The Madness of Crowds
- Автор: Пенни Луиза
- Серия: Chief Inspector Gamache #17
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: St. Martin's Publishing Group
- ISBN: 9781250145284
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Madness of Crowds». Краткое содержание книги:
You're a coward.
Time and again, as the New Year approaches, that charge is leveled against Armand Gamache.
It starts innocently enough.
While the residents of the Québec village of Three Pines take advantage of the deep snow to ski and toboggan, to drink hot chocolate in the bistro and share meals together, the Chief Inspector finds his holiday with his family interrupted by a simple request.
He's asked to provide security for what promises to be a non-event. A visiting professor of statistics will be giving a lecture at the nearby university.
While he is perplexed as to why the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec would be assigned this task, it sounds easy enough. That is, until Gamache starts looking into Professor Abigail Robinson and discovers an agenda so repulsive he begs the university to cancel the lecture.
They refuse, citing academic freedom, and accuse Gamache of censorship and intellectual cowardice. Before long, Professor Robinson's views start seeping into conversations. Spreading and infecting. So that truth and fact, reality and delusion, are so confused it's near impossible to tell them apart.
Discussions become debates, debates become arguments, which turn into fights. As sides are declared, a madness takes hold.
Abigail Robinson promises that if they follow her, ça va bien aller. All will be well. But not, Gamache and his team know, for everyone.
When a murder is committed, it falls to Armand Gamache, his second-in-command Jean-Guy Beauvoir, and their team to investigate the crime as well as this extraordinary popular delusion.
And the madness of crowds.
“Patron.”
He felt the parka being draped over his shoulders and strong arms lifting him to his feet. He was trembling now. As Beauvoir helped him into the thick coat, he could feel the relief immediately. The wind and cold had stopped ripping into his flesh. Winter was being chased out of his bones.
He made a noise he thought would be a slight moan of relief but came out sounding more like a squeal. It would, almost certainly, be played in open court one day. But he was beyond caring.
Beauvoir shoved a knitted tuque down over Armand’s ears, then said, “Here. Give me your hands.”
Gamache did as he was told. Beauvoir put insulated gloves on each hand, already warmed by pocket heaters. “Better?”
Gamache nodded as Beauvoir knelt to help him on with his boots.
“Non, non, I can do that,” protested Armand, but Jean-Guy was already doing it, providing his shoulder for Gamache to lean on.
Within a minute the world had gone from bitter, biting, ferocious cold to blessed warmth.
“Merci,” he mumbled, through still numb lips.
Together, they looked down at the woman at their feet. Though they hadn’t said anything, neither investigator was in much doubt who this was.
All his instincts, all his humanity, screamed at Gamache to turn Abigail Robinson over. There was something grotesque about leaving her facedown like that in the deep snow. But she was beyond saving or caring. And the best they could do for her now was to find out who’d done this to her.
“The Scene of Crime team and coroner are on the way,” he told Beauvoir.
It had begun to snow. Not big, gentle flakes of a flurry. These were tiny, vicious barbs. Searching for flesh. Invading any opening in their clothing.
The area around the body had been trampled. Not by them. They’d been careful, though they couldn’t, of course, avoid making some prints.
The young men and women who’d rushed to the body when it was discovered had, unintentionally, obscured any prints that could be evidence.
They were a hundred yards into the forest along a trail normally used for cross-country skiing. Gamache could easily make out the crisp parallel lines of the skis. Though closer to the body, they’d been trampled. And even those boot prints were being quickly filled in by the blowing snow.
The light from their phones created a world of strange, ghastly shapes in the woods that shifted as their beams moved.
“No weapon,” said Beauvoir. “How long ago did this happen?”
He’d barely touched the body, so he didn’t know.
“Dead just before midnight, I’d say,” said Gamache.
“While we were distracted by the countdown?” He heard Gamache hum agreement.
Beauvoir looked behind him. The attack had occurred within sight of the Auberge. He could see the Christmas tree, bright and cheerful, through the living room windows. He could see Annie and the others sitting quietly around the fireplace.
The party was over.
Dr. Harris stood up and indicated to the head of the unit that they could turn the body over.
They were in the Scene of Crime tent, erected around the body to protect evidence and privacy.
Sharon Harris stepped back and stood between Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir, two Sûreté officers she knew well from previous investigations.
She’d arrived still dressed, under her long winter coat, in her party clothes.
“Bonne année,” she’d mumbled to Gamache as he greeted her.
Industrial lights had been installed as the homicide unit swung into their routine.
Thermoses of coffee were stuck upright in the snow for the agents unfortunate enough to be on call when the call was made.
Wind and snow beat against the sides of the tent, and the agents had to raise their voices to be heard above the buffeting. There was little talking anyway, beyond what needed to be said. Gamache had instilled in each of them that the site of every murder was to be treated as near sacred.
He understood perfectly well that joking was a way to deal with the trauma and stress. But there were better, more effective tools for coping.
To help them deal with the horrors of their job, Chief Inspector Gamache had brought a counselor into the homicide department and made it clear that he himself went to those private sessions once a month, sometimes more.
And slowly, slowly, most of the other officers did too.
Now he watched as the stiff body of Abigail Robinson was turned over.
He stared. Then looked at Jean-Guy. Who was also staring.
“Just a moment, please.” Gamache stepped forward and bent over the body, then looked up at Jean-Guy Beauvoir. Both men were surprised.
But not, perhaps, as surprised as Debbie Schneider.
Dr. Harris completed her initial examination of the body, then Beauvoir pointed toward the entrance of the tent.
“Must we?” asked Dr. Harris.
Still, she followed them outside, steeling herself against the elements.
Though they were ready for it, the wind and snow still yanked their breath away. The cold roared down their throats, burning their lungs. For a moment they couldn’t breathe, then all three coughed as their bodies fought back, trying to expel the icy air.
“Merde, Armand,” Dr. Harris gasped. “You sure know how to pick ’em.”
“Not my choice,” he rasped.
They were huddled together, as snow devils, tornados of flakes, swirled around them.
“What can you tell us?” Gamache’s words turned to vapor, which froze to the stubble on his face.
They were beginning to look like members of Scott’s Antarctic expedition. And that hadn’t ended well.
“Can we go inside?” Dr. Harris called above the wind. “It’s too cold out here to talk.”
Beauvoir motioned one of the agents over. “Come with us. You’ll need to take notes.”
“Inside, sir?” she said. It was, at that moment, better than winning Loto-Québec.
“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.