BURY ME DEEP an utterly gripping crime thriller with an epic twist (Detective Rozlyn Priest Book 1) by JANE ADAMS (best romantic books to read TXT) 📕

“Then why dump it where it’s sure to be found? No, that doesn’t work.” She considered for a moment. “So. How much blood?”

“No exit wound,” Chitall told her, “so very little mess. The weapon itself would have plugged the hole, so to speak.”

“So,” Rozlyn was thinking aloud now. “At the murder scene, there’d have been very little cleaning up to do.”

“Trace, of course, but if you’re looking for puddles of blood you’ll be unlucky.” He went over to Charlie’s body and withdrew the spearhead. Rozlyn winced. “I’ll give it a wash for you and you’ll have to sign the book. Where are you taking it anyway?”

“To show a man called Ethan Merrill in Stamford. He’s an expert.” She winced again as Chitall cleaned the object down with soap and a nail brush. She wasn’t sure what the procedure was for cleaning ancient weaponry but was pretty sure that wasn’t it.

“Don’t worry,” Chitall told her, misinterpreting her reaction. “I’m not destroying evidence. We’ve got everything we can from the little beauty.”

Beauty, Rozlyn thought as Chitall dried it with paper towels and stuffed it into a plastic bag. She felt the weight of it in her hands as Chitall handed it to her and looked closely at the intricate patterns weaving across the surface. Yes, she supposed it was beautiful. Exquisite and deadly . . . and now smelling of anti-bacterial hand cleaner. Ethan Merrill would have a fit.

“Ok, then, thanks,” she said. Steeling herself, she went back to stand beside Charlie’s corpse and gently, touched the dead man’s hand.

“I’ll take good care of your friend,” Chitall said. “Any idea who’ll be claiming the body or is it a social security job?”

Rozlyn hadn’t thought about it. She shook her head. “I really don’t know,” she said. “Just hold fire until you hear from me, OK?”

Chitall shrugged once more. Left shoulder slightly higher than right this time. “Plenty of room at the inn,” he said. She left, thinking that Mouse would want to come to the funeral and Mrs Chinowski and maybe that old man at the Larks too, if they thought he was OK to go out . . . and Mrs C would need a new cleaner now Clara had disappeared and . . .

Laughing, Rozlyn shook her head, reminding herself that these people were not her responsibility. She could inform social services and let them take over.

The laugher died almost before it reached her lips and she glanced back towards the building where Charlie’s body now lay. “It’s OK,” she told him softly. “I’ll see they’re taken care of. Promise.”

CHAPTER 21

Treven sat close to the doorway and watched as Kendryk read through the documents his scribe handed to him. They appeared to be deeds of land; bequests left to the Abbey and features of land, left idle after too many battles, that Kendryk had adjoined to Abbey lands. It was not lost on Treven that he had applied for the same rights over his land at Theadingford and been denied.

Was Kendryk making a point? Treven was unsure but listening to the quiet conversation between Kendryk and his scribe, Treven was struck by the man’s knowledge of the district and his understanding of land use. His questions were detailed and precise and twice now Treven had noted that sharp look when his scribe failed to give an adequate response and had seen the man quail beneath it.

“That land floods come winter. Come Blotmonath it is beneath water, often until the time of Eastermonath. Should Nerian be sincere in his desire to gift, then he should gift land that can be of use.”

“Should I return his promise to him?” the scribe asked.

Kendryk considered the matter. “No,” he said. “Amend the promise. Tell him that I accept his gift to Christ of fertile land, and of the labour required to dig drainage. We can use it then for winter grazing.”

Treven chuckled softly, wondering if he should feel pity for the unfortunate Nerian or if such punishment was deserved.

“And this, the land named as belonging to Renweard. The man stood surety for his brother?”

The scribe nodded. “His brother was accused of theft. Renweard stood as surety until he should repay the amount claimed.”

“As I recall, the theft was in question. Some said it was a debt from gambling.”

“That was said, but Renweard held that it should be paid if owed, despite it being owed to one, Odi, known to have default of character. The brother has now fled, leaving Renweard with both debt and his brother’s son to raise. He had appealed to Odi for time to pay, but Odi will have none of it. The Shire Courts have sent the matter to you, Lord Abbot, as the original surety was witnessed by the Abbey.”

“Then my judgement is this,” Kendryk said. “That the land thus indebted should be created Fosterlean, property held in trust, and given back to Redweard in return for the raising of his brother’s child. On Redweard’s death it shall be counted Mortmain, Dead Man’s Land and given to the child in full. Should any child remain of Odi’s line, then a tithe should be paid to them until the debt is serviced — and be sure it is noted what this comprises, we will suffer no arguments at some later date. This way, the debt will be honoured but the innocent should have no need to suffer for another’s fault.”

He got up from his chair and strode towards the flagon of small beer set out on the chest beside Cate’s baskets of yarn.

“That will do for now. Have that written, then return to me with the scrip. If I am satisfied, you can have the copies made.”

The other bowed his head and left. The hall was now empty of all but Treven and Kendryk.

“You are an unusual man,”