Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea

Table of Contents

 

 

“The eleventh Aunt Dimity mystery is testament to the staying power of Atherton’s cozier-than-cozy premise. . . . Rainy Sunday afternoon reading.”

—
Booklist

“I adored it. . . . Just sit back and take a breather while immersing yourself in something a little fun.”

—
Curledup.com

 

“Thoroughly entertaining.”

—
Booklist

“Atherton’s series is for those who like the puzzle of a mystery minus the corpses. This is a book entirely without edge, cynicism or even rudeness, and the characters are so nice you can’t just dismiss them—this is the way life really ought to be if only we were all better behaved. Put on the teakettle and enjoy.”

—
The Rocky Mountain News

“Fans of cozy mysteries won’t want to miss this one.”

“This is Atherton at her coziest. . . . Fans of the series will not be disappointed.”

—
Over My Dead Body!
(The Mystery Magazine)

“Cozy mystery lovers wouldn’t dream of missing an entry in this series, and for good reason. . . . The quality of this series never runs down.”

—
Kingston Observer

“A charming mystery, filled with warmth and affection.”

 

“Witty, engaging and filled with interesting detail that will make the cottage-in-the-English-countryside fanciers among us sigh. . . . a romp and a half, just the thing to veg out on when life gets too much, and you want to escape into a book.”

“The perfect tale for a cold winter’s night.”

“Fans of this series will be delirious with joy. . . . this series is among the best of the cozies, and this book is my personal favorite. . . . what a treat!”

 

“A thoroughly modern cozy . . . classic cozy elements abound. The setting is delicious. . . . A very enjoyable read.”

“Delightful”

“Charming”

 

“Atherton’s light-as-a-feather series . . . is an excellent example of the (cozy) genre’s traditions. . . . profoundly comforting.”

“Entertaining, comforting, and charming.”

“Nancy Atherton is a simply wonderful writer. Her descriptions of the British moors are breathtaking, and her protagonist, Lori Shepherd, is appealing and sexy.”

—
The Cleveland Plain Dealer

 

“Here is a rarity: a book with a Christmas theme that is an engagingly well-written literary work.”

—
The Rocky Mountain News

 

“The coziest cozy of them all.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

 

“Atherton has a whimsical, fast-paced, well-plotted style that makes this book a romantic and graceful romp.”

—
Houston Chronicle

 

“Nancy Atherton is the most refreshingly optimistic new storyteller to grace the shelves in years. . . . charming!”

—
Murder Ink

 

“A book I thoroughly enjoyed in the reading and which leaves me richer for having met charming people with the courage to care; and in places we all visit, at least in dreams.”

—Anne Perry

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Visit the spirit of Aunt Dimity at
www.aunt-dimity.com

PENGUIN BOOKS

 

Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

First published in the United States of America by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 2006 Published in Penguin Books 2007

 

Copyright © Nancy T. Atherton, 2006

All rights reserved

 

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-16730-4

CIP data available

 

Set in Perpetua

 

 

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

A
t was far too pretty a day to contemplate violent death. Late April’s silken breezes were filled with the scents of spring. Cowslips nodded daintily in the meadow, the oak forest was awash with bluebells, and soft sunlight cast a golden glow over the honey-colored cottage my family and I called home. As I stood calf-deep in the meadow’s rippling grasses, playing cricket with my five-year-old sons, the thought of us all being strangled in our beds by a vengeful lunatic was the furthest thing from my mind.

I use the phrase “playing cricket” loosely. Although my husband and I had lived for seven years near the small Cotswolds village of Finch, in England’s West Midlands, we were Americans born and bred, and we’d never quite grasped the rules of what was, to us, a peculiar and alien game. Our twin sons, on the other hand, had grown up in England. Cricket was their national pastime. While they took turns bowling and batting, I was good for nothing but fielding balls.

I’d just rescued a particularly soggy specimen from the gurgling stream at the bottom of our meadow when I spotted my husband emerging from the solarium that stretched across the back of the cottage. Will and Rob were the spitting images of their father—dark-haired, brown-eyed, and, to judge by the speed with which they outgrew their clothes, destined to equal if not exceed his lofty height. Whether they would follow Bill into the family business or choose instead to strike it rich on the pro cricket tour remained to be seen.

Bill was a high-priced and highly discreet attorney who spent much of his time drawing up wills for the extremely well-to-do. He ran the European branch of his family’s venerable law firm from an office overlooking the village square in Finch, but his work often took him away from home. He’d been in his London office for the past three days, and I hadn’t expected to see him for another two. I wondered what had brought him home early.

Stanley, our recently adopted black cat, followed Bill into the back garden, but Bill didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t bend to stroke Stanley’s gleaming coat, or call out to me and the boys, or climb over the garden’s low stone wall to join us in the meadow. He simply stood in the shade of the old apple tree, watching us. He stared silently at the boys for a moment before lifting his gaze to scan the tree-covered hills that rose steeply beyond the meadow and the stream. When his eyes finally met mine, I felt a shiver of apprehension so powerful that the rescued ball slipped from my fingers.

My husband looked as though he’d aged ten years since I’d last seen him. His shoulders were hunched, his face was haggard, and his mouth was drawn into a thin, grim line.When our gazes locked, I saw a flame of anger in his eyes, shadowed by bone-deep fear. The sheer intensity of his emotions struck me like a blow.

I must have gasped, because Will and Rob glanced toward the cottage, shouted “Daddy!” and forgot, momentarily, about cricket. They dropped bat and ball, hurtled across the meadow, and bounced over the stone wall into the garden, where they slowed, paused, and finally stood stock-still, peering up at their father. As I hurried over the wall in their wake, they stepped forward and slipped their hands into Bill’s.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” asked Rob.

“Is it
very
bad?” asked Will.

Bill dropped to his knees and pulled the boys to him, his head bowed between theirs, his eyes squeezed shut as if he were in pain. When the twins began to squirm, he drew an unsteady breath and loosened his hold. Will and Rob stood back and regarded him anxiously.

“Yes, it’s bad,” he answered, looking from one solemn face to the other. “But it’s nothing for you to worry about. Mummy and Daddy are going to take care of everything.”

“We could help,” the boys chorused.

“Of course you can.” Bill ran his fingers through their dark hair. “You can help me and Mummy by going into the cottage and doing exactly what Annelise tells you to do.”

Annelise Sciaparelli was the twins’ inestimable nanny. She and I had flipped a coin after lunch to decide who’d pull cricket duty. She’d won.

“There’s no need to fetch your toys,” Bill said sharply, when the boys turned back toward the meadow. “Just go into the cottage and stay with Annelise. Understand? I want you to stay indoors, with Annelise. You’re not to set foot outside of the cottage. Not one foot.”