Read Murder at the Monks' Table for Free Online

heads of the crowd, barely missing some of the taller fellows. The
swish
of the sharp blade made the hair on Mary Helen’s arms stand up.
    â€œBelieve! Repent and believe!” the friars chanted soulfully and beat their drums as they led Death toward the entrance to the tent.
    â€œIsn’t that a little dangerous?” Mary Helen whispered, watching Death make his way down the street.
    â€œJust good fun,” Father Keane answered, squeezing her shoulder. “We’ve never lost a head yet.”
    â€œWhich is a miracle in itself, if you ask me,” Mary Helen mumbled, watching the priest disappear into the crowd. “What does it mean anyway?”
    Eileen shrugged. “It’s a promotion for Guinness,” she said, and then she winked. “Although, if you ask me, from the looks of things Guinness doesn’t need too much promoting.”
    â€œSisters, are you ready for the Oyster Gala?” Mary Helen was surprised to see Owen Lynch, who must have left Moran’s early or else knew a shortcut back to the village. Lynch wore the stiff smile and spoke with the forced cheerfulness of an event chairman who can hardly wait until the whole thing is over.
    â€œYou’ve tickets, I assume?” He fumbled with several still in his hand.
    â€œYes, indeed,” Eileen answered. “My nephews saw to that.” She dug into her pocketbook and with a look of triumph produced two tickets.
    Death and the brown-robed friars huddled around the tent entrance, urging all who entered to “Repent,” boom-boom. “Repent,” boom-boom, “and believe.”
    Quickly Eileen handed Mary Helen her ticket. She wondered at the price. Fifteen euros seemed inexpensive for food and a band.
    Once inside, Mary Helen realized that what the gala lost in ticket price, it more than made up for in quantity of attendees. There were easily three hundred people already in the tentand more waiting to get in. The lines for food and drink were long but seemed to move quickly. The crowd was a happy one, and the band was already in full swing. Couples of all ages circled the dance floor in perfect rhythm….
Like figurines on the top of a music box,
Mary Helen thought, watching several of the older couples. As a matter of fact, it seemed to her that the older the couple, the better dancers they were.
    The band played one number after another, varying a waltz with a fox trot and throwing in a little jitterbug. Mary Helen thought she recognized a jazzed-up version of “The Fields of Athenry.”
Can that be?
she wondered. Wasn’t there some unwritten law against defaming traditional tunes? If there wasn’t one, there ought to be.
    But by now, regardless of what the band was playing, everyone in the tent seemed to be dancing—men and women, women with women, children with one another and with adults, even one of the brown-robed friars.
    Sisters Eileen and Mary Helen found two vacant chairs along the wall of the tent and hung a folded raincoat on the back of each. A universal “reserved” sign, Mary Helen thought as they went to join the food line. Returning to their chairs with full plates, they were content to sit, eat, and people-watch. Mary Helen realized with a sense of accomplishment that she was beginning to recognize some of the villagers.
    It was nearly eleven o’clock when the band took a well-deserved break.
    â€œDid you get something to eat?”
    Mary Helen turned to find Patsy Lynch, the chairman’s wife, grinning down at them. Patsy had dolled up for the evening, Mary Helen noticed, even put on some makeup and a drop of a flowery perfume.
    â€œIt seems as if we’ve done nothing else except eat,” Eileen said, “but thank you.”
    â€œWell, don’t hesitate. There’s plenty,” Patsy said, then looked away, frowning. Obviously, someone or something else had caught her attention. “If you’ll excuse me,” she