Suppression and Suspicion

Book 15: Hugh De Singleton’s Chronicles

by Mel Starr

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Delve into the world of fourteenth-century England in this thrilling historical mystery, the fifteenth in the brilliant Chronicles of Hugh de Singleton.

Edmund Harkins has gone missing.

Few in Bampton liked him, knowing him to be a wife-beater and distinctly unsavory character, so when some hungry pigs unearth his corpse from a shallow grave, there is hardly an outpouring of grief.

As bailiff, it is Hugh de Singleton’s duty to bring Edmund’s killer to justice. But where is he to start investigating when almost everyone in the village has a motive? And when everyone is pleased to see the scoundrel dead, who knows how far they might go to help someone get away with murder?

To further complicate Hugh’s life, the Bishop of Exeter has appointed his nephew as Bampton’s new vicar. But as well as an obsession with discovering any heretical views Hugh might hold, he could not be more unpriestly—he not only acts appallingly with Lady Katherine’s maid, but is contributing to the unhealthy atmosphere of suppression and suspicion that has come to pervade the village …

Fast paced and full of twists and turns, Suppression and Suspicion is a brilliant medieval murder mystery perfect for fans of Susanna Gregory and Peter Ellis. Mel Starr paints an immersive and atmospheric picture of fourteenth-century England, and weaves a compelling mystery that will keep you on the edge of your seat until the last page.

The fifteenth volume in the Chronicles of Hugh de Singleton, Suppression and Suspicion will be thoroughly enjoyed by long time fans of the series but can also be read as a standalone novel.

Release date: September 23, 2022

Publisher: Lion Fiction

Print pages: 225

Sample

Chapter 1

’Twas the fourth day of October, the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi, in the year of our Lord one thousand, three hundred and seventy-six. I walked the muddy bank of Shill Brook, to the south of Bampton, where I knew I would find a grove of willows and likely some monk’s hood. Both of these may be used to relieve pain, though I will not use monk’s hood but as a rub. The plant’s root, ground fine and mixed with oil, will alleviate an aching joint. And blended into a cup of ale the powdered root is a strong sedative. But too much becomes a deadly poison. The bark of the willow, dried and powdered and added to a cup of ale, is a safer physic. It is not so effective as hemp seeds, but easier to come by, and no man will die from quaffing a cup of ale imbued with fragments of willow bark. He may if his physician offers a dose of monk’s hood. I will not do so, no matter what hurt my patient may be suffering.

I am Hugh de Singleton, surgeon, and bailiff to Lord Gilbert, Third Baron Talbot, at his manor of Bampton – Sir Hugh, since Prince Edward of Woodstock granted me a knighthood some years past for service I rendered. He had sent for me to attend him at Kennington Palace because whilst at the siege of Limoges I had offered him some herbs which relieved his infirmity. Whilst I attended the prince at Kennington, a knight in his service was slain and I discovered the murderer. For these services I was made Sir Hugh, and my wife is Lady Katherine, although to me she will always be Kate.

I had with me as I prowled the bank of Shill Brook two sacks; one for willow bark, the other for the root of monk’s hood. So hazardous is monk’s hood I will not allow it to mingle in the same sack with willow bark. Mayhap this is an excess of caution, but few men have suffered from too much discretion. As the willow bark is much the easier to collect, I filled that sack first, then sought the monk’s hood. I drew from the soil three plants, shook the dirt from the roots, placed them in the smaller bag, and turned for home.

I met Will Shillside, Bampton’s haberdasher, as I walked from Bridge Street to Church View Street. He also had a sack slung over his shoulder. He had departed Bampton early Friday morning to replenish his stock of pins and buckles and ribbons and such. He

was no doubt pleased to be home. Roads are unsafe. King Edward is in his dotage and seems to care for little but his mistress, Alice Perrers. And his heir, Edward of Woodstock, died in June. My physics could alleviate, but they could not cure. Our next king will be Prince Edward’s son, Richard of Bordeaux. The lad is but nine years old. When his grandfather dies, who, I wonder, will be regent? His mother Joan, or his wily uncle, John of Gaunt?

“What news?” I hailed when Will came near.

“Prince Edward was buried five days past in Canterbury Cathedral,” he replied, “although the funeral will not be held ’til Monday.”

My employer, Lord Gilbert Talbot, had set off for Canterbury ten days past, accompanied by several of his household knights and valets. Perhaps he would return in a week’s time, if no other business in London or Oxford delayed him.

“Does plague yet afflict Oxford?” I asked.

“Not so much,” Will replied.  The pestilence had returned a year past. Not so many perished as when the disease first struck,...