The Colour of Shadows by Toni Mount (Sebastian Foxley Medieval Mystery Book 8 )
English | 2020 | Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 4.0 MB
When Seb Foxley discovers a child’s body in his workshop and another lad goes missing, our medieval sleuth is perplexed at every turn. His investigations take him across London Bridge to Bankside in Southwark, where he becomes embroiled in the sinister shadows of the city’s underworld. Bankside is a labyrinth of depravity and crime where every harlot intends the downfall of respectable men and every scoundrel has a secret. In a netherworld unlike anything he’s experienced before, can Seb unravel the murky mysteries of The Mermaid Tavern, recover the stolen lad and restore him to his family?
Meanwhile, all is not as it should be in the Foxley household and lives are in danger as Seb’s old nemesis returns to London. More than one noble lord is mad, bad and dangerous to know. About to become a father for the second time, Seb is arrested as a murder suspect. With his apprentices behaving badly, how is our hero ever going to win the day?
The hall was full of petitioners, supplicants and assorted folk, all seeking an audience with his grace, the Duke of Gloucester. Sebastian Foxley and Adam Armitage had submitted their names to the steward, as required, and now it was just a matter of waiting. And Seb knew the wait could be long indeed. He and Adam stood in a corner at the back of the hall to watch the proceedings. Adam, beardless now after the London fashion, took the opportunity to admire the sumptuous hangings, the coffered and gilded ceiling, the impressive display of silverware on a huge buffet and, most of all, the vast expanse of glazed windows overlooking the wind-swept gardens. Both men had had to hang onto their best Sunday caps on the walk from Paternoster Row to Bishopsgate in the gusting wind.
The duke, slim and lithe in his finely tailored doublet of murrey wool, did not dominate the gathering from the dais, but stood among the throng, although a discrete circle of space remained around him whenever he moved. It did not do to jostle royalty nor to step too close to those practical but expensive noble shoes.
Seb began to wonder if their day to visit might be ill-chosen. When they entered the hall, Lord Richard was brandishing a sheet of paper aloft and a man was huddled upon his knees before him.
‘What does he mean by this?’ Richard said. He did not raise his voice – he had no need, for the company fell silent – yet the anger was apparent. ‘Explain this wretched epistle to me.’
‘Y-your g-grace, I… I…’ The man stammered. ‘My Lord Pierpoint… he…’
‘Cease your nonsense. Tell me.’
‘My Lord Pierpoint said… he thought… ’Tis not my fault, my lord.’
‘This is not Imperial Rome,’ the duke said, ‘We do not slay the bearers of ill-tidings. Speak plainly, man.’
‘I… I do not know…’