it was coming. Ever since Abigail gave her the picture.”

  As Jean-Guy spoke, Armand found himself standing in the snow, just off the path. In the dark. In the woods. Watching the two women, while Roman candles burst overhead and children stood around the bonfire, trying to write their names in sparkles.

  He watched as Abigail Robinson demanded the truth and Debbie Schneider admitted her crime. She might have even been relieved to finally tell Abby.

  Would she show remorse? Beg forgiveness?

  Or maybe she did neither.

  “If Debbie really did kill Maria,” said Gamache, “I think it’s possible that she believed she’d done Abigail a favor. Freed her to go to Oxford to pursue her dreams. Maybe she even convinced herself she’d done Maria a favor. But she misjudged. Abigail loved her sister. You only have to look at the photograph to see it.” He picked it up and looked at it again. “I think that’s why it was locked away. Not because Debbie felt guilty and couldn’t look at Maria, but because she didn’t want to see the love there.”

  “Now we just have to prove it,” said Beauvoir.

  “Not quite so fast,” said Gamache. “There’s a problem.”

  Not just one, thought Lacoste, but managed to restrain herself.

  “I’ve cross-country skied down that trail,” said Gamache. “There aren’t any handy pieces of wood lying around.”

  “It’s a woods, patron,” said Beauvoir. “There’re trees everywhere. Trees are made of wood.”

  “Merci,
Jean-Guy. But Debbie wasn’t hit with a tree. Or even a branch. And any that had fallen would’ve been covered with snow. No, according to the coroner, Debbie was hit with a fireplace log, cut at a certain angle.”

  Gamache created the wedge with his hands.

  “Where did Abigail get the log?” asked Isabelle.

  “Exactly.”

  Beauvoir thought for a moment. “There’s a stack by the fireplace in the living room, and there was a pile by the bonfire. The problem is, both are pretty public. I think someone would notice if Abigail Robinson picked up a log and walked away with it.”

  “There is another place,” said Isabelle. “The library has a fire. And it’s private.”

  “That would mean the killer took the weapon with them,” said Jean-Guy. “And that would make it premeditated. You don’t just stroll around with a log.”

  “Well, not very pre-,” said Gamache. “But yes, it wasn’t the sudden lashing out we’d assumed. The killer approached Debbie prepared, if not actually committed to killing her.” He turned to Isabelle. “There was someone alone in the library at that time.”

  Lacoste threw her mind back over the interviews they’d done. “Vincent Gilbert.”

  “Yes,” said Gamache. “He said he’d gone in there for some peace and quiet.”

  “Gilbert might’ve seen who he thought was Abigail out the library doors,” said Isabelle. “And saw his chance. He picked up the log, followed her into the woods, and killed her. Only it was Debbie Schneider. Are you saying you now believe it was Vincent Gilbert?”

  “I’m saying what I’ve said all along. We need to look at everyone. Which brings me to something I wanted to show you two.”

  He woke up his laptop and Paul Robinson again popped onto the screen. He was in a suit and bow tie, standing proudly, almost comically, in front of a poster of his work. An exaggerated look of delight, like a showman at a carnival.

  “We’ve seen that, patron,” said Isabelle. “It was taken the week Maria died.”

  “Yes, but did you notice what he’s standing in front of?” Gamache zoomed in tighter.

  Lacoste and Beauvoir leaned closer.