by Louise Penny
“Not happily, but when I showed her your message she could hardly deny it,” said Isabelle.
“At least we know now what happened to Maria,” said Beauvoir. “That’s no longer a motive in the murder of Debbie Schneider.”
“Do we know?” asked Isabelle.
Armand and Jean-Guy turned to her.
“Well, yes,” said Jean-Guy. He pushed the plastic encased letter from Paul Robinson across the conference table. “There is a small clue in the suicide note.”
“But is it a confession?”
Now Beauvoir laughed, then looked at her with suspicion. “Of course it is.”
“What are you thinking, Isabelle?” asked Gamache.
“Something’s been bothering me about this.” She pulled the letter toward her.
Gamache moved around the table until he was beside her, while Beauvoir moved to her other side.
“Why didn’t Paul Robinson leave a note with his body?” asked Isabelle. “Most suicides do. Not all, but most. Or he could’ve easily made a copy of this note and left it in a safety-deposit box. In case the other got lost. Everyone describes him as a methodical scientist. Wouldn’t he make sure there was a copy of something so important? And why write to Colette, but not Abigail? It’s not like she was a child. She was twenty.”
“Maybe he wanted to make sure there was someone with her when she read it,” said Gamache.
“Could be, but he could’ve included a separate letter to Abigail in the same envelope, just saying he loves her and is sorry. What’s it going to do to a young woman, knowing she was the reason her father killed her sister, then took his own life? Did that really need to be said?”
“The whole thing seems strange,” admitted Jean-Guy. “I mean, why confess at all, so many years later?”
“That’s the other thing, though,” said Isabelle. “He doesn’t really confess.”
“But he does.” Gamache pointed to the letter. “It’s right there.”
“No, it isn’t.”
As one, the three of them bent their heads over the letter.
Isabelle could feel Jean-Guy’s shoulder touching hers, and she could smell the Chief’s faint scent of sandalwood with a hint of rose. The bit of his wife he carried with him always. Like breath.
“I’ll be damned.” Gamache stood up and, bringing his hand to his mouth, he stared at the page.
“You’re right,” said Jean-Guy. “Nowhere in this does he come right out and say, I killed Maria. What he does say”—he reached for the letter—“is that he’s responsible. That it’s his fault, that he can’t live with what he did.” Looking up again, he stared at the other two. “Knowing it was a suicide note, we filled in the blanks.”
“And he still might have done it,” said Isabelle. “But it just struck me that he never actually says it.”
“He also says,” Gamache read out loud, “It wasn’t deliberate. I know that.” Gamache looked at Isabelle and Jean-Guy. “Isn’t that strange wording?”
They nodded. Slowly.
“Wouldn’t he leave it at, It wasn’t deliberate?” asked Jean-Guy.
They all, in unison, went back to staring at the letter.
Gamache, his eyes narrow in concentration, was trying to think it through.
Why didn’t you clearly confess? he asked a man long dead but still very much present. Why did you send the letter to Colette Roberge? Why did you say you knew Maria’s death wasn’t deliberate?
Why did you really kill yourself?
In the gloom of the basement, an idea was forming.
“We need to have that”—he nodded toward the letter—“fingerprinted and checked for DNA.” He handed it to Isabelle. “And have the handwriting analyzed.”
“Oui, patron.”
He watched as she made a copy. Then, putting it into a secure envelope, she gave it to an agent to take to the lab in Montréal.
As the letter left the confines of the basement, Armand’s thoughts chased after it.
Did you really kill Maria?
Did you really kill yourself?
He walked over to the large board, placed in the Incident Room by the technicians. Photographs had been pinned up there. Of the murder scene. Of the body. There were schematics of the crime scene, the trail, the Auberge. The bonfire. Movements and relationships between various people.
Down the side of the board were other photographs.
From the shooting in the old gym.
The mug shots of a stunned Édouard, Alphonse, and young Simon Tardif.
The portrait of Ewen Cameron.
