by Louise Penny
“Yes.” Then her brow creased in an effort to recall. “But she never actually read the letter.”
“Pardon?”
“She reached for it, but Abigail did this.” Colette mimed turning away and clutching something to her chest, protectively.
“So how did she know what was in it?” Isabelle asked.
“Abigail told her.”
“Read it to her, you mean?” asked Armand. It was important, vital at this stage, to be precise.
“No. She described the letter.”
“Accurately?” asked Isabelle.
“Oui. Debbie started to cry. Abigail didn’t. At least, not that I saw. I think she was just too shocked.”
“Did you and Abigail have a chance to talk about the letter privately?” asked Armand.
“Yes. I told her that her father loved both his daughters. And that it was his choice, his decision. And not her responsibility.”
“And you kept the letter,” said Armand.
“I asked Abby if she wanted it, but she didn’t. So yes, I’ve had it all this time.”
“And as far as you know, Debbie never actually read it?”
“That’s right. Why?”
“Paul Robinson made a copy of it. I’m wondering where it went.”
Now Colette smiled and nodded. “Yes, I can see him doing that. I’d do that.”
“I imagine you’d also be clearer, Colette.”
Her smile flattened and she stared at him, then at the other two. “You noticed that, did you?”
“You did too?”
“Not at first, but I read it again a few years later, and it struck me that he never really came right out and said he’d killed Maria. It’s near impossible to read it and not come to that conclusion. And yet…”
“Why didn’t he just say it?” Armand asked.
He thought back to the notes he’d written before heading into an action he was leading. One he knew could go very badly. The scribbled words of love. And then sliding his wedding ring off and sealing it in the envelope, to be left in his desk drawer.
In case.
There was no ambiguity about those few words. And neither should there have been about Paul Robinson’s. He’d had, after all, time to consider. Years in fact. To choose each word.
Armand Gamache had no doubt that Robinson had indeed killed himself. And he had absolutely no doubt Robinson had written the suicide note. But what was he saying?
And to whom?
Colette Roberge? Abigail?
“What was he trying to say, Colette? I think you know.”
“All I know for sure, as I said before, is that Paul Robinson loved his children. Everything he did, he did for them.”
“Including killing himself?” asked Jean-Guy. “How could that be for his one remaining child? To be left alone, and then told everything that happened was partly her fault?”
Colette shrugged. Not dismissively, but to show she had no answer.
“How does Debbie Schneider figure into this?” asked Armand. When Colette said nothing, he pressed. “Did Paul Robinson kill Maria?”
“He says he did.”
“No, he doesn’t,” said Armand. “We’ve just been through this. As a precise man, he is shockingly, glaringly imprecise in his final letter. And yet I think his message is clear. To someone.”
“Well, when you figure it out, Armand, you let me know.”
“I’ll let that go, Madame Chancellor, because I know you’re not used to your work having real-world consequences. But ours does. A little girl was killed decades ago, and then days ago a grown woman was murdered. The two are connected, and I think you know how.”
“Are you sure you haven’t stumbled into a spurious correlation?”
He leaned forward. “Why was Paul Robinson eternally grateful to you? What were you doing for him? Keeping his secret? Protecting his daughter? Are you still protecting her?”
The color rose up Colette’s neck and into her cheeks. “I need to make sure Jean-Paul’s all right.”
She got to her feet.
Gamache also rose. “You saw the vague wording of the letter and knew it wasn’t really a confession. He couldn’t possibly put a pillow over his daughter’s face. But someone else could. Someone else had. And he thought he knew who.”
“What I know is that Paul Robinson loved his children.”
“More than life itself.”
“Yes.”
Gamache considered the calm, serious woman in front of him, and weighed his options, considered the consequences. And made his choice.
“When Paul Robinson returned home from that conference, he found Maria already dead, isn’t that right? And all his subsequent energies, including that letter, went into covering up what happened.”
“And that was?” But they could see that she knew. Or suspected.
“That Paul Robinson believed his other daughter had done it.”
Colette Roberge gave a single whoop of laughter. “You’re kidding. That’s nonsense. Abigail loved Maria.”
“Yes. I agree. I’m not saying he was right.”
“What are you saying?”
“He could see that Maria had not died naturally. Suppose in his shock he leaped to the worst possible conclusion, and had to act on it. In case it was true.”
He knew he’d hit the open wound that Colette Roberge had gauzed over for decades. But that had continued to weep, to seep, until it became septic.
“The coroner at the time noted petechiae on Maria’s face. Tiny—”
“I know what that is, Armand.”
“Then you know what they indicate. I think the coroner might have suspected. But there was the overwhelming evidence of the sandwich lodged in the girl’s throat.”
“Wait.” Colette put up her hand to stop him. “You said suppose Paul got home, found Maria dead, and assumed Abby had done it. But you also said suppose he was wrong. So if not Paul, and not Abby…”
Her voice trailed away, and her eyes drifted out the window to the acres of snow, just beginning to catch the first light.
Then she turned back and searched Gamache’s face. And found a disconcerting quietude. A patient man waiting. His hand holding a worn thread.
“Debbie?” she asked.
She began to nod. Began to see.
