Page 102

They went through the rest of the interviews quickly. Gabri, Olivier, Clara, Myrna. None of them saw, or heard, or knew anything.

There was one interesting exchange, though, when Beauvoir asked Myrna what she thought of Professor Robinson. He’d asked them all, but Myrna’s answer was particularly penetrating.

“Did you notice that she went directly to the two people in the room who so obviously didn’t want to talk to her? The Asshole Saint and you,” Myrna said to Beauvoir. “There’s something self-loathing about a person who does that, who keeps walking into a propeller blade.”

“Then why do it?” Beauvoir asked.

“To punish herself. I think she puts on a hair shirt every day and goes out to spout crap she doesn’t necessarily support.”

“Wait a minute,” said Beauvoir. “You think she doesn’t believe in her own cause?”

“I think her head believes it, but I’m not so sure about her heart. Assuming, of course, she has one.”

“Then why’s she doing it?”

“Why does anyone do anything? Something’s compelling her.”

“Something? Someone?” asked Beauvoir.

“Either. Both. She’s like an addict. So bound to something that she can’t let it go, even though she knows it’s self-destructive.”

Jean-Guy Beauvoir nodded. He understood addiction and compulsion.

“You’re a psychologist,” said Gamache. “Do you think Professor Robinson wants to stop?”

Myrna sighed and glanced out the window. It had been a long, long horrible night. And that poor woman was still out there.

“If I had to guess, and it is just a guess, I’d say Professor Robinson is torn. I watched her try to ingratiate herself with the crowd, even you,” she said to Beauvoir. “She wants to be liked, that much was obvious. And she is, actually, likable. But she’s dragging around this big stinking albatross of an idea that repulses people. I think she’d love to let it go, but can’t.”

“Put down the cup,” said Gamache.

She examined him for a moment, taking in the thoughtful eyes, and the ghosts swirling behind them.

Here was a man who understood the desire to put down the cup. The difference was, Abigail Robinson’s cup was filled with bile.

“But why can’t she?” Beauvoir asked. “Why keep going if she doesn’t believe in it?”

“Oh, I think she does believe in it. And I think she hates herself for it. It’s not a comfortable place to be. Someone like that might be very unstable.”

“Might kill a friend?” asked Beauvoir.

Again Myrna smiled, but without amusement. “I have no idea. I’m presuming the murder wasn’t planned, is that right?”

Gamache and Beauvoir glanced at each other and nodded. They hadn’t had a chance, yet, to discuss the details, but it seemed obvious. When the murder weapon was a log, it probably wasn’t premeditated.

“Then something must have happened in the party,” said Myrna. “Was there a blowup between the friends? Did they argue?”

“Not that we saw,” said Beauvoir.

“Well, you know more about murder and motives than I do, but I’d have to say someone who’s desperate to be liked might not kill the only person who genuinely does like her.”

“Merci, Myrna,” said Gamache, getting up.

But Myrna paused, still sitting. “I’m not sure I should say this.”

“What?”

Myrna took a deep breath. “What Abigail Robinson is proposing isn’t new. It isn’t revolutionary. It’s evolutionary. It’s already happening.” When Armand went to talk, she held up a thick hand. “Québec was the first province to legalize physician-assisted suicide.”