The Murder Stone Read Free Page B

was that young,’ said Gamache wistfully.
    ‘You might have been that young but you were never that—’ She nodded towards Elliot as he walked athletically across the manicured lawn in his tailored black slacks and small white jacket snugly fitting his lithe body.
    ‘Oh, God, am I going to have to beat up another suitor?’
    ‘Maybe.’
    ‘You know I would.’ He took her hand.
    ‘I know you wouldn’t. You’d listen him to death.’
    ‘Well, it’s a strategy. Crush him with my massive intellect.’
    ‘I can imagine his terror.’
    Gamache sipped his lemonade and suddenly puckered, tears springing to his eyes.
    ‘Ah, and what woman could resist that?’ She looked at his fluttering, watering eyes and face screwed into a wince.
    ‘Sugar. Needs sugar,’ he gasped.
    ‘Here, I’ll ask the waiter.’
    ‘Never mind. I’ll do it.’ He coughed, gave her a mockingly stern gaze and rocked out of the deep and comfortable seat.
    Taking his lemonade he wandered up the path from the fragrant gardens and onto the wide veranda, already cooler and shaded from the brunt of the afternoon sun. Bert Finney lowered his book and gazed at Gamache, then smiled and nodded politely.
    ‘Bonjour,’ he said. ‘Warm day.’
    ‘But cooler here, I notice,’ said Gamache, smiling at the elderly couple sitting quietly side by side. Finney was clearly older than his wife. Gamache thought she was probably in her mid-eighties while he must be nearing ninety and had that translucent quality people sometimes got, near the end.
    ‘I’m going inside. May I get you anything?’ he asked, thinking yet again that Bert Finney was both courtly and one of the least attractive people he’d ever met. Admonishing himself for being so superficial, it was all he could do not to stare. Monsieur Finney was so repulsive he was almost attractive, as though aesthetics were circular and this man had circumnavigated that rude world.
    His skin was pocked and ruddy, his nose large and misshapen, red and veined as though he’d snorted, and retained, Burgundy. His teeth protruded, yellowed and confused, heading this way and that in his mouth. His eyes were small and slightly crossed. A lazy eye, thought Gamache. What used to be known as an evil eye, in darker times when men like this found themselves at best cast out of polite society and at worst tied to a stake.
    Irene Finney sat next to her husband and wore a floral sundress. She was plump with soft white hair in a loose bun on her head, and while she didn’t glance up he could see her complexion was tender and white. She looked like a soft, inviting, faded pillow, propped next to a cliff face.
    ‘We’re fine, but merci.’
    Gamache had noticed that Finney, alone among his family, always tried to speak a little French to him.
    Within the Manoir the temperature dropped again. It was almost cool inside, a relief from the heat of the day. It took a moment for Gamache’s eyes to adjust.
    The dark maple door to the dining room was closed and Gamache knocked tentatively, then opening it he stepped into the panelled room. Places were being set for dinner, with crisp white linen, sterling silver, fine bone china and a small arrangement of fresh flowers on each table. It smelled of roses and wood, of polish and herbs, of beauty and order. Sun was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, which looked onto the garden. The windows were closed, to keep the heat out and the cool in. The Manoir Bellechasse wasn’t air conditioned, but the massive logs acted as natural insulation, keeping the heat in during the bitterest of Quebec winters, and the heat out on the most sizzling of summer days. This wasn’t the hottest. Low 80s, Gamache figured. But he was still grateful for the workmanship of the coureurs du bois who raised this place by hand and chose each log with such precision that nothing not invited could ever come in.
    ‘Monsieur Gamache.’ Pierre Patenaude came forward smiling and wiping his hands on a