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) 📕

her through bright sunlight. “Get the lass a brandy,” he barked. One of his boys moved to obey. “I’ll have my people keep a look out for him, that’s what you want?”

Rozlyn hadn’t actually thought this through. Her head was packed too full of painful cotton wool for that, but she croaked that it would be good to have extra eyes and ears on the job.

Big Frank nodded sagely. “I know how shorthanded you lot are,” he said, then roared again, the room erupting, this time, with genuine amusement. The brandy arrived and Rozlyn drank it, the fiery liquid warming her throat and momentarily cancelling out the burning, fevered sensation that had been her companion throughout the afternoon. She dug in her pocket for the last two of Jenny’s Max Strength tablets and swallowed them with a swig of orange juice, earning herself a look of disapproval from her drinking companion.

“You shouldn’t mix tablets and alcohol,” Big Frank told her sternly. “They can mix funny like.”

“It’s only paracetamol, or something.” Truthfully, she hadn’t looked to see what it was that Jenny had dosed her with.

“That’s what a lot of people think but let me tell you they can interact in ways you don’t know about until you’re swerving off the road and into a ditch. I won’t let any of my boys touch drink and drugs together. I saw a documentary on the dangers of over-the-counter medicine and alcohol. Opened my eyes, I can tell you. Maybe I should get someone to drive you home.”

It wasn’t the sort of conversation police training taught you to react to, Rozlyn thought. “I’ll be careful,” she promised with utmost seriousness.

“You let us find Mouse. I’ll get in touch and you take my advice. Now. Get yourself off home.”

Rozlyn nodded and thanked him. She left the pub wondering if accepting a brandy from Big Frank was against regulations and if so, what the hell was accepting his help because they were shorthanded. Her relationship with the Mastermind of Marfitt Street had taken some strange turns in the past few days, she thought. Her dealings with Big Frank had previously all been at arm’s length — preferably someone else’s arms — and she was still trying to figure out how this sudden camaraderie had come about and where it was all going to end.

Then she gave up trying to figure it out. Big Frank was right, she wasn’t fit to be out unsupervised, never mind in charge of a car. Her head was throbbing and her eyes and throat felt raw. The brandy — had it been a double? Was she still legal to drive? — had gone to her head and the painful wadding was now swimming in a sea of loose brain. She could swear she could hear it sloshing about inside her head.

She phoned Jenny to tell her what was going on, then headed for home, just making it upstairs before collapsing, fully clothed, onto the bed and falling into a heavy, troubled sleep.

CHAPTER 32

Treven had never known three days pass so slowly. He had kept away from Theading, knowing that he must be seen to accept the conditions of the trial and not interfere. Osric gathered news for him. The comings and goings of serving men excited little interest or comment and from this he knew that Hugh was in great pain and had not slept more than odd half hours since the ordeal. There was no fever, Osric told him, although they would not know if the hand showed signs of putrefaction until the dressing was removed.

“He does not stink,” was all the comment Osric could make and Treven had to accept that. Osric knew as well as Treven himself the sweet, choking stench of rotting flesh.

The morning of the third day dawned as clear and cold as that morning of the trial. Pearl-pink clouds blemished the brilliant blue of the sky, churning and moiling on the horizon in a manner that caused Treven to expect snow before nightfall. He pulled his cloak tight about his shoulders, tugged his winter sleeves down to cover his hands and donned his gloves, noticing how worn they were and wondering how long since they had been new. Treven had no love of the cold. Too many nights spent lying on ice-chilled mud, his bones aching and his joints too stiff to move had stolen any joy he might have had at the sight of snow. He welcomed winter only as a time when men were less inclined to war and he still took pleasure in the feasting and celebration of Yule and, before that, the celebration of All Souls and the night of heroes that followed eleven days after. A time for fresh beginnings and remembrance of those lost, it was, by turns, both joyful and solemn. This year, though, he was among neither family nor comrades and when the festivals came, he wondered if he’d have the heart to celebrate.

Treven rode ahead of his little company, a borrowed wagon trundling and creaking behind. Its use, either to convey Hugh alive to Theadingford and to receive due care and treatment for his wounds, or to carry him bound and trussed to the gallows on the hill.

Kendryk waited for him. He too had been absent these last days but had left five of his monks in charge of Hugh: burly men, trained in use of the quarterstaff and sword. Kendryk had chosen them for his own bodyguard when he travelled and upon their heads the tonsure sat somewhat oddly. Kendryk, wrapped in his travelling cloak, had only just arrived when Treven and his modest entourage clopped and clattered into the open space before the Hall

“Let us go now,” he said. “I’ve no stomach for the food Edmund has provided until I know what is to follow.”

“You believe him guilty.” Treven stated.

“But guilty of what? The trial