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He made it sound like his legion of fans expected him. It was true, though, that people knew this was just about the only time they were guaranteed to see the Asshole Saint.

Gamache wondered if Abigail knew that. She’d said Ruth Zardo was who she’d come to see, but he doubted that. She hadn’t approached the elderly poet. But she had made a beeline for Vincent Gilbert.

“When did you leave here?”

“The library? When the fireworks started to go off.”

“You weren’t in the room for the countdown to midnight?” asked Beauvoir.

“So that people could hug me?” He grimaced. “No.”

Though Gamache had the fleeting thought that maybe the Asshole Saint had come in here so that he didn’t have to face no one hugging him.

“You were vague earlier this evening,” said Gamache, “when I asked how you’d read Professor Robinson’s study. Now I’ll ask you again. How did you come to read it?”

“God, it was months ago. I can’t remember. Once I’ve memorized the Cheerios box, I get desperate. The winters are long, and I don’t have many visitors.” He looked at Gamache. “But you’re one, Armand. You bring me books.”

Gamache nodded. Whenever he approached the log cabin, he was reminded of Thoreau, who’d said of his own cabin on Walden Pond, “I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.”

Vincent Gilbert had two chairs. He did not like society, and society did not like him.

“Someone sent you Professor Robinson’s research?” asked Beauvoir.

“Must have because I read it.”

“Who?”

“I can’t remember. I get all sorts of junk.”

“Was it Professor Robinson herself?”

“No.”

“Then who? You know we can find out,” said Beauvoir, though at the moment he couldn’t think how.

Not used to having his statements questioned, Vincent Gilbert bridled and dug his heels in, like an obstinate ass, thought Gamache. Then he remembered the poor donkey in the fable. Blameless, but blamed.

And he remembered something else.

“Chancellor Roberge told me she’d checked Professor Robinson’s findings herself, then sent them to someone she trusted, to get their opinion. Like a good scientist, she wanted corroboration. Were you that second opinion?”

Vincent Gilbert held Gamache in a stare that had had generations of interns quaking. But Gamache just stared back.

“Good guess.”

“Was it Colette Roberge?” Gamache pressed. He needed confirmation, not word games.

“Yes.”

“Why would she do that?” Beauvoir asked.

“I have no idea. You’ll have to ask Chancellor Roberge. My guess is she thought I’d be interested.”

“Why would she think that?”

“Because Robinson’s conclusions in her paper are inhumane and I’m a famous humanist.”

Oddly, that was true. Again, not unlike Haniya Daoud, here was a renowned humanist who did not actually like humans.