The Madness of Crowds--A Novel

by Louise Penny

  Gamache glanced at Colette, who gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

  “When your father got home from the conference that day,” he continued, “Maria was already dead, wasn’t she? He could see she’d been smothered. He knew it could only have been you or Debbie. I think he had to assume the worst.”

  “The worst?” asked Haniya. She looked at Abigail. “You? You killed your sister?”

  Colette shook her head. “No, she didn’t. But Paul had to assume she had, in case it was true. So he covered it up. And took the blame.”

  Jean-Guy tried to keep his focus on Abigail. Tried to erase an image that would never completely go away. Of Paul Robinson hurriedly making the peanut butter sandwich, while one daughter called for help and the other lay dead. And then, picking up the sandwich, he …

  “No,” said Abigail, adamant. “My father would never think that of me. He’d know I couldn’t do such a thing. I loved my sister.”

  And yet, Gamache considered, Paul Robinson had thought exactly that.

  “Your father lost his mind,” said Colette. “He was overcome with a sort of fugue, a temporary insanity. All he could think of was protecting you.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  Once again Gamache held up his hand. “He was a careful man. He’d close all holes, make absolutely sure there could never be any doubt. He wrote that letter, then took his life as his final act of love, to make absolutely sure you’d never be accused of the crime. But his confession was worded in such a strange way.”

  He brought the letter out of his breast pocket. It was warm from sitting against his rapidly beating heart.

  “He writes”—Gamache found the place—“It wasn’t deliberate. I know that.” He looked up. “He’s writing to you. To tell you that he knows you didn’t really mean to do it. He wants you to know that he forgives you, and that you’re free now, to live your life. To continue your studies at Oxford. To fulfill your potential. He wanted you to know that you’re safe.”

  “That’s why he sent it to me,” said Colette. “He wanted me to know the truth. And to watch over you. To carry on his work of protecting you. I did it from far away, but I was always there. Always watching.”

  “That was his eternal gratitude,” said Beauvoir.

  “Yes.”

  “No, that’s not the truth, I didn’t kill Maria,” said Abigail, exasperated. “And how can this have anything to do with what happened to Debbie?”

  “That was the question,” said Isabelle Lacoste. “If your father didn’t kill Maria, and you didn’t, then who did?”

  A silence descended on the cabin, broken only by the shrieking birds outside.

  “Debbie?” suggested Gilbert, tentatively. “She did it?”

  “Debbie?” demanded Abigail. “Why would she hurt Maria?”

  The rifle was getting heavy, the tip dipping, then lifting.

  Chest, abdomen. Chest, abdomen.

  “Jealousy,” said Lacoste. “That picture says it all.” She nodded toward the photograph on the table. “Debbie locked it away in her desk because she didn’t want to see it. She didn’t want to see the little girl she’d killed, and she sure didn’t want to see how much you loved her. Look at it.” They did. “Look at Debbie’s expression. Look at how she’s tugging your arm. She’s practically ripping you away from your sister. You must’ve known.”

  “I knew she was possessive, yes. That’s part of the reason I wanted to cool the friendship. She was smothering me.”

  If Abigail realized the word she’d just used, she didn’t show it.

  “There’s another reason Debbie might’ve killed Maria,” said Gamache. “The same one your father wrote in his letter. To free you of a burden.”

  “No, Maria was never a burden.”

  “I’m telling you what Debbie might have thought. Is that what she told you, when she confessed?” he asked. “That she did it for love?”

  “Confessed? What’re you saying?”

  “What are you saying, Armand?” demanded Colette.

  “You know what I’m saying.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off Abigail. “She confessed, and you killed her.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.” His voice was grave. Sad. There was no triumph.

  “Armand.” Colette reached for him, but Lacoste stepped between them.

  “When Debbie found and finally read your father’s suicide note,” said Gamache, taking another step forward. He saw Abigail grip the rifle, steady the rifle. He saw, in his peripheral vision, Beauvoir brace himself, to take the shot. “She realized your father blamed you for what happened. She decided to tell you the truth.”

