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“Yes, inside,” said Inspector Beauvoir, and if he could have smiled, he would have.
Standing on what had, just hours earlier, been a stage for the Fable de La Fontaine, Gamache, Beauvoir, and Dr. Harris looked at the anxious faces.
Everyone, except the sleeping children, had stood up and turned to them.
Armand felt the trickle as snow melted down his burning cheeks and the back of his neck. Beside him, Dr. Harris took in the crowd, noting the children, many in animal costumes, asleep on sofas, chairs, and the carpet in front of the fire. It looked like a tableau vivant. Until one woman moved.
Abigail Robinson stepped forward, turning for a brief moment toward the door. Expecting one more person to walk through it. Hoping . . .
“What’s happened? Where’s Debbie?”
Colette Roberge whispered, “Abby.”
But Abigail wasn’t listening. She crossed the room, and grabbed Armand’s arm.
“Where is she?”
“I want to speak to you,” he said, gently. “First, though, I need to say a few words to everyone here. Then we can talk. Privately.”
“No, now. I need to know.” Her voice was rising.
He placed his hand over hers. “In a moment. Please.”
He nodded to Colette, who came forward and led Abigail a few steps away. Beauvoir had a quiet word with Dominique and Marc, then indicated to Colette that they should follow Dominique down the hall.
Abigail now looked disoriented. Uncertain what to do. She looked around. For guidance. For Debbie.
“Go with them,” Beauvoir said quietly to an agent. “Record anything they say and do.”
Abigail allowed herself to be led down the hall, past the eyes of parents hugging their children, protecting them from the sight of such intense sorrow.
Ruth held Rosa’s head gently in the hollow of her shoulder, shaped especially, it seemed, for a sensitive duck.
Once they’d left, Armand stood beside the fireplace. At eye level with his friends, neighbors, family. Intensely aware of the children, including his own grandchildren, now awake and watching. Listening.
Armand Gamache was also very aware that he might be in the company of the person who’d done this. He scanned the faces, looking into the eyes of Haniya Daoud. Vincent Gilbert.
Stephen.
Not that long ago his godfather had joked that elderly people made perfect murderers.
“Life in prison isn’t much of a threat, or deterrent.” Stephen had laughed. But Armand knew him well enough to know he also meant it.
To protect Idola, and all the Idolas unborn, would this elderly man kill?
And Armand knew the answer. Stephen Horowitz might very well be the most dangerous person in the room. Kind, generous, brilliant. Ruthless, determined, and skilled. And with nothing to lose.
But kill Debbie Schneider? A woman, as far as Armand knew, he’d never met. Why?
Why would any of them kill her?
The answer was clear. They hadn’t. The murderer had killed Abigail Robinson, or thought they had.
He cleared his throat, still raw from the icy cold, and described in words that would not scare children, but that adults would understand, that someone had died and they needed to find out why.
“I’m sorry, but you won’t be allowed to go home just yet. We’ll need to speak with each of you. We’ll start with parents of the youngest children and work our way up. I hope it won’t take too long.”
He thanked them for their understanding. Before he could leave, Reine-Marie approached him.