“Debbie was so devoted to Abigail. She could see that Maria would always hold her back. But no. I think if she did such a thing, it would be far more personal. They were fifteen. It’s a difficult age. She had complex, maybe even confusing feelings for her best friend…” She looked at Armand. “Jealousy. She was devoted to Abby, but Abby was devoted to Maria.”
“Perhaps.”
“Is that why Paul sent not just the letter, but the book? Extraordinary Popular Delusions. Was he telling me that what he’d written was a lie? That he hadn’t killed Maria? He thought Abby had done it in a moment of madness, and he wanted me to protect her.” She hesitated, working her way through this. “But you’re saying he got it wrong? It was Debbie? But there’s no evidence, is there? Why would you think Debbie killed Maria?”
“Because she’s dead.”
“And you think Abby found out what happened and killed her?”
The sun was just up now, the sky a soft morning blue behind Chancellor Roberge. Armand stepped toward her and shook his head.
“Me?” she said, in astonishment. “Why would I do that?”
“So that Abigail wouldn’t have to. I think you’re still working to earn that eternal gratitude.” He paused. “Go check on Jean-Paul, then get dressed and call someone to be with him. You’re going to have to come with us.”
“Are you arresting me?” she asked, half laughing.
“Not yet.”
Like Paul Robinson before him, he’d chosen his words carefully. To be both clear, and ambiguous.
CHAPTER 45
It was just after half past six when Jean-Guy Beauvoir went over to the Sûreté agent in the vehicle outside the Auberge.
“Has anyone gone in or out?”
“Non, patron. Only the staff. Day shift starts at six thirty.”
“If anyone comes out, stop them. It might not be from the front door. They could come around the side. Your partner?”
“Patrolling the outside, like you ordered. We’re taking turns.”
“Bon.”
Once in the lobby Isabelle had the front desk clerk call Haniya, Abigail, and Vincent in their rooms. And invite them down for breakfast.
The receptionist got through to Haniya, but there was no answer from the other two.
“Probably in the dining room,” said Isabelle. But she returned a minute later. “Not there.”
“Did anyone come down?” Gamache asked the receptionist.
“No.”
“Can we have the keys to their rooms, please.”
Beauvoir took the stairs two at a time while Lacoste asked, “Is there a staff entrance?”
“Yes, around the side.”
She went off quickly to check it and returned at the same time as Beauvoir.
“Not in their rooms,” he reported.
“There’re back stairs, for the staff,” said Lacoste. “And an exit. Gilbert would know about both.”
“Search the place,” commanded Gamache.
While they did, he made some calls. His first was to the bistro, to make sure neither Vincent Gilbert nor Abigail Robinson was there. Olivier answered and said they were not.
Next, Gamache called Gilbert’s son, Marc, who had a home a couple of kilometers away.
As he listened to the phone ring Armand saw Haniya descend the sweeping stairway into the lobby, wearing a royal blue abaya and embroidered hijab.
“Marc? It’s Armand Gamache. I’m wondering if your father’s with you.”
“No, he should be at the Inn. He said he’d be leaving this morning but not until later.”
“Leaving for where?”
“His cabin. Why? Is there a problem?”
“Did you speak to him last night?”
“Yes, we had dinner there. Why?” Now his voice had risen.
“How did he seem?”
“How does Dad ever seem?”
“So the same as always?” asked Armand.
“Yes. What’s this about? Is something wrong?”
“I just need to speak to him.”
“At”—there was a pause—“twenty to seven in the morning?”
“Merci, Marc. Nothing to worry about.”
Move along, nothing to see here. Though there always was.
Just asking questions. No real reason. Though there always was.
Nothing to worry about. Though …
“Nothing,” said Beauvoir, when Gamache hung up.
Isabelle appeared from the other direction and agreed.
“What’s going on?” demanded Haniya, who was standing in the lobby beside Chancellor Roberge.
“Look outside,” Gamache said to Beauvoir and Lacoste, then turned to Haniya.
“Did you see or speak to Professor Robinson or Dr. Gilbert last night when you got back from our place?”
“No. I went right to my room.”
“And this morning? Did you hear or see anything?”
“I was asleep until you called. What’s happened?” She looked from the Chief Inspector to the Chancellor, who seemed troubled.
Beauvoir arrived back. “The agent saw the night shift leave at six thirty but didn’t check them.”
“There’re boot prints leading into the woods,” reported Lacoste, breathless.
“Toward the crime scene?” asked Gamache.
“No. Toward the cabin. Two sets.”
“Damn.” Gamache looked at his watch. “That was seventeen minutes ago.” He turned to Colette. “What’s his plan? What’s he going to do to her?”
The Chancellor was pale. Her breathing rapid. Her mind working. “Nothing. I’m sure of it.”
But of all the things she seemed, “sure” wasn’t one of them.
“There’re snowmobiles in the garage,” Gamache said to Beauvoir and Lacoste.
While they sprinted out, he turned to Colette and Haniya. “Stay here. Don’t follow us. I mean it, Colette. Do not follow us.”
They heard engines revving outside.
“Chief?” Lacoste called from the door.