  “No!”

  “That night, New Year’s Eve.” He had her full attention now. “When Colette left Debbie and returned to the Inn, you went out to look for her, to tell her you were leaving. You found her on the trail. She told you then. That your father hadn’t killed Maria, she had. I think she had both letters with her. The one from Gilbert to your father. The one you wanted to threaten Gilbert with. But she had another. The one from your father.”

  “None of this happened,” snapped Abigail.

  “Did she try to explain that it was done for love? Did she beg forgiveness?” Gamache studied her. “I don’t think so. I think she genuinely believed you’d be pleased. Grateful even. You might even thank her. Is that what pushed you over the edge? That there was no remorse? No recognition of what she’d done?”

  “No! This’s absurd.”

  And in a flash he saw she was right. He’d made another mistake. His mind had traveled too quickly and overlooked one vital detail.

  The murder weapon.

  The scenario he’d just described depended on Debbie confessing, and Abigail lashing out. But if so, how did she get a fireplace log in her hand? As Beauvoir said, no one was likely to have been walking around with one.

  And no one had a chance to get one. Except …

  He looked at Vincent Gilbert, who was staring at Abigail and gripping the poker.

  Gamache’s mind rapidly backtracked. Going back over images. Statements. And then he had it.

  “Your coat,” he said to Gilbert.

  “What of it?”

  “You had it on. You came outside during the fireworks and you were wearing your coat.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “How did you get it?”

  “What’s this got to do with anything?” asked Haniya. “Did she kill her friend or not?”

  But Gamache wasn’t listening. He was staring at Gilbert.

  “I went up to my room, of course.”

  “When?”

  “Just before midnight.”

  “But you told us you only left the library at midnight.”

  “Well, I guess it was a couple of minutes before.”

  “And you”—he turned to Colette—“say you got to the library just after midnight?”

  “Yes. The fireworks were already going off.”

  That was the window, the time when the murderer could get the weapon.

  But that would mean …

  Almost there.

  “No,” Gamache said, taking another step forward. “I was wrong. When Debbie read your father’s letter, she saw it wasn’t a confession. She knew that your father hadn’t killed Maria. But she also knew that she hadn’t.” He stared at her. “That’s it, isn’t it.”

  He’d finally stuck the landing. It took the rest of them an elongated moment to see it.

  “You?” said Gilbert, staring at Abigail.

  “That’s the answer to our question,” said Gamache. “Why your father would confess to a terrible crime, and one he didn’t commit. He didn’t believe it was you. He knew it was. He knew you. Where he was selfless, you were selfish. Where he was sincere, you were manipulative. Where he put family first, you put your ambitions first.”

  “Far from the tree,” said Beauvoir.

  Armand nodded. “You fell far from the tree. But he loved you and wanted to protect yo
u. When Debbie found the copy of his suicide letter and finally read it for herself, she could see what he was really saying. When did she tell you that she knew? Was it before you even traveled to Québec? Did she promise your secret was safe with her?”

  “My God,” said Abigail. She looked at the others. “Can’t you see what he’s doing? He wants me to be guilty.”

  “Is that why Debbie kept repeating ‘Abby Maria’?” said Gamache, ignoring her outburst. He took another small step toward Abigail. On solid ground at last. “It was meant as reassurance. A sort of code between you. A secret you shared. But each time she said it, you heard a threat. A warning.”

  “This’s bullshit. You’re setting me up.” She appealed to Colette. “He hates me because of my study. Can’t you see that?”

  “When Debbie said that your father believed that the truth should come out, no matter how unpleasant, that must have really set off alarms,” Gamache continued. Unrelenting now. “Did panic set in?”

  Abigail’s face hardened. She was, he could tell, steeling herself to act. And he thought he knew what it might be. He’d seen that expression before. From men and women standing on a bridge, high over a river. Just before …

  Abigail’s breathing was steady now. Quiet.

