By Dana Cameron
The past's blood stains the current the possibility of an entire life awaits archaeologist Emma Fielding within the Berkshire foothills of Western Massachusetts: the opportunity to check the eighteenth-century diary of Margaret Chandler, the accused witch and murderess whose domestic Emma excavated in simple terms months sooner than. despite the fact that, the 3 different Shrewsbury beginning fellows she needs to percentage the premises with are a disturbingly unusual bunch, and sooner than too lengthy considered one of them is useless. yet Emma can locate no solace within the bleak great thing about the encompassing wasteland, for there are darkish secrets and techniques encoded in Madam Chandler's writings, and stunning parallels among an old slaying and the unusual, brutal dying of her colleague. while the killer moves back, Emma realizes her personal existence is at stake. And all of sudden there's no selection left: she is pushed to enquire bloody crimes previous and current -- sooner than her personal loss of life turns into a footnote in a chilling, three-centuries-old tale.
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Additional info for A Fugitive Truth: An Emma Fielding Mystery
There were a number of carrelled desks about, and a couple of flat tables on which to spread work. Reference works lined two walls, and a small office was on the third. The last wall had windows that looked out into the dense stand of trees that sprawled out in front of the annex, and I paused there to admire yet another splendid prospect. ” I was startled by a man’s voice behind me. “I’m Henry Saunders, the head librarian. ” The man I faced was a few inches taller than I, and a few pounds lighter, but not weedy, with thinning blond hair and glasses.
I’ll bring the journal when I get done. ” Her description of Dr. Morgan’s project rang a bell with me, but I couldn’t remember why. I was too distracted by the length of time that it took Sasha to come back out with the diary—she was taking forever! Eventually she emerged with my book and a slip of paper. “Sorry about that, my phone. It was the director, Evert Whitlow. ” I paused, not quite certain how to bring up the question I had on my mind. “Dr. Morgan’s work sounds familiar to me. ” She flushed with embarrassment.
I was startled by a man’s voice behind me. “I’m Henry Saunders, the head librarian. ” The man I faced was a few inches taller than I, and a few pounds lighter, but not weedy, with thinning blond hair and glasses. He was dressed, as are most of the men of my academic tribe, in chinos, a blue oxford shirt, and a tweed jacket. Unlike most of my colleagues, however, the jacket was nicely made out of good wool, and his tie was subtle, interesting, and not spotted with grease stains. Henry Saunders’s glasses weren’t the usual default gold wire rims, either, but a carefully chosen pair of French frames in a brown tortoiseshell that showed off some pretty compelling cheekbones.