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“Of eugenics, yes,” said Gilbert, his voice cold, abrupt. The clinical man was back. “Chancellor Roberge didn’t say why she was sending it to me. She just did.”
“And what did you do, after you’d read it?”
“I was appalled, but honestly, I didn’t think anyone would take it seriously.”
“Are you surprised the Premier has?” asked Gamache.
“Taken her report seriously? I didn’t know.”
And yet Gilbert didn’t look like a man surprised. Though her meeting with the leader of the province was not secret, neither was it public. But there was one person who knew.
Colette Roberge.
And there was one person who could have told Vincent Gilbert.
Colette Roberge.
The Chancellor was proving a puzzle.
She was the one who’d suggested the lecture. She’d invited Abigail into her home. She’d brought her to the New Year’s Eve party. And she was walking outside with the victim—
Gamache stopped himself there.
That didn’t make sense. Colette Roberge was also the one person who could not possibly have mistaken Madame Schneider for Professor Robinson.
“How well do you know the Chancellor?” Gamache asked Dr. Gilbert.
“Not well. We might’ve met twice a year, if that. We were both busy. She was the Chancellor of the University, and I had scarlet runner beans to plant.”
There was no mistaking the self-pity. Forgotten and embittered, Vincent Gilbert was a great man, fallen. The Cardinal Wolsey of the scientific world. Gamache could all but hear him lament, Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
But Wolsey had gone quietly. Gamache doubted Vincent Gilbert would.
Was he willing to do one last magnificent thing, to remind everyone of all his greatness? But the motive might not be just the Idolas of this world.
Gilbert could have another reason for wanting Robinson dead.
“Professor Robinson said you had no moral authority to judge her,” said Gamache. “She even compared you to Ewen Cameron. What did she mean by that?”
Gilbert shook his head. “Not much subtle about our Abigail, is there? Whenever anyone wants to smear a McGill researcher, they drag out the bones of Ewen Cameron. Guilt by association. It just shows how desperate she is.”
“She went on to say, ‘Don’t think I don’t know.’ ”
“A terrible double negative.”
“Yes. She meant that she does know something. What does she know?”
Gilbert laughed. “I’m not known as the Asshole Saint for nothing. She probably thinks she knows something that will embarrass me, not realizing I’m happy to own all the merde. But I’ve atoned for my sins. I live a quiet, blameless life now, deep in the woods. Away from the temptation, or even ability, to do anything immoral.”
“But not illegal. Was she blackmailing you into supporting her work?”
He laughed again. “Oh, I do like you.” He leaned toward Gamache. “Honestly? Do you think I can be blackmailed? Do you think I care what others think of me? I was once the most prominent medical researcher in Canada. The Order of Canada. The National Order of Québec. Invitations to speak at scientific conferences all over the world. Now I live in a log cabin in the middle of nowhere. Non, Chief Inspector, I have nothing more to lose. I gave it all away. A blackmail attempt would be amusing and diverting. It would pass the long winter days and nights. Nothing more.”
And yet, thought Armand, as he looked into those bloodshot eyes, this was a very long and detailed denial for someone who had nothing more to lose.
What, Gamache asked himself not for the first time, had driven this ego-infested man into the forest? What had he done that demanded perpetual atonement?
And when he falls, thought Gamache, he falls like Lucifer. Never to hope again.