  “I don’t think you woke up that morning intending to kill Debbie.” Gamache’s voice was calm now, reassuring. “I don’t think you even went to the party with that in mind. But it was simmering. And then Debbie mentioned Abby Maria in front of Dr. Gilbert. It was a step too far. You knew then that you couldn’t trust her. Whether intentionally or not, Debbie would let out too many hints and eventually someone would start digging.”

  “Armand,” warned Gilbert. He could see that she was about to snap.

  But Gamache had to keep pushing. They had no real evidence. His theory fit the facts, but an even moderately competent defense lawyer would get her off. They needed a confession. He could see that while Jean-Guy had the gun in his hand, Isabelle had her phone out. Recording.

  “You’re wrong, Armand,” said Colette. “Debbie killed Maria. I know because she told me on our walk.”

  Gamache turned and looked at her. “Are you saying you then killed Debbie Schneider?”

  “Yes.”

  “Non.” He shook his head. “You didn’t. You’d never risk Jean-Paul’s future like that. What would become of him, if you were arrested? No.” He held her eyes. “You can stand down now. You’ve earned Paul Robinson’s eternal gratitude. He just didn’t realize what he was asking.”

  He turned back to Abigail. “You killed her.”

  “No.” But her voice held little conviction.

  Putting up his hands, he said softly, “Abigail—”

  And then she did what he had feared. She swung the rifle away from Gilbert. To Jean-Guy.

  “No!” shouted Gamache.

  Beauvoir braced himself and pulled the trigger. But not all the way. Almost. Almost. Another hair …

  “Do it,” she shrieked. “Do it. Take the shot.”

  And he wanted to. With every fiber. Now was his chance. It wouldn’t be murder, it would be self-defense. Everyone would see that. And then Idola would be safe. They’d all be safe.

  “You want to,” shouted Abigail. “I knew it from the start. You hate me because you agree with me. Your daughter should’ve been aborted.”

  “Abigail!” Colette made to move forward, but Gamache stopped her.

  It was all Armand could do not to step between Jean-Guy and Abigail himself. But it was up to Beauvoir now. To resolve this. He held his breath, his eyes wide. His heart pounding.

  “It’s me or your daughter,” Abigail screamed, and thrust the rifle forward.

  Tears were streaming down Jean-Guy’s face and he made a sound like a mortally wounded animal.

  “Shoot, you fucking coward!”

  He lowered his gun and shook his head. Isabelle stepped forward and grabbed the end of the rifle, lifting it to the ceiling.

  “Do it,” Abby begged, even as the rifle was twisted out of her grip and she slumped to the floor. “Please.”

  “Abigail Robinson,” Jean-Guy began, “I’m arresting you—”

  He could go no further. His knees began to buckle.

  Armand grabbed him, holding him up. Holding Jean-Guy in his arms as he sobbed.

  CHAPTER 47

  “The chamber was full,” Isabelle reported. “She meant to kill you.”

  “No,” said Jean-Guy. “She meant for me to kill her.”

  He was slumped in the back of the car, utterly drained and still trembling. Not from the cold, but from exposure.

  “Suicide by cop,” said Gamache. It was one of the nightmares. One few cops had come out of without being forced to actually do it.

  But Jean-Guy Beauvoir was far from the average cop.

  They’d taken Abigail Robinson into the Sûreté station, where she was booked for possession of a dangerous weapon and assault on a police officer.

  They hadn’t yet charged her with the murder of Debbie Schneider, or Maria. They didn’t know if they had enough evidence to convict. That might take some time. If ever. Though they still hoped for a confession.

  By the time the booking was done, the statements taken, the paperwork completed, it was late afternoon.

  Colette Roberge had been driven back home to Jean-Paul, and Vincent Gilbert and Haniya Daoud had returned to the Auberge.

