Read Online Death be Not Proud by C F Dunn - Free Book Online

went on between the two of you for the next couple of hours.”
    â€œI would love to, but I have things to do.”
    Beth put her arm around my waist. “Won’t they wait?”
    I shook my head regretfully. “No – not any longer. Let me say goodbye to the children; I don’t want them remembering me for the wrong reasons.”
    It didn’t take long for the twins to lose their caution, and I extricated myself before I was hugged to death. Archie was another matter; he swung his head around and buried it in his father’s chest, fingers firmly in his mouth. Rob put a reassuring hand on his back.
    â€œHe’s tired and he’s at that age where all strangers are anathema; don’t worry about it, Em.”
    I kissed the back of the baby’s head through the tousled soft fluff. He had a warm, clean baby smell – utterly enticing, totally memorable – and it stayed with me long after I left the shop and made my way towards the museum and my search for some answers.

CHAPTER
3
The Museum
    The air felt degrees less cold as I walked down Broad Street, a cardboard cup of milky coffee in one hand, an almond croissant in the other. I caught sight of my reflection in the windows of the shops on the sunless side of the street where the shadows made a mirror of the glass. Hollow-cheeked and hollow-eyed, I looked half-alive, except for the dark purpose burning in the black depths of my eyes.
    The crowds of early morning shoppers had eased. Now was the best time to search the museum records, before parents and children descended on it with an idle hour to spare before tea, and bath, and bed.
    I stuffed the last of the pastry into my mouth, and drained the cup, caffeine tearing through my bloodstream, sending my heart thumping erratically as it tried to keep up with the excessive amounts of unaccustomed stimulant. Within moments, the world became sharper, brighter and, as the door to the museum opened, expelling an occupant, for the briefest second, Staahl’s dead, grey eyes looked at me from another man’s body. But it wasn’t Staahl, it couldn’t be, and the man walked by – a stranger passing a stranger in the street – and no more. I blamed my jittery state squarely on the coffee and pushed through the door.
    The hushed and darkened galleries of the tiny museum were devoid of life bar a subdued rustle from around the corner. A woman – not much older than I – struggled with a catch on a display case, clenching a sheaf of papers beneath her arm. She yelped as she nicked her finger, the papers slipping haphazardly towards the floor, and I rescued them as they fell. She succeeded in securing the lock on the glass case before turning to retrieve them from me.
    â€œThanks – I should’ve put them down first, but you know…”
    She shrugged, surveying her finger. She was from somewhere in Wales – perhaps Cardiff – the soft lilt in her voice not yet diluted by the local accent. She exuded colour from the inside out, her rotund body encased in layers of brightly coloured clothes that clung to every curve. She smiled engagingly, deep dimples on her apple-blossom cheeks. I returned her smile and the papers.
    â€œYup, I know; we’ve all done it. My pleasure, anyway.”
    As I handed them back to her, shuffling them in order, the top page caught my eye: a numbered printout in a mind-boggling small font.
    â€œIs that an archival list?”
    The young woman glanced down at the wad of paper. “Uh, yes – are you looking for something?”
    It was just a chance. “I’m looking for anything on the Lynes family.”
    â€œLynes, Lynes.” She juggled with the name for a moment, then shook her head, her shoulder-length hair catching on the collar of purple-sequined embroidery; she pulled it free, the light glinting off the tiny metallic circles. She swam in a sea of colour, and not just her clothes, but her whole