And now, two more had been added. Paul Robinson in front of the silly pseudo-scientific poster of spurious correlations, and the last one, of Maria, Paul, Abigail, and Debbie.
Picking up a black felt pen, he turned to the others.
“Let’s try to clarify. We have several scenarios. One. The intended victim on New Year’s Eve was Abigail Robinson.”
As he spoke, he wrote her name, under the heading, Victim.
Then, next to that, under Motive he wrote, Mass Euthanasia Campaign/Blackmail.
Under Suspects he wrote: Vincent Gilbert, Colette Roberge.
“With a possibility being Simon Tardif,” said Isabelle. “Though he’s pretty far down the list.”
“Agreed. The other scenario,” Gamache continued, “is that Madame Schneider was the intended victim all along.”
“And the motive?” asked Jean-Guy. “We’d thought maybe she’d killed Maria, but with the letter from Paul Robinson…”
“We don’t know for sure it is a confession,” said Isabelle. She leaned forward, putting her elbows on the conference table.
“Abigail believed all this time that her father killed Maria,” said Gamache. “But we’re back to the other theory. Maybe, in clearing out his things, she finds something that tells her he hadn’t. That tells her the truth.”
“That Debbie did it,” said Beauvoir.
Armand pointed the pen at him, then turned and circled Debbie’s name.
“And the motive?” he said. “In Abigail’s mind, Debbie not only killed a sister she loved, but also, by association, her father.”
“He sent the letter to Madame Roberge,” said Beauvoir, “and told her to show it to Abigail, believing she’d killed Maria. He wanted Abby to know she was safe.”
“Except she didn’t do it,” said Isabelle. “Can you imagine how she’d feel if she realized her father had lived with that belief for so many years? That he believed she’d killed her sister? Then he’d taken his own life for no reason. How she’d feel about Debbie?”
“She’d hate her,” said Beauvoir.
Isabelle, though, was shaking her head.
“I think we’re making this much more complicated than it needs to be. I think the motive has to be something that’s recent.”
“But it is recent,” said Beauvoir, “for Abigail.”
“Go on,” Gamache said to Isabelle. “What do you think happened.”
“I think your first scenario is right. Abigail was the intended victim. I think someone saw her at the party. They hated the agenda she’s pushing. They saw their chance to stop her, and they took it.”
“Anyone in mind?” asked Beauvoir.
“Vincent Gilbert, maybe with Colette Roberge’s help,” said Isabelle. “They had motive and opportunity.”
Gamache turned around and studied the board, the pictures, the schematic. Something didn’t fit. Some small piece.
Then he walked to the table and reread the letter. He was beginning to see what.
“There’s someone else, patron,” said Jean-Guy, taking Gamache’s place at the board.
Picking up a red felt pen, he wrote, Haniya Daoud.
Gamache’s brows rose. How could he have forgotten her? Was it because while the others were standing in plain sight, practically jumping up and down for their attention, Haniya Daoud was sneaking up. Machete in hand. Unseen in the dark.
He wondered if the young wom
an had had one last killing left in her. And then, ça va bien aller. All would be well. She could put down the machete. Put down the cup.
He put down the letter. “I think it’s time for dinner.”
* * *
To avoid an Auberge crawling with suspects, they returned to the Gamache home.
Armand went into the kitchen to look for Reine-Marie, while Isabelle and Jean-Guy made themselves comfortable in the living room.
As he entered, Armand saw Haniya Daoud, a long blade in her hand. She was pointing it at Reine-Marie, whose back was turned.
He felt his heart skip a beat, and his muscles tense. The world slowed down, in a rush of terror and adrenaline. And then, as quickly as it came, it passed.
A vestige of the job. Fireworks were gunshots, and all knives were weapons, especially when pointed at someone he loved.
“I didn’t know you were here,” he said to Haniya.
“Clearly. And I can see your delight.”
He smiled. “No, you just saw my surprise. You’re always welcome.”
