Somebody appears to be lacing certain Cambridge dons' food with laxatives. When they appear to have turned to stronger poison Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith get on the trail. Only Jonty's laid up in sick bay with a rugby injury so he'll have to wait for the clues to come to him...
I've said it before and I'll say it again, whether the author writes 100 full length novels or only one 2-page holiday coda, I will always be on board and it will never be enough. Jonty and Orlando are quite possibly my favorite fictional sleuthing duo, and trust me I read a lot of mysteries and I have a long list of faves😉.
This time around, has a nasty prank led to dire unforeseen consequences or well thought out mayhem? You know my answer to that is to read for yourself and as this is mystery novella entry in the series I'll be spoiling even less😉. Trust me, if you love Jonty and Orlando than you already know this is a fantastic gem and if you've never read Cambridge Fellows Mysteries before, you need to.
As for Jonty and Orlando themselves, I think Poisonous Trail actually conveys how much they mean to each other more than almost any of the other entries. Considering they spend so much of the story apart that seems like an odd thing for me to say but as the old adage goes, "absence makes the heart grow fonder", not being able to bounce ideas off each other instantly they each come to appreciate the other that much more. Don't get me wrong, there was never any doubt how they felt for one another it's just you get the idea that they maybe took their proximity for granted and with Jonty in the sick ward on campus that proximity is not there at the moment.
Talking about Jonty, Orlando, and their "proximity", if you've been a fan of the series then you already know most of the heat is off page. Now, some prefer to "see" the hot-and-heavy, Lord knows I'm no prude but sometimes it's nice to have the story concentrate more on the mystery and the relationship leaving the heat to the imagination. Personally, when done right I think off-page can strengthen the readers' bond with the characters because the author has to convey the romance more deeply. Just another reason why I love this series so much. I should add that I really loved seeing Dr. Panesar get to scratch his sleuthing itch this time around, he's not one to often aid them in their cases so I think it adds to the boys finding themselves in unwanted territory of Jonty not being able to "pound the pavement" as it were in regards to doing the leg work.
Cambridge Fellows is a historical mystery series which I know isn't everyone's cup of tea. As a history buff I really appreciate the author's obvious respect for the era with her attention to detail, from phrases to clothing to regulations and everything in between. Just because the details are there if you are one who shies away from the genre because they don't want to read a school lesson, don't worry the author never lets the details get so heavy that they screw with the reading experience.
One last thing: if you are new to the series and wondering about reading order because I believe Poisonous Trail is the 17th published work, I highly recommend checking out the chronological timeline on the author's website because some stories "go back and fill in". Would you be lost if you read them willy-nilly? No. As each entry is a new mystery, you could make a case of them being standalones but as it's also a journey of Jonty and Orlando's relationship, there is a certain level of growth in each one so I highly recommend reading them chronologically if you can but it's not a must.
RATING:
A bright afternoon, with a gentle breeze. St Bride’s rugby pitch, the home team turning out against St Thomas’s college. A tight game, hard fought. Jonty, arms raised to charge down a drop kick from the opposition, stumbled over a churned-up piece of turf, found himself diving headlong towards a boot and took evasive action. It wasn’t his best decision.
“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 anything below the waist. 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, despite being baggy, 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. Jonty could only hope he’d enjoyed it just a little bit. 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?”
*******
“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 anything below the waist. 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, despite being baggy, 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. Jonty could only hope he’d enjoyed it just a little bit. 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?”
Saturday Series Spotlight
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.
Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
EMAIL: cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com
Lessons in Following a Poisonous Trail #12.9
