The Madness of Crowds

On his very first sled run, the boy had clung to his father and screamed the whole way down. A shriek of delight, as Henri, the Gamaches’ German shepherd, bounded after them.

They’d hurtled down the hill, past the New Forest, past St. Thomas’s church, past the fieldstone and brick and clapboard homes. To tumble, laughing, into the soft snow on the village green.

“Some lungs your grandson has,” said Clara Morrow. She and her best friend, Myrna Landers, were standing outside Myrna’s bookstore, rum toddies warming their hands.

“Is it me, or was he actually screaming a word?” asked Myrna.

“Non,” said Reine-Marie quickly, not meeting her friends’ eyes. “Just a scream.”

Just then a piercing shout filled the air as Honoré and his father took off again.

“That’s my boy,” said the old poet Ruth, sitting on the bench between Florence and Zora, her duck Rosa muttering in her arms.

“What’s Honoré saying, Papa?” asked Florence.

“He sounds like Rosa,” said Zora. “What does ‘fu—’”

“I’ll tell you later,” Armand said and glowered at Ruth, who chuckled, while Rosa muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck” and looked smug. But then ducks often did.

Rosa and Armand had a brief staring match, before Armand blinked.

For the next few minutes, he and Reine-Marie supported their granddaughters as they slid and stumbled on the ice. These were the first steps of what would become a lifetime of skating. And one day they’d teach their own granddaughters.

“Look, look!” Florence shouted. “Look at me. Fffu—”

“Oui,” her grandfather interrupted and saw Ruth on the bench not even trying to hide her delight.

It was midday, and they’d all been invited back to Clara’s for a lunch of pea soup, bread warm from the oven, an assortment of Québec cheeses, and pie from Sarah’s boulangerie.

“And hot chocolate,” said Clara.

“That better be code for booze,” said Ruth, as she hauled herself to her feet.

Armand carried their skates back home and, going into his study, he found the message Daniel had taken. It was from the Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté du Québec, calling from her ski chalet at Mont-Tremblant.

He returned the call and listened, surprised, as she told him what it was about.

“A lecture? From a statistician?” he’d said. Through the window he could see his family troop across the village green to Clara’s small fieldstone cottage. “Can’t campus police look after it?”

“Do you know this Abigail Robinson?” his superior asked.

Gamache had heard the name but couldn’t quite place it. “Not really, non.”

“You might want to look her up. Voyons, Armand, I really am sorry. The University’s not far from you and the lecture will only last an hour. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it would be easy. And, well, there is one other thing.”

“Oui?”

“They asked for you specifically.”

“They?”

“Well, someone at the University. I understand you have a friend there.”

Some friend, thought Gamache, trying to think who it might be. He knew a number of professors.

He’d showered, changed, jotted a note for Reine-Marie, then driven the few kilometers over to meet with the building caretaker.

The venue had once been the gymnasium of the Université de l’Estrie, until a new sports complex had been built. They now hired it out for community events. Fundraising dances, reunions, rallies. Armand and Reine-Marie had been at a dinner there in late summer. It was the first indoor public gathering permitted since the pandemic had officially ended, held to raise money for Médecins Sans Frontières. One of the many organizations that had experienced a shortfall in donations during the crisis.

But that was months ago now.

Armand knocked the snow off his boots and introduced himself to the caretaker, Monsieur Viau. They stood in the middle of the large gym, the faded circle of center court just visible under their feet. The unmistakable musk of teen sweat still hung in the air, impossible to banish even though the teens who’d produced it were now probably parents themselves.

There was a stage at one end of the rectangular room, a wall of entrance doors at the other, and windows along one side.

“Do you know the capacity?” Gamache’s voice echoed in the vast empty space.

“I don’t. We haven’t had to figure it out. It’s never been close to full.”

“The fire department hasn’t told you the capacity?”

“You mean the volunteer fire department? No.”

“Can you ask?”

“I can, but I know the answer. I’m the fire chief. Look, I can tell you that the building’s up to code. The alarms, the extinguishers, the emergency exits all work.”

Gamache smiled and put his hand on the man’s arm. “I’m not criticizing. Sorry to be asking all these questions, and interrupting your holidays.”