“Oh, hello, Armand.” Reine-Marie turned around. “I asked Haniya to stay for dinner. She was kind enough to come with me to the Horton place to return the last box.”
Armand kissed her lightly, then grabbed a wooden cutting board, a baguette, and a knife.
The kitchen smelled of simmering coq au vin and fresh basil, which Haniya had torn and placed on a platter, with the tomato and the burrata she was slicing.
Daniel and his family, along with Annie and the children, had gone back to their homes in Montréal. They’d offered to stay on, but both Reine-Marie and Armand had said it would probably be best if they returned when there wasn’t a murderer among them. Which, in Three Pines, might prove problematic.
“What else can I do?” Haniya asked.
“You can put that platter on the table,” said Reine-Marie. “Then pour yourself a drink and join the others in the living room. Dinner’s in about twenty minutes.”
Haniya placed the burrata and tomato on the pine table, but didn’t go into the living room. Instead she wandered down to the far end of the kitchen, pausing on the way to look at the art on the walls. Some portraits, some naïve works. Some landscapes.
And one modest little frame.
“Is this…?”
“It is,” said Reine-Marie. “Took a long time to track one down. It’s an original.”
“One of a kind?” asked Haniya, leaning close to the small photograph of a single crystalline snowflake.
“How’d it go with the Hortons?” Armand asked.
As Reine-Marie told him, he watched Haniya. She’d made herself comfortable in one of the large chairs by the woodstove and was staring into the night.
“You didn’t tell them about their mother and Ewen Cameron?”
“No. Not all truths need to be told. They have the box, they can look into it if they want. I think they know there’s something in there, but this way they have a choice.” She looked at their guest and lowered her voice. “I think she wants to stop.”
“Stop what?” he asked. Killing?
“Being the Hero of the Sudan. Look at her. She’s barely more than a child. I think she wants to have a peaceful life. To wake up and meet Clara in the bistro for breakfast. To discuss books with Myrna. To drop by here for tea or dinner, and not have to worry about all the girls, all the women, out there waiting for her to rescue them.”
“To put down the cup,” said Armand.
She watched him put the kettle on. If only that were possible.
* * *
While Reine-Marie returned to the living room, Armand took a cup of tea to Haniya.
“May I?” He nodded toward the armchair across from her.
“Of course.”
As he sat, he mused that Haniya Daoud seemed to own every room she was in. And yet she never seemed to belong.
“Did you kill Debbie Schneider?”
Haniya’s brows disappeared into her hijab. “Small talk, Chief Inspector?”
He smiled, but said nothing.
“Or is this how you investigate a crime? Ask that question over and over until someone says yes?”
“Or it’s time for bed, oui.”
She laughed. It was full-throated and seemed to surprise even her.
“Well,” she finally said, “all I can say is your investigation must be a real shit show if you still suspect me. That is the expression, isn’t it? ‘Shit show’? I learned it from Ruth. She was describing Clara’s career as an artist.”
“Well, that’s one expression, yes. You haven’t answered my question.”
“Oh, you were serious?”
He was no longer smiling. His eyes on her were thoughtful, searching.
“No. I didn’t kill her. What I told you before is true. Killing the person does not kill an idea. And if I had wanted to do away with Professor Robinson, I wouldn’t have been stupid enough to kill the wrong person. I’ve never done that.”
There was a crackling silence between them.
“We all make mistakes. In the cold and dark, in a hurry. It’s possible.”
“True,” she said. “But not that mistake. Human life is sacred. That’s another thing I learned in the camps. When you see so much death, you come to value life. When you see so much cruelty, you come to value kindness.”
“But do you recognize it? Because it’s out there.” He gestured toward the next room. “And you’re in here.” He put down his cup. “I’m going into the living room. Will you join me?”
“No. I’m just fine out here.”
He nodded. “If you change your mind…”
What are you doing out there, Ralph?
But he had some idea what Haniya Daoud was doing.
