Free The Irish Cairn Murder by Dicey Deere Page B

light of day. Mr. Brannigan sustained a blow of considerable force. A heavy stick, was it, Inspector?”
    â€œSo we believe. But nothing found. As yet.”

21
    I n the coach house, gasping for breath, Natalie pulled the door to the carriage closed and sank back against the faded upholstery. She’d fled so crazily from the blackmailer that her heart was pounding. Quiet down, quiet down !
    She drew a deep breath. He had to be a madman. She gave a shaky laugh. Belatedly, she’d get help. A fog had somehow slid across her vision bringing hallucinations, a residue probably of the dreadful loss of Andrew. The only reality was the man waiting at the cairn. A man who had stolen a penknife.
    Her heart was no longer pounding but beginning to beat regularly. She breathed in the musty, comforting smell of the old carriage. She’d rest here for a few minutes. Then she’d call Inspector O’Hare. She’d make some excuse for not having come to him earlier when she’d received that first threatening letter. No matter. There had been three letters. There’d be a fourth. He wouldn’t give up. The Gardai would stake out the cairn.
    Later, Marshall, back from the States, would lovingly reproach her with, “But why didn’t you call me at once?” and he’d hug her close. By next month she’d be dining out on her blackmail tale.
    In the carriage, she glanced at her watch. Right now, she’d find Dakin and tell him that she was going to Inspector
O’Hare for help after all. Dakin was so angry at the threat to her, so ready to do battle on her account, that it had worried her.
    She’d rest a minute here in the carriage before looking for Dakin. She ran a finger along the armrest; the figured mulberry velvet was now so worn, so old and faded. You could barely distinguish the entwined flowers, the shapes of reclining hounds. When had the carriage started to become her refuge? So many years ago, yes, even before Andrew was killed. She’d settle snugly into this old carriage in the corner of the coach house with a feeling of being loved. Sometimes she’d drowse and wake to find herself smiling, warm, hearing whispers, rubbing a cheek against the mulberry velvet … no, not the mulberry. The fabric was something else, it was twill, she could feel the tiny ridges of the twill, she smelled the masculine smell that came from it, she could even see the color of the twill, it was dark blue … .
    On the worn mulberry velvet her hand went still. Her eyes opened wide. Minutes passed. Then, mouth dry, she whispered: “Cloverleaf.”
    Â 
    She was running now, running fast back toward the cairn. An hour! Hurry! She must get to him in time, tell him she’d have the money for him right away! She’d get it from her brokerage account. But she’d left him almost an hour ago! If he wasn’t still at the cairn, she’d run to Ballynach, search everywhere, he could be in Finney’s Restaurant or in O’Malley’s, he could be staying at Nolan’s Bed and Breakfast, or … where? Where? Suppose, vindictive, he was already calling RTV and the press. A sob caught in her throat.
    Through the meadow grass, panting, past the fir with her childhood buried treasure she ran, a pain in her chest. Cloverleaf, an ugly tale for your son to hear . Legs trembling, she was stumbling now, hurry, hurry! She was crossing the field
toward the big oak by the cairn, praying he was still there, praying to see the hateful pale eyes and the jutting mouth, and not daring even to take an instant to glance at her watch. The pain sharp in her chest, she reached the oak that shadowed the cairn.

22
    â€œ M ushrooms like damp places,” Winifred said to Sheila, who lagged unhappily behind with the basket from the kitchen garden. They had left Castle Moore a half hour earlier.”After a rain, mushrooms just spring up. Particularly at the base of oaks.”
    Winifred