Murder at the Castle by Jeanne M. Dams Read Free Book Online Page A

terror. There was, I kept telling myself, nothing to be afraid of. Alan was here, the passage wasn’t going to close in on me, there was plenty of air to breathe.
    We couldn’t walk abreast, but I stayed so close behind Alan that I was in danger of stepping on his heels. After several centuries the passage widened out into a well-lit space. I took a few deep breaths. ‘The chapel?’ I said hopefully, though it certainly didn’t look like one.
    â€˜A latrine,’ said Alan, pointing to a sign on the wall. ‘Sorry. Are you all right?’
    â€˜No, but let’s push on. We’re bound to get there eventually.’
    â€˜Why don’t you go first? Is it better when you can see a clear space in front of you?’
    â€˜Marginally.’ I gritted my teeth and moved out of the light.
    â€˜Aaaahhh!’

FOUR
    â€˜W hat? What is it, love? Are you all right?’ Alan asked frantically.
    I flailed wildly at my face and neck. ‘A spider! There was a web, and I ran into it, and this huge spider . . . oh, Alan, can you see it? Did it get into my hair?’
    I was trembling and my heart was racing. Alan pulled me close to him and held me with one arm while with the other he patted me down like an efficient policeman.
    â€˜It’s all right, love. No spider. It’s all right. Easy, dear heart. Here, let’s go on to where it’s lighter.’
    Murmuring encouragement, he pushed me ahead, and finally, finally, we were in the ancient chapel, a place of light and peace and calm. There was a bench in front of the simple wooden table that served as the altar. I sank down on it and tried to catch my breath.
    Alan waited patiently, his hand warm on my shoulder.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ I said finally. ‘I didn’t mean to make a fool of myself. Maybe there never was a spider. But there was definitely a web. It brushed my face, and . . . well, I wasn’t quite myself anyway.’
    â€˜Don’t worry. No one else was around, and I’ll never think you a fool. Look, love, these walls were painted once. See the remnants?
    I appreciated Alan’s attempt at distraction and tried to respond. There were certainly tiny flakes of colour still adhering to the walls. ‘What a shame it’s all gone. Do you suppose there was once stained glass in the windows?’ The tiny lancet windows were still attractive with their simple, clear diamond panes.
    â€˜Probably. And a much more elaborate altar. It’s remarkable, though, that this much has been preserved.’
    I sat and let the peace replace my irrational fears, until a small group of tourists appeared and we left to make way for them. The way out, fortunately, was far less convoluted than the way in, and we were back on the grass of the inner ward.
    â€˜This must be where they’re going to hold the festival,’ I said, looking around. ‘That sort-of window over there would serve as a perfect balcony for an antiphonal choir, or trumpet fanfares. But goodness, there’s no shelter at all. What on earth are they going to do if it rains?’
    â€˜Carry on, I expect. We are rather renowned for that approach, you know.’
    â€˜Keep calm and carry on, as the wartime posters said. I want one of those T-shirts. But seriously, wouldn’t the singers worry about their throats and the players about their instruments?’
    â€˜Perhaps, but . . .’
    â€˜Dorothy Martin?’
    The accent was Canadian, the voice familiar. I turned around. ‘Penny? What a pleasant surprise! What are you doing here?’ Penny Brannigan, an ex-pat like me, had moved from Canada to a small Welsh village some years ago. We met when I dropped into her salon one day to have my first-ever manicure, and again while Alan and I were doing some walking in the Cotswolds.
    â€˜The same as you, I imagine,’ she replied. ‘Touring Welsh castles. This is a terrific one, isn’t it? Lots of