“Perhaps a glass of water, patron,” said Beauvoir, and Olivier returned with a pitcher and three glasses.

“I wondered when you’d find out,” said Rosenblatt. “I probably should have told you.”

“Oui,” said Gamache. “That would’ve been helpful, and might even have saved a life.”

“What’d you mean?” Professor Rosenblatt opened his eyes wide, then screwed them shut, in an attempt to focus.

It wasn’t, Gamache thought, simply the alcohol. The man looked exhausted.

“A woman named Antoinette Lemaitre was killed last night,” said Beauvoir.

“Yes, I heard. Terrible,” said Rosenblatt. “The people here seem to think it had something to do with a play. Must have been a very bad play.”

“She was Guillaume Couture’s niece,” said Gamache.

Michael Rosenblatt stared at them as though they’d gone fuzzy.

“Guillaume Couture,” he repeated. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

“How did you know him?” Beauvoir asked.

Rosenblatt looked surprised by the question. He glanced at the photograph, then from one to the other of his companions.

“We worked together, briefly. With Gerald Bull. Back in the McGill days.”

They waited for more. The young couple left, arm in arm, and Olivier began cleaning up.

And still they waited.

It seemed Rosenblatt had fallen into a stupor.

“Where did you get that?” He finally spoke, gesturing toward the picture.

“The McGill alumni magazine. It’s from Dr. Couture’s obituary,” said Beauvoir.

Michael Rosenblatt nodded. “I remember seeing the notice and the photo and wondering if anyone would put it together. But they didn’t.”

“Put what together?” Gamache asked.

“Or maybe they did,” said Rosenblatt, either ignoring the question or lost in his own thoughts.

He seemed to be rallying, rousing. His voice was less dreamy. His eyes sharper.

Gamache wasn’t sure this was such a good thing. His defenses would soon go up again, and this man’s barriers were thick and old and encrusted with a lifetime of evasions.

“He was very clever, you know. Switched on.”

“Dr. Couture?” asked Gamache.

Rosenblatt laughed. “No. Not him. Gerald Bull. Most scientists are sort of idiot savants. They know one thing very well, but fail in most other aspects of their lives. But not Dr. Bull. He could be off-putting. Abrupt, impatient. But he could also be charming and clever. He was shrewd, you know. Picked up on things that others missed. It’s a useful tool. He made connections. I don’t mean social, though he did that too. He made intellectual connections. He could see how things fit together.”

“As a scientist?” asked Gamache.

Now Rosenblatt chuckled. “As a scientist he was crap.” He reflected a bit on that, then amended what he’d said. “Not crap really. He’d earned his Ph.D. He was workmanlike. No, you were right yesterday when you suggested his real genius was public relations. Getting people to agree to the disagreeable. But he was also ruthless.”