Page 89

“Oui.”

At that moment there was a tap on the door and Dominique carried in a tray with a teapot, coffeepot, milk and sugar and mugs.

“Pardon.” Without looking into anyone’s eyes, she put the tray down and left. Fled, really. Never to forget the look in Abigail Robinson’s eyes.

Hands plastered to her face, she was staring at Gamache. In horror. As though he’d done it. As though he’d killed Debbie.

And then the dam burst.

She began to cry. Sob. She was choking. Sputtering. Gasping for breath as the grief heaved out of her.

Colette rubbed Abigail’s back and made soothing sounds, as a mother might to a child. Until the sobbing slowed to gasps and hiccups.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Having already found a box of Kleenex, Gamache handed her tissues.

Off in the corner, the young agent was staring. Terrified by what she was seeing. A grief so great it threatened to swallow them all. She glanced at the Chief and saw sympathy. But she also saw that he was completely focused, his eyes shrewd.

She double-checked that her phone was recording and leaned forward.

Abigail balled the Kleenex in her hand and looked around. For her friend. Who would take the damp tissues from her. Who would always take any unpleasantness away.

Then her hand dropped to her lap and her eyes came to rest on Gamache. “How?”

“We can’t tell you that,” said Gamache.

“Can’t,” said Colette Roberge, “or won’t?”

“Won’t. But we believe death was quick.”

He nodded toward Beauvoir, who took over the questioning.

“When was the last time you saw Madame Schneider?”

Pausing for a moment to gather her thoughts, Abigail turned to Colette. “Before midnight. You went out for a walk. I saw you both by the bonfire.”

“When was this?” Beauvoir asked the Chancellor.

“After the, umm, the discussion with Dr. Gilbert,” said Colette. “Debbie and I got the coats. We were going to go home. We waited for you”—she looked at Abigail—“outside.”

“In the cold?” asked Beauvoir.

“It seemed more hospitable than the party. Besides, we were getting hot in our coats.”

“Did you join them?” Beauvoir asked Abigail.

“No. I’d wandered over to a group and got caught up in a conversation about my work and the pandemic.” She focused on Beauvoir, as though seeing him for the first time. “You were there.”

“Yes.”

“You’re a police officer?”

“He’s my second-in-command at homicide,” said Gamache. “And my son-in-law.”

Abigail’s mind, mired in shock, tried to work that out. “So, the young woman’s your daughter?”

“Yes,” said Gamache.