Free The Avalon Chanter by Lillian Stewart Carl

a serrated edge. The
chills that trickled down Jean’s spine weren’t unlike those warning
of the paranormal.
    A song about the Irish Easter Uprising might
not be the most diplomatic of choices here in England. But still,
every other voice in the pub fell silent. Not one glass clinked.
Niamh seemed to be an ancient priestess, chanting an anthem of war,
and grief, and lost love . . .
    Clyde Eccleston strode through the door,
shouting, “A police boat’s come in to the harbor. Chap in charge is
saying we’ve got us a murder up the priory.”
    “ Well done, Grinsell,” said Alasdair.
“A right fast turnout.”
    Tara pushed back from her table so quickly it
crashed to the floor.
     
     

Chapter Eight
     
     
    Hugh’s fingers fell across the guitar
strings, stilling them. His eyes flashed over the tops of his
glasses. Niamh stopped in mid-phrase, a wave of scarlet flooded her
cheeks, and she darted a sharp glance first at Tara, then at
Lance.
    “ Sorry, James.” Tara scrabbled on the
floor collecting shards of glass. Fortunately, Jean saw, only one
of her pint glasses had broken.
    “ You’ve cut yourself.” Lance stepped
forward, reaching for her hand.
    “ I’m okay, it’s nothing,” Tara snapped.
Lurching to her feet, she tucked her hand behind her
back.
    Niamh seized it and pressed a napkin to it.
“The cut’s not so deep. A plaster’ll do the trick, soon as the
bleeding’s stopped.”
    “ Thanks,” Tara said over her shoulder,
but Niamh’s eyes were fixed on Lance.
    Lance made an abrupt about-face and joined
the general rush out the door.
    “ There’s an interesting romantic
triangle,” Jean murmured as she and Alasdair extricated themselves
from behind their table.
    He considered James advancing toward the two
young women, a first-aid kit in hand. “Eh?”
    “ Never mind,” Jean told him with a
smile.
    Hugh caught up with them at the door.
“Anything you’re wanting to be telling me?”
    Jean wanted to return, It’s not our fault. But Hugh knew
that.
    Alasdair said, “Maggie Lauder’s discovered a
body in the priory. Not the one she was meaning to discover.”
    “ This one’s twentieth-century,” Jean
added, and blinked at the sudden darkness outside.
    It was rush hour in Cuddy’s Close. Perhaps
fifteen people jostled between the walls of the pub and the
B&B’s garden, then up a set of steps to the priory, now
illuminated by swooping flashlight beams like strobe lights at a
rock concert. Here came Pen along the close, her own flashlight in
hand, her bunny slippers replaced by lime-green fluorescent running
shoes. She asked of the air, “What’s happening?”
    James came up behind Jean and Alasdair.
“Clyde’s saying there’s been a murder at the priory.”
    “ Is that why Edwin Crawford’s been
moping about the place? Lad could have had himself a cuppa and
minded the scene from our window.” Pen surged forward.
    “ Kudos to the lad for minding the scene
on the scene,” muttered Alasdair.
    “ So it wasn’t Pen I saw walking up to
him,” Jean replied, and was swept up in the stampede.
    She lost Hugh but hung onto Alasdair. They
found themselves in the blacktop parking area and dived for cover
next to the Land Rover, still parked where Tara had left it.
    Living bodies lined the strip of
blue-and-white police tape now strung from column base to column
base across the front of the priory. Alasdair swept a critical gaze
past the perimeter, to where voices echoed, lights waggled, and
shadows shot up the walls and across the grounds. He’d have had the
scene organized quick-smart, if he’d had to wade in with a cattle
prod.
    A slight figure blocked the chapel doorway,
his spread legs indicating he expected the coveralled figures of
the crime-scene team to pass deferentially beneath them.
“Grinsell?” she asked.
    “ Oh, aye. Same attitude, more’s the
pity. Ah. There go the arms as well.”
    Grinsell braced his arms on his hips. Every
time someone tried to enter or leave the