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It was a losing battle. The father would always win. And both were swept away by the thought, the very idea, of doing what Paul Robinson had done that day. Putting a pillow over their child’s face. But perhaps especially, grotesquely, the sandwich.

It was what they’d suspected happened, since seeing the word “petechiae” in the autopsy. That the sandwich was postmortem.

That Maria’s death wasn’t some terrible accident.

Gamache had toyed with the idea that either Abigail, or more likely Debbie, had done it. But the letter made it clear. Maria’s own father, driven by desperation, had killed her.

To read it in his own handwriting, stated so simply without embellishment, made it all the more horrific.

Colette removed her glasses and wiped her eyes, then startled slightly when a hand landed unexpectedly on her shoulder.

“It’s all right. I’m here,” said Jean-Paul. He turned mild eyes on their visitors. “Have you upset her?”

Colette put her hand on top of his. “No. They’re friends. Here to help.”

“With the packing?”

She smiled at him. “Never. That’s your job. No one does it better. Please, come sit.”

“Are you sure?” asked Armand.

“Jean-Paul knows it all, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

His eyes were kindly, but blank.

“You said the letter reached you the day after Paul Robinson died?” said Beauvoir.

“Yes. It came with the book. I knew what it was after the first line. It was so clearly a suicide note, admitting that he killed Maria and couldn’t live with himself any longer. As he says, he’d known the moment it happened that he’d have to take his own life, but he also knew he’d have to wait until Abigail was grown and out of the house. He sent her to me at Oxford, and asked that I look after her.”

“Which you did,” said Armand. “And earned his eternal gratitude.”

“Oui,” she said quietly. “Jean-Paul and I had rented a cottage in nearby Lower Slaughter. Abby came every weekend and stayed until after Sunday roast. She’d often bring a friend. Abby was a bright, happy young woman. Ambitious, but most at that level are. And then this”—she glanced at the letter—“happened.”

“What did you do when you read it?” Armand asked.

“I called him. I thought maybe . . . But it was already done. A neighbor answered and told me Paul was gone. It looked like a stroke or heart attack, but of course, I knew.”

“And didn’t say anything.”

“No, why would I? If he’d wanted people to know, he’d have left a note there, but he didn’t.”

“But he did send one to you. Why was that?”

“I’ve wondered myself. The closest I can come is that he felt the need to confess. To tell someone who loved him, and might even understand, what had happened.”

“But,” said Armand, leaning forward, “he also says at the end that you should let Abigail read the letter.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why would he want her to know what he’d done to her sister? Surely that’s something he might, at a stretch, want you to know, but not his other daughter.”

His eyes were imploring her to explain it to him.

Colette smiled a little, a sort of grin. “You didn’t know Paul.” She looked at her husband, who was pulling tissues from the Kleenex box and folding them methodically.

“He was a scientist. Meticulous in his research, in his notes, his files. Always neat and clear. He was dedicated to the truth. I think he wanted someone to know.”