CHAPTER 43
“Couldn’t sleep?” asked Armand.
Though it was almost three in the morning, the voice hadn’t surprised Jean-Guy. He’d heard the slippered feet approaching the kitchen and recognized the gait.
“I haven’t really slept since Honoré was born,” he said.
“Tea?” Armand turned around, kettle in hand.
Beauvoir was about to decline, then realized that yes, a nice cup of tea …
Dear God, he thought, I’ve been infected. “Yes, please. Did you hear that?”
Jean-Guy half rose. His face alert, his body tense. There’d been a sound from the front of the house.
“It’s okay,” said Armand, turning off the tap. “I was just about to tell you—”
“Is it morning already?” asked Isabelle. Her cheeks were red from the short walk from the B&B. She carried a plate covered with a checked dish towel and was wearing polka dot flannel pajamas under a plaid flannel robe.
“You look like something out of Dickens,” said Jean-Guy.
“I don’t think we want to get into what each of us looks like, do you?”
In sweats and unshaved, he looked like some bedraggled mess cops on an overnight shift brought in. And kept downwind.
Putting the plate on the counter, she greeted Gamache, who looked pretty much as he always did. Or at least a variation on the same theme.
A university professor woken up out of a deep sleep. Also unshaven, his beard would be almost completely gray, she saw, if he chose to grow one again. Unlike Jean-Guy, he’d at least made an effort to brush his hair, but one side still stood up.
“I saw Isabelle’s light on over at the B&B,” Armand explained, pouring milk into a jug, “and texted her to join us.”
It was 2:53.
Lacoste took off the towel to reveal an assortment of breakfast pastries. “Courtesy of Gabri and Olivier.”
“Do they know how generous they’re being?” asked Armand.
“Not yet.”
While the tea steeped, Armand went into the study and returned with the documents he’d brought from the Incident Room. Jean-Guy spread them out on the kitchen table. Mugs in front of them, the three Sûreté officers ate pain au chocolat and studied the page
s.
It was like Jean-Paul Roberge’s jigsaw puzzle. Though, when correctly assembled, this would not show a basket of puppies.
The problem was, they seemed to have a few puzzles mixed together.
There was Vincent Gilbert’s involvement in Ewen Cameron’s experiments on innocent men and women. Including Abigail’s mother.
There was the question of Maria’s death.
There were the violent reactions to Abigail Robinson, and the people, including Gilbert and maybe the Chancellor, who’d do anything to stop her campaign for euthanasia.
And then there was the outlier. The puzzle that was their visitor. Haniya Daoud. Who talked of moral courage and committed murder under cover of darkness.
Were they separate puzzles, Gamache wondered, or all part of the same picture? One part forest, another sky, some water, some buildings? Appearing unconnected, spurious even, but combined they formed a single image.
Or maybe he had the analogy wrong. Not a puzzle, but what he’d thought earlier. One long thread. That started with Cameron and ended decades later with the body of Debbie Schneider.
The tug he’d given earlier had revealed Colette Roberge. The recipient of Paul Robinson’s oddly vague letter. And his eternal gratitude.
Had she earned it for looking after his daughter when the suicide note arrived, or was it more expected? Was the commitment ongoing?
Picking up his mug, Armand strolled over to the windows at the far end of the kitchen and gazed out. “Why was Paul Robinson so grateful to Colette?”
His words formed steam on the cold window.
Turning around, he looked back at Beauvoir and Lacoste. This was far from the first time they’d found themselves sleepless and poring over a homicide in their pajamas.
“He was grateful to her for looking after Abigail,” suggested Isabelle.
“Possible, but ‘eternal’ gratitude? That seems excessive.” After rekindling the fire in the woodstove, he returned to the table and brought the copy of the suicide note closer to him. “It’ll be interesting to get the handwriting and DNA analysis.”
“You think he didn’t write it?” Jean-Guy asked.
“I’m wondering, not thinking.”
“But if he didn’t, who did?”