BURY ME DEEP an utterly gripping crime thriller with an epic twist (Detective Rozlyn Priest Book 1) by JANE ADAMS (best book reader .txt) 📗

“Has this Donovan got anything to do with the houses Charlie cleaned?”

Mouse shook his head.

“Then what? Hey, Mouse Man, don’t run out on me now. I’m trying to find who killed our Charlie. You want to help me do that, don’t you?”

Reluctantly, Mouse turned back. He seemed to brace himself as though expecting a physical blow. He stepped closer to Rozlyn, so close that the smell of him overwhelmed Rozlyn’s senses and brought tears to her eyes. “I’ll show you the houses,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything Charlie told me about Mr Thomas Thompson, and I’ll let you take my little radio with the foreign letters on it, so long as you give me another one. But I don’t know nothing about Donovan. And I won’t tell nothing neither. Donovan is a bad man and Charlie said I didn’t want to know about him. He was going to tell you when he knew enough, he said. It was a big thing he could tell you about old antique things. The things Donovan does are about old antique things, selling old antique things, not about the people that go to the houses. Charlie said this Donovan knew about the houses but he didn’t bring the people there. Charlie didn’t clean for Donovan. He said that Donovan was a bad man and I didn’t want to know no more.”

He was shaking in his boots, quite literally. Rozlyn, though always reluctant to touch the Mouse Man, laid a soothing hand on his greasy arm. “It’s OK, Mouse,” she said. “I won’t ask you more about him. You just show me the houses, all right? Then you can go off home and feed your friends. Listen to your radio.”

Mouse Man nodded rapidly, then took a deep breath. “If I knew any more, I’d tell you, Inspector Priest,” he said. “Charlie was my friend. I want you to get who killed him. But be careful. Donovan’s a bad man. You’re not careful enough, he might get you too.”

* * *

From the writings of Abbot Kendryk of Storton Abbey, Year of Grace 878:

I had been disturbed by the rumours that were spread abroad from the vill of Theading and the gossip that inevitably reached my ears regarding the new lord of Theadingford. To be more exact, it was gossip regarding the man he had appointed Shire Reeve that troubled me. Treven himself was already, in those first days, gaining a reputation for fair dealing and it seemed this was a man who understood the needs of both land and the people thereon and sought approval from his community. But the same could not be said of the man Hugh de Vries. His scions looked towards Frankish ancestry and tradition and had the wealth and power, even in those straitened times, to satisfy their own wishes and desires, regardless and uncaring of what damage that might do to reputation. Hugh de Vries, in short, was a selfish man. I am myself a son of Frankish lords. I have been always conscious of the power such families wield and what rights they see as theirs to take without thought of consequence.

I felt most greatly troubled that this man should have turned his attention to the Scrivener girl. The women of that family have long been the wealth of this land, with knowledge and skill passed from mother to daughter such that some men looked askance. It has always seemed to me that the strength and knowledge of men and women both are needed for the health of any community. That the strength of both should be valued. At that time winter and war had both lately taken their tribute and strength of either sort had been diminished.

This man, this Hugh, such men need firm handling, especially firm should they be placed in position of influence and power and it seemed to me that though the heart of this new lord, this Treven, was reported by so many to be sound, his judgement was not. When the Shire Reeve shows so little concern for those that they are meant to serve, what hope can there be of protection from the evil that waits at every false turn? Such ill consideration feeds the hunger of that which waits for evil to be done. The hunger buried deep within the land, long fed on blood and need and want and desire and waiting always for the careless step.

CHAPTER 10

Mrs Chinowski had the chain on the door and peered out cautiously, one pale blue eye framed in the opening. She was a tiny woman, Rozlyn having to stoop so that she could see her face and the I.D. card she held.

“Can I talk to you?” Rozlyn asked gently. “It’s about Charlie Higgins from upstairs.”

To her surprise and some alarm she saw the one eye fill with tears. They overflowed and ran down the pale, wrinkled skin of the old lady’s face.

“He was good to me, was Charlie. Why would anyone want to hurt him?” Her voice was heavily accented and now, thickened by tears.

“I don’t know, Mrs Chinowski. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Can I come inside?”

She nodded, then closed the door so she could release the chain. Rozlyn got the impression she was in two minds whether or not to open it again and wished she’d had the foresight to bring Jenny as Mrs Chinowski had already deigned to speak with her. Not that Jenny’d have been too happy about that on a Sunday, she reminded herself. She’d probably have told Rozlyn that some people have a life and would rather spend their Sundays participating in it.

The door was opened just enough for Rozlyn to slide through. Mrs Chinowski closed it behind her and then stood on the threshold, wringing her hands as though the distress caused by Charlie’s death had been compounded by her