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“So you arranged for her to give a lecture?” he asked.

“I know, I know,” she said. “Look, I didn’t think anyone would actually come out. A last-minute talk on statistics, in English, in rural Québec, the week between Christmas and New Year’s? It had failure written all over it. Until it happened, I still didn’t believe anyone would show.”

“Okay, it’s done. Let’s set that aside for now. But Colette, if the purpose of her trip wasn’t the lecture, and it wasn’t to see you, then why was she coming here?”

“I’ve wondered that myself. She’s never been before, so why now? I think there must be someone she wants to meet, someone she thinks can help her.”

“She didn’t say who?”

“No, and I didn’t ask.”

“Is that true?”

It seemed incredible that this academic, in the same field, wouldn’t be more than a little curious about who it was. Perhaps even jealous. Who was more prominent and better placed than the Chancellor?

Gamache was more than a little curious.

“Yes, it’s true,” said the Chancellor. “It’s none of my business.”

“It was exactly your business, Colette.”

“Not anymore. I’ve long since retired from the thrilling field of statistics.”

Her attempt at self-mockery was lost on Gamache. He continued to stare as the silence stretched painfully on.

And then the Chancellor spoke, her voice serious now. “Abigail is a unique person, Armand. It’s hard not to get swept into her universe. You must’ve seen it yesterday.”

He had. Not many could grip an audience made up mostly of people who probably hated math with a lecture on statistics. Chancellor Roberge was right. Her former student was riveting. And Abigail Robinson did it not with histrionics, but with a voice so quiet people had to almost strain to hear. It was a kindly crayon voice that carried conviction because it apparently didn’t try.

“Are you saying you were mesmerized by her?” he asked.

“I’m saying there are just people you want to please. Abby is one.”

“Professor Robinson arrived two days ago, a day before the lecture,” said Armand. “Did you see her?”

“No.”

Gamache was well schooled in picking up when someone was hiding something. He wasn’t sure if she’d just lied, or if this was simply an evasion. That there was something he wasn’t asking.

Then he remembered a moment, just before the lecture began, when he’d asked Professor Robinson if someone was going to introduce her. She’d said no but had glanced at the door.

He’d had the impression the professor was stalling. Waiting until the very last minute, and beyond, to go on. Waiting for someone.

“Were you supposed to be there? Did Professor Robinson ask you to introduce her?”

“No.”

The denial was quick. Absolute.

And he didn’t believe it.

“Why didn’t you tell me all this when I went to your house?”

“I didn’t think it was pertinent.” At a look from him, she amended her answer. “I didn’t want anyone to know my involvement. I regretted making the booking almost immediately, but it was too late—”

“It wasn’t too late,” he snapped. “I came to you, practically begging you to cancel, and you refused. Did you regret it or not? Your words say one thing, but your actions say something completely different.”

“As I told you,” she snapped back, “I didn’t think anyone would show. I thought you were overreacting, and that canceling would draw more attention to it than if it just went on and died a natural death.”