Page 211
“So was Ewen Cameron’s,” said Gilbert.
“Yes,” said Abigail, turning to him. “Let’s talk about Ewen Cameron. He killed my mother, my sister, my father. And you’re just as guilty of their deaths.”
As she spoke she leaned closer to Gilbert, closer to the rifle. Beauvoir moved his hand to his pocket and rested it there.
Come on. Come on.
“Did you come to Québec to kill Dr. Gilbert?” Gamache asked her.
“No. I came here to look him in the eye. To make him admit what he did.”
“You came here to ruin him,” said Colette.
“He’s already ruined,” said Abigail. She looked around the cabin. Outside, they could hear the blue jays shrieking in the morning sun. “I came here to expose him. I wanted the rest of the world to see what a monster he really is.”
“And to blackmail him,” said Beauvoir. “To force him to support your work.”
“This whole thing started a few weeks ago, didn’t it?” Gamache said to Abigail. “When you found the letter Dr. Gilbert wrote to your father demanding payment. That’s when you realized what had happened to your mother.”
“And that he”—she glared at Gilbert—“was part of it. Yes.”
“You brought the letter with you, of course,” said Gamache, feeling his way forward now.
She nodded. “Debbie had it. I didn’t even want to touch it.”
Gamache turned to Gilbert. “How did you know she had it on her?”
“I didn’t. I had no idea that letter still existed. Not until we were at Colette’s and you brought out the other letter. The one sent to the local woman. That’s when she”—he nodded toward Abigail—“said she’d found a similar one. Before that I had no idea her mother had been part of Cameron’s experiments.” His gaze moved on to Colette. “Aren’t you going to say something? You’re going to let them accuse me of a crime you know I didn’t commit?”
“Do I know that, Vincent?”
“Of course you do.” The Asshole Saint was beginning to lose it.
Colette was quiet for a moment, then turned to Gamache.
“You said that this started a few weeks ago, when Abigail found the letter from Vincent among her father’s things. That might’ve been, to use your analogy, the hundredth monkey. The final push. But it started long before that.”
“Oui. I see that now. I’ve made a few mistakes. Some in judgment.” He held her eyes. “And some in logic. I thought of the murder of Debbie Schneider as a puzzle, like Jean-Paul’s. A jigsaw. I watched him do what we all do with jigsaws. We separate out the pieces, into colors, into patterns that match. Then we frame it. But this seemed to be two or three different puzzles mixed together. It didn’t make sense, until I changed the analogy. Until the rational puzzle became a thread of emotions. One end is tied to Debbie Schneider, the other to Ewen Cameron. And the thread that runs through everything that happened in between has a name. Abby Maria.”
Abigail sat back in her chair and stared at him. “Did Colette tell you?”
“Non. She kept your father’s confidence. All Colette would say is that he loved both his daughters, equally. More than life itself. I didn’t see it, couldn’t quite get there, even after we found the note he wrote you.”
Abigail turned to Colette. “You showed them?”
“No. They searched the house and found it.”
“It seemed to contradict what everyone said about your father,” said Gamache. “The letter appeared cruel, even vindictive. It seemed to lay part of the blame on you. You were, he said, part of the reason for what happened to Maria, and for his own suicide. He did what he did to free you.” Gamache shook his head. “I couldn’t reconcile the two. A loving father who kills one child and burdens another with a lifetime of guilt? How could this be love? How could love, real love, ever be a reason to murder?”
“I know how,” said Haniya.
Gamache looked at her and nodded. “Yes, you do. You survived for love. And you did what you did for love. And now, I think, I also understand.”
“Now it is now, and the dark thing is here,” said Gilbert, quietly.
“It’s not dark yet,” said Gamache. “But it’s getting there.”
Haniya gave a snort of laughter. “A cop who quotes Bob Dylan. You are dangerous.”
