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“She hadn’t seen him in years and they parted on friendly terms. Doesn’t seem to be anything there. I also spoke to the head of Professor Robinson’s department.”

Gamache leaned forward.

“What came through, though he never actually said it, is that he’s incredibly disappointed in Professor Robinson. He said she’s brilliant. They were very proud when she was chosen to do the post-pandemic statistical study for the Royal Commission. But after he read her preliminary report, he asked her to stop. Explained that the math was right, but her conclusions were wrong.”

“But she didn’t, of course.”

“No. Caused a real shit storm in the department.”

“His word?” asked Isabelle.

Beauvoir smiled. “He was actually quite complimentary. Said she had a quicksilver mind.”

Gamache grunted. “Clever.”

“Yes, isn’t that what he meant?” said Lacoste. “A clever mind?”

“But ‘quicksilver’ is also the nickname for mercury. Which is a poison. He couldn’t think of anyone Professor Robinson had specifically hurt?”

“No. There was just the general sense that she was harming the reputation of the department, of the university, with her work. But I can’t see him getting on a plane and coming here to kill her with a fireplace log.”

“Didn’t Abigail’s father also work at the university?” asked Isabelle.

“Yes. They knew each other. They were associate professors together. He said Paul Robinson was”—Jean-Guy checked his notes—“a superb mathematician. Worked mostly on probability theory. Was well-liked by his colleagues and students. Collaborated a lot. His death came as a shock.”

“So, back to last night,” said Isabelle. “It looks like Professor Robinson must’ve been the target. Someone who was at the party has a mother or father who’ll be affected if her recommendations are accepted, saw their chance and took it.”

“Or a child,” said Armand. There was a pause that threatened to become awkward before he broke it. “Or grandchild.”

“My God,” said Jean-Guy. “You’ve actually seriously considered me?”

“Not seriously, no.”

“But you did wonder.”

Gamache held his son-in-law’s eyes. Then smiled. “Only to the extent that someone else might. But did I think you’d picked up a log and hit her from behind in a moment of insanity? No. Any more than you considered me.” Again the awkward pause. “Did you?”

Jean-Guy smiled. “Did I wonder if you could have? Given not just Idola but what happened in the pandemic? Yes. Did I suspect you, even for a moment? No.”

“Well, that’s two we can strike off the list,” said Isabelle. “That leaves about fifty others.”

“There was someone in that room last night who I think has killed before,” said Gamache. “And would again, without remorse, given the right motive. And the right motive was also in the room.”

“Haniya Daoud,” said Beauvoir.

“Oui.”

“I’ll speak to her,” said Beauvoir.

“Non, let me,” said Lacoste. “I want to meet her, and I have no preconceived ideas—”

“Take along your mace,” said Beauvoir. “You’re about to be mind-fucked.”

“—like that one.”

Gamache got up and the others rose too. “While you do that, I’m going into Montréal. I want to see what I can find on Vincent Gilbert’s career. If he’s hiding something, it’ll be in the Osler Medical Library at McGill. Might see if Reine-Marie wants to come along and help. She’s familiar with their archives.”

“I’ll talk to the Asshole Saint,” said Beauvoir. “See why he was at Robinson’s event, and suspiciously close to the shooter.”