Death in the Burren by John Kinsella Read Free Book Online

agitated.
    However, his mental powers were not at their keenest, and when he thought about it later he was not certain that his perception had been correct. She did, though, earnestly make as if to say something to McAllister, but Balfe appeared and put his arm affectionately on her shoulder.
    Soon afterwards they made their farewells, and McAllister drove back to the Atlantic Guest House with that excess of care usually associated with learner drivers.

C HAPTER 7
    F RIDAY MORNING dawned to the sound of pounding anvils and McAllister wondered if he had woken in the middle of some unearthly cataclysm.
    It took him some time to realise that these sound effects and the demented yo-yo trying to burst alternately through the top and sides of his head were but the price of his overindulgence the previous evening.
    He groaned and winced rhythmically to the demands of the demon yo-yo, wondering why he had been so foolish.
    Past experience had shown that the worst thing he could do now was to lie in bed feeling sorry for himself, so he made the supreme effort and about half an hour later nervously entered the dining room and sat at a corner table as far away as possible from any source of daylight.
    Luckily Aoife was on duty that morning. She caught a glimpse of McAllister arriving and realising all was not well came over to speak to him.
    “It’s just foolishness, Aoife, nothing that some black coffee won’t cure.”
    “I may be able to do a bit better than that, Mr. McAllister, if you’ll leave it to me.” She gave him an amused smile.
    “ Okay, doctor, I’m in your hands.” He looked wanly in return, not able, at this stage, to raise a smile.
    Some moments later she placed a long glass before him containing a yellowish frothy liquid.
    “This is my own secret formula. It has never been known to fail, Mr. McAllister. You’ll see,” and she left him to it.
    Trustingly he drank the potion and the beneficial effects, although gradual, were almost immediately noticeable. The blacksmiths began to play their anvils in a more sympathetic fashion and the yo-yo decided to slowly come to rest.
    “This is miraculous, Aoife,” he said, when she came to enquire some time later, “ tell me what was in that brew?”
    “Sorry Mr. McAllister, that’s a trade secret. Anyway, if I told you, you’d be more inclined to go on a binge again sometime. So it’s for your own good that you don’t know. Now I recommend a large pot of tea and some toast and you’ll be as right as rain.”
    He settled for that and soon felt well enough to set out for the Orchid Hotel.
    He arrived to find the Quintetto di Lucca loading their cases into the hotel minibus, which was to bring them to Galway. From there they would take the train to Dublin.
    His bearded friend, whom he now knew as Giuseppe Caminiti, and his companions greeted McAllister warmly.
    Michael Balfe was again in conversation with the quintet manager, but for once their attitude to each other seemed more businesslike than antagonistic as they stood at the reception desk.
    “Now let us have a last drink before we say bye bye,” Giuseppe suggested.
    McAllister and his new found friends chatted amiably at the bar for a while, although he confined himself to sparkling water and, with this, he toasted them and wished them success on the remainder of their tour.
    Some onlookers added their good wishes and they all drank a toast to the memory of Luigi Boccherini. McAllister then found himself making an unlikely promise to visit Lucca when the opportunity arose.
    Andy O’Lochlen, Jack Cameron and his tall friend had, by this time, joined Balfe and the group manager in conversation.
    When the minor festivities came to an end farewells were completed and the minibus departed down the driveway towards the coast road and Galway.
    “You seem to have been quite a hit with the group,” said Balfe as he and his companions stood in the hotel entrance.
    “Have you met Peter Considine, by the