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She got to her feet.

Gamache also rose. “You saw the vague wording of the letter and knew it wasn’t really a confession. He couldn’t possibly put a pillow over his daughter’s face. But someone else could. Someone else had. And he thought he knew who.”

“What I know is that Paul Robinson loved his children.”

“More than life itself.”

“Yes.”

Gamache considered the calm, serious woman in front of him, and weighed his options, considered the consequences. And made his choice.

“When Paul Robinson returned home from that conference, he found Maria already dead, isn’t that right? And all his subsequent energies, including that letter, went into covering up what happened.”

“And that was?” But they could see that she knew. Or suspected.

“That Paul Robinson believed his other daughter had done it.”

Colette Roberge gave a single whoop of laughter. “You’re kidding. That’s nonsense. Abigail loved Maria.”

“Yes. I agree. I’m not saying he was right.”

“What are you saying?”

“He could see that Maria had not died naturally. Suppose in his shock he leaped to the worst possible conclusion, and had to act on it. In case it was true.”

He knew he’d hit the open wound that Colette Roberge had gauzed over for decades. But that had continued to weep, to seep, until it became septic.

“The coroner at the time noted petechiae on Maria’s face. Tiny—”

“I know what that is, Armand.”

“Then you know what they indicate. I think the coroner might have suspected. But there was the overwhelming evidence of the sandwich lodged in the girl’s throat.”

“Wait.” Colette put up her hand to stop him. “You said suppose Paul got home, found Maria dead, and assumed Abby had done it. But you also said suppose he was wrong. So if not Paul, and not Abby . . .”

Her voice trailed away, and her eyes drifted out the window to the acres of snow, just beginning to catch the first light.

Then she turned back and searched Gamache’s face. And found a disconcerting quietude. A patient man waiting. His hand holding a worn thread.

“Debbie?” she asked.

She began to nod. Began to see.

“Debbie was so devoted to Abigail. She could see that Maria would always hold her back. But no. I think if she did such a thing, it would be far more personal. They were fifteen. It’s a difficult age. She had complex, maybe even confusing feelings for her best friend . . .” She looked at Armand. “Jealousy. She was devoted to Abby, but Abby was devoted to Maria.”

“Perhaps.”

“Is that why Paul sent not just the letter, but the book? Extraordinary Popular Delusions. Was he telling me that what he’d written was a lie? That he hadn’t killed Maria? He thought Abby had done it in a moment of madness, and he wanted me to protect her.” She hesitated, working her way through this. “But you’re saying he got it wrong? It was Debbie? But there’s no evidence, is there? Why would you think Debbie killed Maria?”

“Because she’s dead.”

“And you think Abby found out what happened and killed her?”

The sun was just up now, the sky a soft morning blue behind Chancellor Roberge. Armand stepped toward her and shook his head.

“Me?” she said, in astonishment. “Why would I do that?”

“So that Abigail wouldn’t have to. I think you’re still working to earn that eternal gratitude.” He paused. “Go check on Jean-Paul, then get dressed and call someone to be with him. You’re going to have to come with us.”