The Murder Stone Read Online Free PDF

the side caught his attention. He had the impression of a white blur and for an instant his heart leapt. Had the marble thing come to life? Was it lumbering towards them out of the woods? He turned and saw a figure on the terrasse recede into the shadows. Then it reappeared.
    ‘Elliot,’ called Julia Martin, ‘how wonderful. Have you brought my brandy and Benedictine?’
    ‘Oui, madame.‘ The young waiter smiled as he handed her the liqueur off his silver salver. Then he turned to Gamache. ‘And for Monsieur? What may I get you?’
    He looked so young, his face so open.
    And yet Gamache knew the young man had been lurking at the corner of the lodge, watching them. Why?
    Then he laughed at himself. Seeing things not there, hearing words unspoken. He’d come to the Manoir Bellechasse to turn that off, to relax and not look for the stain on the carpet, the knife in the bush, or the back. To stop noticing the malevolent inflections that rode into polite conversation on the backs of reasonable words. And the feelings flattened and folded and turned into something else, like emotional origami. Made to look pretty, but disguising something not at all attractive.
    It was bad enough that he’d taken to watching old movies and wondering whether the elderly people in the background were still alive. And how they died. But when he started looking at people in the street and noticing the skull beneath the skin it was time for a break.
    Yet here he was in this peaceful lodge examining the young waiter, Elliot, and on the verge of accusing him of spying.
    ‘Non, merci. Madame Gamache has ordered our drinks for the Great Room.’
    Elliot withdrew and Julia watched him.
    ‘He’s an attractive young man,’ said Gamache.
    ‘You find him so?’ she asked, her face invisible but her voice full of humour. After a moment she spoke again. ‘I was just remembering a similar job I had at about his age, but nothing as grand as this. It was a summer job in a greasy spoon on the Main, in Montreal. You know, boulevard Saint-Laurent?’
    ‘I know it.’
    ‘Of course you do. Forgive me. It was a real dive. Minimum wage, owner was all hands. Disgusting.’
    She paused again.
    ‘I loved it. My first job. I’d told my parents I was at the yacht club taking sailing lessons, but instead I’d get on the 24 bus and head east. Uncharted territory for Anglos in the Sixties. Very bold,’ she said in a self-mocking tone. But Gamache knew the times and knew she was right.
    ‘I still remember my first pay cheque. Took it home to show my parents. Do you know what my mother said?’
    Gamache shook his head then realized she couldn’t see him in the dark. ‘Non.‘
    ‘She looked at it then handed it back and said I must be proud of myself. And I was. But it was clear she meant something else. So I did something stupid. I asked her what she meant. I’ve since learned not to ask a question unless I’m prepared for the answer. She said I was privileged and had no need of the money, but someone else did. I’d as good as stolen it from some poor girl who actually needed the job.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Gamache. ‘I’m sure she didn’t mean it.’
    ‘She did, and she was right. I quit the next day, but I’d go back every now and then and look through the window at the new girl waiting tables. That made me happy.’
    ‘Poverty can grind a person down,’ said Gamache quietly. ‘But so can privilege.’
    ‘I actually envied that girl,’ said Julia. ‘Silly, I know. Romantic. I’m sure her life was dreadful. But I thought, maybe, it was at least her own.’ She laughed and took a sip of her B&B. ‘Lovely. Do you think the monks at the abbey make it?’
    ‘The Benedictines? I don’t really know.’
    She laughed. ‘It’s not often I hear those words.’
    ‘Which words?’
    ‘I don’t know. My family always knows. My husband always knew.’
    For the past few days they’d exchanged polite comments about the weather, the garden, the food