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“But he couldn’t get those demands for payment back,” said Lacoste. “They were in private hands.”

“He must’ve assumed, as time went by and the victims died, that he was safe. That those papers were lost or destroyed,” said Gamache.

“Or that no one would notice, or recognize, the signature of a minor research assistant,” said Lacoste. “But Abigail Robinson did. And she came here to make him pay.”

Jean-Guy was nodding, thinking. Imagining it.

Debbie Schneider had had Dr. Vincent Gilbert’s balls in her pocket. And he meant to get them back.

“Though Chancellor Roberge could’ve done it too,” said Jean-Guy. “Maybe even more likely. She and Debbie went for a walk. Alone. In the dark. Debbie could have shown her the letter and, thinking she was a friend and ally, told her what they had planned. Roberge realized how damning the letter was and lashed out. Then burned the paper in the bonfire.”

“But why would she do that?” asked Isabelle. “Kill someone to get a letter back that had nothing to do with her? She wasn’t named in it.”

Gamache realized that Isabelle hadn’t been at the meeting at the Chancellor’s home. Hadn’t seen that small gesture, Gilbert’s hand on Roberge’s. But Jean-Guy had.

“Because Colette Roberge loves Vincent Gilbert,” said Jean-Guy.

“Really?” Isabelle considered that, then said, “But do you really think the Chancellor would kill to protect his reputation? His life, maybe, but his reputation?”

“Have you met the man?” asked Jean-Guy. “His reputation is his life. All he has left.”

“I think it’s fairly clear that Abigail, probably with the help of Debbie Schneider, planned to, at the very least, blackmail Gilbert,” said Armand. “To avenge her mother.”

“And maybe her father,” said Isabelle.

“Why do you say that?” Armand laid down his spoon and fork.

“When his wife died, Paul Robinson lost a life partner, a companion, and a helpmate. His death certificate also says heart failure, just like hers. Vague. I doubt it tells the full story, the real one. There was no autopsy.”

“You think he killed himself too?” asked Jean-Guy.

It wasn’t all that hard to imagine.

Suppose, he thought, Annie died? Suppose she’d been tormented into it? And he was the one who’d put her into the monster’s hands? And then Idola dies, and once again it’s his fault. He’d given her the peanut butter sandwich that lodged in her throat.

Jean-Guy suspected his broken heart would give out too. Crushed by grief and guilt.

“He waited until his other daughter was grown,” he said.

“Oui,” said Isabelle. “Out of the house. She’d just gone away to Oxford.”

“And was in the care of his friend Colette Roberge,” said Armand. It fit. If he could follow the sequence of events, Abigail Robinson certainly could.

“The specter of Ewen Cameron hangs over this case,” said Gamache. “As do the ghosts of all his victims. Including both of Abigail Robinson’s parents.”

A few years ago, when Agent Beauvoir had first arrived in homicide and the Chief Inspector said things like that, he’d roll his eyes and smirk.

Gamache had ignored him and waited. And waited. Until one day Jean-Guy Beauvoir understood that when people died, they didn’t go away. They were very much alive in the minds, in the hearts, in the vivid memories of those left behind.

And they were not always easy to live with. Some ghosts had demands.

“How old was Abigail when her sister died?” Armand asked.

“Fifteen,” said Isabelle.

“And her father was alone with Maria when she died?”

“As far as we know. Because of the manner of her death, the coroner did a full autopsy.”