  Once there, Vincent had asked Haniya to walk down to the bistro with him, for a drink.

  “I need some fresh air.”

  “We’re going to walk?”

  “It’s just down the hill,” he said. “You can see it from here.”

  “You can see the horizon too. Doesn’t mean I want to walk there.”

  The two Asshole Saints bickered all the way down the hill and into the bistro, where Gabri got them a table away from polite company and pumped them for information.

  He left with an order for a double scotch and a hot chocolate, but no information.

  * * *

  Isabelle drove the Chief and Beauvoir back to Three Pines.

  Jean-Guy sat in the back seat and passed a shaky hand over his face. He wondered if they realized how close he’d come. He thought they probably did.

  What he didn’t know is why he hadn’t fired. And whether he’d live to regret it.

  * * *

  “So you didn’t take Abigail to your cabin to kill her?” Haniya asked.

  “Me? Murder someone? I got a belly full of cruelty with Ewen Cameron. No. I asked Professor Robinson to join me, away from distractions, so I could apologize for what I allowed to happen to her mother. But I never got the chance.”

  He looked down at his veined hands, clasped together on the table. His scotch was untouched in front of him.

  Haniya picked up her bowl of hot chocolate topped with peaks of whipped cream. She’d felt the need for something soothing. Never having had hot chocolate, but watching the pleasure it gave others, she felt it might be just the thing.

  She wondered why she was so upset. After all, she’d been through worse. Done worse. But she’d never actually witnessed the fallout. She’d thought of the men she’d killed as inhuman. And she knew that she’d had no choice but to do what she did.

  But now she was beginning to realize a greater truth. That those men and boys had families. Had motives, however flawed. Had wounds of their own. They almost certainly had not been born with the desire to rape, to torture, to torment and murder.

  Now, sitting in the quiet bistro in the quiet village, Haniya Daoud accepted that while the men she’d killed were horrific, were monsters, they were also human.

  And maybe, maybe, in realizing the truth, she could finally find some measure of peace. Maybe that was the real prize.

  “Would you like to?” Haniya asked. “Apologize, I mean. Maybe you can try it on me.”

  Gilbert was about to dismiss the idea, but looking at her, he changed his mind.

  “I’m d
eeply sorry for what happened to your mother. For my shameful part in it. I’m deeply sorry I didn’t do anything to stop it. I should have, and I didn’t. I’m sorry that it led to her death, and for what subsequently happened to your family, and all the families. I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused.”

  The elderly Asshole Saint searched the face of the young Asshole Saint and noticed that the scars had disappeared. Or rather, they were no longer the first thing he saw when he looked at her.

  “I forgive you,” she said quietly. “And I’m sorry too. That you were so hurt, driven mad with brown brown, that you did those terrible things. I’m sorry your life had to end as it did.”

  While Vincent Gilbert tried to figure out what she was talking about, and what brown brown was, Haniya lifted the bowl with trembling hands and took her first sip of hot chocolate. And immediately understood its powers to soothe, if not heal. She also understood why Canadians might love winter, if this warm drink came with the snow and ice.

  She lowered the mug and smiled at Vincent.

  He wondered if he should tell her about the whipped cream mustache but decided not to. Seeing it somehow lifted his spirits.

  Once an Asshole Saint …

  * * *

  “Before you go, there’s something I’d like to show you,” Clara said the next morning.

  She’d asked Haniya over to her home to say goodbye. When she arrived, she found Myrna already there in the now familiar kitchen. Going into the familiar living room, Haniya stopped at the threshold and stared.

  Gabri and Olivier stood up and turned to her. As did Reine-Marie. Ruth, holding Rosa, stood next to Stephen. Jean-Guy and Isabelle were there. As were Annie and Honoré and Idola. They’d driven down to Three Pines, to see her off.

  They were standing in a semicircle, facing her.

  Haniya stepped back. Paused. Then took one step forward. Then another. And completed the circle.