A Rule Against Murder (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #4)

A Rule Against Murder (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #4) Page 10

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 humor. 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 paycheck. 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.”

Julia laughed and took a sip of her B and 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 at the Manoir. This was the first real conversation he’d had with any of them and it was the first time she’d mentioned her husband.

“I came to the Manoir a few days early, you know. To . . .”

She didn’t seem to know what to say, but Gamache waited. He had all the time, and patience, in the world.

“I’m in the middle of a divorce. I don’t know if you knew.”

“I had heard.”

Most Canadians had heard. Julia Martin was married to David Martin, whose spectacular success and just as spectacular fall had been chronicled relentlessly in the media. He’d been one of the nation’s wealthiest men, making his fortune in insurance. The fall had started a few years ago. It had been long and excruciating, like sliding down the side of a muddy slope. It looked at each moment as though he might be able to stop the descent, but instead he’d just kept gathering mud and slime and speed. Until finally even his enemies found it hard to watch.

He’d lost everything, including, finally, his freedom.

But his wife had stood beside him. Tall, elegant, dignified. Instead of arousing envy for her obvious privilege, she’d somehow managed to endear herself to the people. They warmed to her good cheer and sensible comments. They identified with her dignity and loyalty. And finally they’d adored her for the public apology she’d made at the end, when it became clear her husband had lied to everyone, and ruined tens of thousands of life savings. And she’d pledged to pay back the money.

And now David Martin lived in a penitentiary in British Columbia and Julia Martin had moved back home. She’d make her life in Toronto, she’d told the media just before she’d disappeared. But here she was, in Quebec. In the woods.

“I came here to catch my breath, before the family reunion. I like my own space and time to myself. I’ve missed it.”

“Je comprends,” he said. And he did. “But there is something I don’t understand, madame.”