By Lawrence Block
In big apple thirty-one males were assembly every year for years. Their deepest membership meets simply to list the passage of time and provides toast to the thrill of existence. yet unexpectedly they're loss of life at an alarming cost and considered one of their quantity starts off to suspect that whatever greater than undesirable good fortune is at work.
For inner most eye Matt Scudder, the case is without doubt one of the so much baffling he's confronted. Can the deaths quite be a strange sequence of suicides and violent injuries? Or is there's a development in the back of the random play of tragedy? Is there a assassin at paintings and will he be stopped sooner than the sufferers run out?
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Additional resources for A Long Line of Dead Men (Matthew Scudder, Book 12)
They came round the comer of the guest hall into the court, still almost as lively as a town square. One more horse was being led down to the stables; Brother Denis was receiving the arriving guest, dusty from the road, at the door of his domain; two or three attendant novices were running to and fro with brychans and candles and pitchers of water; visitors already settled stood watching the newcomers throng in at the gatehouse, greeting friends among them, renewing old acquaintances and embarking on new, while the children of the cloister, oblates and schoolboys alike, gathered in little groups, all eyes and ears, bouncing and shrilling like crickets, and darting about among the pilgrims as excitedly as dogs at a fair.
His voice ebbed feebly into silence. “What doctrine,” demanded Gerbert with black deliberation, “had this man misread? What occasion had his priest had to admonish him? ” “No, no, not ordered,” said Serlo faintly. ” pursued the canon relentlessly. “Oh, none, none that did harm to any, no act of violence or dishonesty. It is long past,” said Serlo gallantly, digging in his heels with unaccustomed bravery to retrieve what he had launched. “It was nine years ago, when Archbishop William of Corbeil, of blessed memory, sent out a preaching mission to many of the towns in England.
No, only the soreness, no pricking,” said the youth, experimenting. The path of the longest splinter showed dark under the skin. Cadfael reached into the cupboard for a lotion to cleanse the wound, comfrey and cleavers and woundwort, which had got its name for good reason. “To keep it from taking bad ways. ” Edmund had left them, to make the round of his elders, and refill the little constant lamp in their chapel. Cadfael closed the cupboard, and took up the lamp by which he had been working, to restore it to its usual place.
A Long Line of Dead Men (Matthew Scudder, Book 12) by Lawrence Block