Read Online Murder at the Monks' Table by Carol Anne O'Marie - Free Book Online Page B

Ballyclarin. Yet the mews itself was silent. Eileen must still be in bed, she thought. Thanks be to God! It was far too early to begin the day.
    Let the lorries roll and the crows cackle. She’d just stay put and hope to drift off again. She pulled the down comforter up under her chin and tried to focus on the gently sloping greenfields and the soft textured clouds of blue and gray that she had enjoyed during her few days in Ireland. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
    Despite her best efforts, all the patterned fields, shifting clouds, and deep breaths were not able to push aside the sight of Willie Ward in his tweed cap enthroned in the ladies’. She cringed and tried to blot out the terrible scene. Surely no one in this peaceful idyllic village could have done such a thing. Yet the man was dead. That was a fact. Unless last night was nothing more than a nightmare. Wouldn’t it be grand to wake up and discover it was all a bad dream?
    If it was not, then a stranger must have stolen into the Monks’ Table and committed the murder, a very strong stranger. One had to have strength to stick that small knife into a man’s heart.
    Enough of this,
Mary Helen thought. She shut her eyes tight to keep out the daylight that was struggling to get around the closed drapes and into the darkened room. But sleep refused to come.
    Instead, again and again, Willie Ward flashed before her, a knife protruding from his blood-soaked shirt, a plain old kitchen knife that could be found in anyone’s drawer. Where had she seen one like it recently?
    The answer played on the edge of her memory, just out of reach. Like names and places and faces often do when you are trying to pin them down.
Just relax,
she assured herself,
and it will come.
It had to have been within the last few days.
    Of course, market day on the village green! Hadn’t Eileen and she watched the farrier at work? She was almost positive that at his booth was a display of handmade kitchen knives.
    Surely Detective Inspector White and his partner were aware of that. But just in case, she’d mention it, if she had the chance. She tossed uneasily. Did the farrier have any reason to murder Mr. Ward? None she knew of, anyway.
    She remembered thinking at the time that he looked like a pleasant sort of fellow—peaceful, really, as he pounded the hot metal. Not that looks had anything to do with murder. In the few days since she arrived in Ballyclarin she’d met up with several locals who seemed to thoroughly dislike Mr. Ward. Maybe one of them had snatched a knife up from the farrier’s booth when the man’s attention was on shoeing the horse.
    Mary Helen caught herself. This was police business, not hers. She was in Ireland on holiday, as they say. It would never do to get involved in what was certainly no concern of hers. She must remember that!
    A sudden loud knock on the kitchen door of the mews startled her awake.
    â€œAre ye up?” She recognized the cheerful voice of Paul Glynn, their hackney driver. “It’s half twelve,” he called. “I was afraid there was another dead body or two.”
    Twelve thirty! Mary Helen’s eyes shot open. How had she missed the tolling of the mass bell?
    â€œWe’ve had a very long night,” she heard Eileen whisper.
    â€œSo I hear.” Paul warmed to the topic.
    â€œCan I fix you a cup of tea?” Eileen asked softly.
    â€œBeautiful,” Paul said, and Mary Helen heard the door bang as he settled at the small kitchen table.
    Many a day we shall rest in the clay,
she thought, forcing herself out of the bed.
    â€œWell, if it isn’t herself!” Paul exclaimed when a few minutes later Mary Helen joined them. She had dressed so quickly that she stole a glance at her feet to make sure her shoes were a pair.
    â€œHow’s the celebrity this morning?” Paul asked, obviously in high spirits.
    â€œCelebrity?” Mary Helen was taken aback.