At the door Gamache put on his gloves, then said to Colette, more gently now, “Paul Robinson was wrong. You know that.”
More revving.
“Was he?”
“Don’t follow us.”
The Chancellor noticed the emphasis and tilted her head.
Gamache pointed at Haniya. “Stay.”
She was clearly outraged at being spoken to like that. He couldn’t blame her. But it had to be done.
He plunged back into the cold, and after speaking quickly to the Sûreté agent in the car, he hurried over to Beauvoir and Lacoste, each astride their own snowmobiles.
“Are you armed?” he asked, his voice raised above the roar.
When both shook their heads, he opened his glove to reveal a gun. “Here, take it.”
“Not yours,” said Beauvoir, zipping it into a pocket of his parka.
“Non. The agent’s. For God’s sake, don’t lose it. Gilbert has a rifle. It’s licensed. He has it for protection in case a bear attacks, though I doubt he’s ever fired it.”
“Only because he prefers bears to people,” said Lacoste.
Gamache got on the lead machine and, gunning it, he crossed the road and headed deep into the woods. With Beauvoir and Lacoste right behind.
The wind was full in their faces. Their eyes teared and their cheeks froze as they hunched over their machines. Banking around corners, and racing ahead, desperate to get to the cabin.
Just before the last curve, Gamache stopped and dismounted. As did the others.
They ran the rest of the way, slipping and skidding on the snow and ice. When one fell, the others ran back and dragged them up.
Sunlight bounced off the reds, blues, and greens of their coats, as the three of them plunged forward.
They could smell the cabin before they saw it. A fire had been lit in the hearth and the scent wafted to them through the thin air. Rounding the corner, they slowed to a walk. Then, at a signal from Gamache, they stepped off the path and into the woods. Their boots sank knee-deep into the snow as they waded through it, catching glimpses of the cabin through the forest.
It sat at the far side of the clearing, a wisp of smoke coming out the stone chimney. A propane lamp had been lit, throwing soft light from inside onto the pristine snow.
It was a peaceful scene. Like a Christmas card, or a snow globe before being shaken.
But it was time to shake it up.
Gamache pointed, and together they sprinted across the clearing, skidding to a stop at the cabin. Pressing themselves against the logs, they held their breaths.
Nothing. They hadn’t been heard.
Lacoste craned her neck and glanced through the window. Then ducked back down.
“They’re sitting by the fire,” she whispered. “One on either side. Talking.”
“Talking?” asked Beauvoir. He had his hand on his pocket. He hadn’t yet unzipped it, but he could feel the comforting outline through the goose down.
“Oui. I can’t see the rifle.”
She looked again, then ducked down quickly. “Gilbert’s gone.”
“Get back,” said Gamache. As Beauvoir and Lacoste went to scramble around the corner, the cabin door opened.
Armand threw out his arm, as a father did to instinctively protect a child in the passenger seat, when something unexpected happened.
They froze.
Vincent Gilbert stepped onto the small porch and looked around. He held something in his hands. Something long and metallic.
At the small sound of a pocket beginning to unzip, his eyes swung around and landed on Gamache.
Armand stood up and faced Gilbert.
>
“What’re you doing in there, Vincent?” he asked.
“What’re you doing out there, Armand?”
* * *
The Sûreté officers followed Vincent Gilbert into the cabin.
Gamache saw Jean-Guy’s hand on his still sealed pocket and made a small gesture.
Not yet.
Isabelle was the only one who hadn’t been in the Asshole Saint’s home before. She quickly took in the single room.
A brass bed, separated from the rest of the cabin by bookcases, was at one end. A small kitchen with worn wooden counters and an old pine table was at the other. And in between was a sitting area around a woodstove, which Gilbert was now tending with the poker he’d been carrying.
The cabin was warm and smelled of sweet pine and herbs. It smelled of the forest. As though the log walls were an illusion. Like so much else about this case.
Propane lanterns had been lit, and a coffeepot was perking on the woodstove.
It would have been a perfect domestic scene, if not for the rifle on the coffee table among the mugs, the cream jug, and the sugar bowl. Like a still life in Appalachia.
Two oversized armchairs were in front of the fire. One for solitude. Two for friendship.
Neither Henry David Thoreau nor Vincent Gilbert had anticipated so much society. Nor could the two people who’d been in the chairs be considered friends.
“May I?” Gamache asked, stepping forward and pointing to the rifle.
“Perhaps not,” said Gilbert, sitting back down, still holding the poker. “As you know, I have a license for it.”
“True, but you’re not licensed to point it at people.”
“It’s just sitting on the table, Armand. Not doing any harm.”
Not yet.
“Are you all right?” Lacoste asked Abigail.
“Yes.”
“Why wouldn’t she be?” asked Gilbert.
Isabelle looked from Gilbert to Abigail. She couldn’t make out who was the hostage and who was the taker. And she could see that Gamache and Beauvoir were having the same difficulty.
While Gilbert held, gripped really, the poker, the rifle was actually closer to Abigail.
“We were just talking,” said Abigail. “Two scientists comparing notes. But looks like the time has come for some sort of conclusion, don’t you think, Dr. Gilbert?”