Death be Not Proud

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Authors: C F Dunn
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personality sparkled with it.
    â€œIt’s not one I’ve heard of, love. Have you any more information – a date, first name, location, occupation – something I can cross-reference?”
    I felt like an idiot, and I should have known better after all the research I had done.
    â€œMatthew Lynes, possibly around 1900. Location – I’m not too sure, perhaps South Lincolnshire – Cambridge.” I waved my hands vaguely and the curator’s eyes followed the path my cast made in the air. I hid it behind my back and she refocused on my face. Instead of looking impatient – which is what I think I would have done – she looked faintly bemused.
    â€œI’ll do a search and see what’ll come up on that. Lynes , mmm…” she mused. “It might take some time; have you got a mo?”
    â€œYe-es, I have, but I didn’t expect you to do this immediately…”
    â€œNo problem, love; I’m done here and it’s better than filing this lot…” she brandished the papers, wafting warm air towards me, “… or fiddling about with the Neolithic case; those burins and scrapers are so tricky. Follow me, I’ll just get a plaster first, if you don’t mind.” She cheerily led me past an image of Daniel Lambert looking smugly replete on the wall.
    â€œResearching your family?” she enquired over her shoulder.
    â€œNo – this is work,” I said, evasively.
    â€œHistorian? Genealogist? We get a lot of those here.”
    â€œUh huh – historian.”
    She led me down the stairs and along a corridor where one of the ceiling lights flickered intermittently like a moth’s wings against a bare bulb.
    â€œI wouldn’t normally bring the public here – staff only, you see – but since you’re professional, I reckon it’s OK. Where do you come from?”
    She shoved a door with her foot and held it open for me with her elbow.
    â€œI’m from Stamford.”
    â€œAre you? You don’t sound it. Here… sit down; if we can’t find anything, it’s not on the web. We’ve got complete access to all the records available, you see. You’re lucky to find anyone here now. I’m only on loan from Lincoln doing an audit of the collection before it’s mothballed. The museum’s on the hit-list, see; might get the axe.”
    Neither of us commented; we didn’t need to, the very thought of closing the museum abhorrent to both of us for different reasons. I remembered coming here with my grandfather countless times. Summer, winter, rain or snow – all those visits were warm in my memory.
    She dumped the papers on a desk next to a computer monitor, and pulled the keyboard out from underneath a glossy museum periodical. “ Lynes , did you say? L-i-n-e-s?”
    â€œL- y -n-e-s,” I corrected.
    Her fingers sped over the keyboard as I sat down next to her, searching the database. She sucked at her cut finger, regarding the monitor through narrowed eyes.
    â€œNothing for Stamford for that date. I’ll widen the search. Hey, can you do this while I grab that plaster?”
    She was out of her chair and across the room, hoicking a green First Aid box out of an overhead cupboard. I dragged the keyboard around in front of me and tapped in the next search parameter.
    â€œNo, nothing for South Kesteven either. I’ll try Cambridgeshire next.”
    It was a long shot and it, too, drew a blank.
    â€œFancy a tea, love?”
    The sound of a plastic kettle being filled from a tap ina tiny adjacent room the size of a cupboard, crammed the space for an instant, almost too loud in the small area.
    â€œThanks…” My eyes remained fixed on the screen. The curator gathered a couple of mugs from beside me, the remains of the last drinks clinging languidly to their interiors, the liquid slopping as she picked them up.
    â€œBiscuit?” she asked.
    â€œI have

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