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“I didn’t expect to see the Hero of the Sudan in the dark hole of Québec,” said Gilbert. “What’s she doing here?”

“She’s visiting Myrna.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question, does it?”

“I thought it did.”

Vincent Gilbert was in his mid-seventies and looked every minute of that age, and then some. Slight, sinewy, his skin lined and leathery from his latter life as a recluse, living in a log cabin in the middle of the forest.

“You’re not normally this vague, Armand. I wonder if that event yesterday took something out of you.”

Despite the words, Vincent Gilbert’s tone was gentle. Inviting Armand to talk about it, if he wanted to. Every now and then, Armand thought, the saint part showed a bit of ankle.

But then something occurred to him. Maybe Vincent Gilbert didn’t want to listen, maybe he wanted to talk about the events at the University.

“Vincent, do you know Abigail Robinson?”

“Only by reputation. I’ve read her study.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I’m a doctor, not a statistician.”

“Then why did you read it?”

“I got tired of reading articles on compost. Interestingly, I did find that her recent research makes good fertilizer. Excusez-moi, Armand. Marc!”

Reine-Marie fought it, but finally had to admit that she found Haniya Daoud difficult.

She tried to look sympathetic as Haniya listened, stone-faced, to Clara’s apology. It didn’t help that Myrna’s apology had been met with silence. And now, into that abyss, Clara poured words that sounded, and probably were, less and less sincere.

As Reine-Marie watched Haniya, and saw the curling lip, all she could think of was the line from Ruth’s poem.

Who hurt you once, so far beyond repair?

Though they knew who’d hurt her. Not just her torturers. They all had, by their silence and inaction.

It was five past eleven. Almost time for the play.

Patting his pockets, Armand realized he’d left his phone in his parka and he wanted to take pictures. Coming out of the cloakroom with his phone, Armand heard one of their hosts, Dominique, talking to some late arrivals.

“You can put your coats in the room, just throw them on the bed, and then make yourselves at home.” But a slight flattening of Dominique’s normally cheerful voice made Armand look down the hall at the newcomers.

As he did, his smile faded.

Facing him, also stopped and staring, was Colette Roberge. And behind her were Abigail Robinson and Debbie Schneider.

Chapter 17

Bonjour,” said Armand, not bothering to smile. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”

“I invited Chancellor Roberge,” said Dominique, sensing the tension and trying to plaster over it. “She called this afternoon and asked if we were holding our annual New Year’s Eve party. I said we were and she was welcome to come.”

They threw their coats onto the bed, then returned with Armand back down the hall.

“I asked if I could bring some guests,” Colette explained.

“I thought you meant your husband,” said Dominique.