By Paul Doherty
An fascinating new Brother Athelstan ancient secret - December, 1380. while the corpse of Sir Robert Kilverby is stumbled on in a locked room, Brother Athelstan accompanies the King’s coroner to enquire. For Sir Robert had in his ownership a helpful relic, a sacred bloodstone, which has now disappeared. Did Sir Robert die of ordinary explanations or used to be he murdered? Athelstan is sceptical of rumours of a curse striking over Sir Robert, but if it's found moment outdated soldier has been gruesomely slain at the related evening, the rumours not appear so far-fetched . . .
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Extra info for Bloodstone (Sorrowful Mysteries of Brother Athelstan, Book 11)
Angela drank from her bottle. The rain fell steadily on the parked cars. Women in sneakers made a run for it, water spinning from the cart wheels. ” DESCE NT 45 The old man hesitated. He didn’t look up. “I’m writing notes. ” “He doesn’t. ” “Oh. I’m sorry . ” “Well,” said the old man. Angela was silent. Then she said again that she was sorry, and the old man scratched at the tip of his nose. He stirred a finger in the white hair of his ear. “I figure I’ll go on writing him like before. He’s got a wife and a little boy and I figure that’s why I’m still here, so I can tell him how they’re doing.
When they stopped, Angela’s head, lolled against the window, did not stir. Grant pulled the collapsed wheelchair from the rear of the wagon and after a few minutes the boy was in it and they were pushing into a bitter wind, his bare leg pink and white in the cold. No warmer inside the men’s room but at least windless, the wind whistling around the glass blocks where the caulking had pulled away. A large man in a checkerboard winter vest glanced at them and turned back to his loud pissing. Sean wheeled himself to the handicap stall and Grant said, Will you be all 40 T I M J O H N STO N right?
She tried to think. She tried to remember what that meant. How you were supposed to feel. Above her, the flag lapped silkily upon itself, susurrant as some creek or stream making its way across the sky. The drops fell harder. Colder. She pulled the black umbrella from her tote bag and thumbed the button and the device shot forward and flapped into tautness over its bat-wing joints. She felt the pills under her heart like a hundred small hands holding it aloft. At home—at Grace’s—her little sister, who did not work on Mondays, was putting the kitchen back in order.