Newsletter Apologies for no previous newsletter when it was due. I’ve had the flu – what the sainted Elin Gregory would call
poorly sick in bed under the doctor. Am much better in myself, although stamina’s still a problem. Gets to the evening and it’s like I’ve been running a marathon, so this communication will be short and sweet. Like me…
NewsGot some more events lined up! Wednesday 11
th December at 7pm GMT, I’m doing a chat at the
UK Crime book group. Do drop in and ask me awkward questions. I’ll try my best to give sensible answers. Then on 20
th December I’m at one of RJ Scott’s cracking online parties. My turn is 8pm GMT on Friday 20
th December. There will be lots of prizes on offer.
The book available at a special price this week is
All Lessons Learned. You can snaffle it for less than a pound/dollar.
The excerpt this week is a bit of a tease because it comes from a work in progress. The next Cambridge Fellows novella should see the light of day in the spring – more info to follow when I have it. In the meantime…
Cambridge
October 1911“What are you?” Orlando Coppersmith frowned so hard that his entire forehead resembled a linen shirt that had just been wrung.
“Well, to give me my full title, I'm the Kildare Fellow in Tudor Literature.” Jonty Stewart put on a brave front but he knew that he would not stand a cross-examination. Especially when he was at the disadvantage of lying on a bed in the St. Bride’s college sickbay with the twin intimidations of his lover’s scowling presence in the room and the college nurse outside the door, cleaving her prow-bosomed way en route to the rest of her charges.
“I don't refer to your paid employment, Dr Stewart, I allude to your conduct today. The conduct that brought you here.”
Jonty sighed. “I know. I'm an idiot.”
Orlando's mouth almost tweaked into a smile but he managed to restrain it. “I would have thought the Kildare Fellow would have been able to produce an adjective to go with the noun.” He sat back in the little wooden chair provided for visitors, his arms folded, awaiting the answer.
“I'm a complete and utter idiot.”
“That's nearer the truth. I can think of a few more terms but I'll excuse you them. Given your condition.”
“I thank you for such small mercies.” Jonty changed position, easing his leg. Only a patchwork quilt covered his lower regions, hiding the fact that he wore neither shoes nor socks or indeed trousers. Not that he’d been wearing trousers when the mishap had happened. His right calf had been bandaged up to within an inch of its life after his rugby shorts had been cut off him quite mercilessly by Orlando and the nurse, who had decided that they'd never come off in the normal way without causing more pain and damage.
Jonty suspected that Orlando would have been happy to suggest that was exactly what they
should do to teach him a lesson. He had huffed and puffed and complained all the way through the process, probably to cover up the fact that he was worried and that he’d quite enjoyed it, really. Getting their hands on each other’s flesh was usually a treat without comparison and one unlikely to be repeated any time soon, given the state of Jonty’s leg.
Mercy had eventually triumphed over justice, so now he had been made comfortable, propped up with pillows to await the arrival of the doctor.
“I bet you’re enjoying this.” Orlando had risen, to stare out of the small window across the college rooftops. “Being borne on a stretcher from the rugby pitch, into an invalid carriage and through St. Bride’s, like Queen Victoria in her pomp. Now having the prospect of being waited on hand and foot, with everyone fussing round you.”
“That may appeal, but my leg hurts like billy-oh.” Jonty carefully smoothed over the quilt, which was said to be the product of Ariadne Sheridan’s fair hands. Back in the days she’d been Ariadne Peters and the chatelaine of the master’s lodge at the side of her brother, she’d crafted a series of beautiful covers for the sick bay. To provide, she’d said, a little touch of home comfort for the students—or fellows—who found themselves ensconced there.
“One might say it served you right to be suffering.” Orlando, still in his muddy rugger jersey, kept his gaze fixed outside, possibly afraid that if he contemplated Jonty’s stricken frame his mood might soften. “What exactly did you do on that pitch?”
“I scored one magnificent try and made another. Both of the kicks beautifully taken by—”
“No Jonty. That wasn’t the question. What did you do to get yourself laid up like this?”
“Ah. Yes. Well.” The dreaded question to which the questioner knew the answer and was using it to make the recipient squirm. Jonty took a deep breath. “Well, I started to charge down this drop kick and then I saw a boot coming straight for my face. At which point I thought Mama wouldn't want to see her lovely boy disfigured so I twisted out of the way and...” He tailed off. The rest must have been obvious at the time, from the awful way his leg had gone awry as he hit the ground to the howl of pain that he had given. He was sure he’d heard a breaking noise, as well, but perhaps best not to mention that at present. “It was better that my leg copped it, surely, rather than me lose my good looks?”
And finally – from the seasonal lights at Beaulieu last year.
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Charlie
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