Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil (Aunt Dimity Mystery) Read Free

no kitchen, as such. Once I’d hauled myself into a sitting position and drawn the sweatshirt well past my hips, I saw that the cottage was nothing more than one large room, its sections defined by furnishings rather than walls.
    The kitchen corner featured a wall-mounted cupboard above a stone sink with a single spigot. Beside the sink, a pine countertop held a pair of gas rings, a cutting board, and a clay flowerpot bristling with utensils.
    A modest pine table and a pair of beechwood chairs made up the dining room. Above the pine table hung a brass oil lamp, which Adam lit on his way to the kitchen.
    The area to the right of the front door had been set up as an office, with a five-drawer kneehole desk, a swivel chair, and a pair of heavy-laden bookcases. The desk held a portable typewriter, miscellaneous papers, and a jam jar filled with pens and colored pencils.
    The corner opposite the office must have served as the bedroom. Shirts hung from pegs above a small chest of drawers, and a nightstand stood beside an empty space where the iron bed would have stood if it hadn’t been pushed close to the fireplace, for my benefit. The leather armchair, and the ottoman that went with it, had been thrust from their traditional spots before the hearth to make room for the bed.
    My clothes—all of them—dangled from the edge of thesimple plank mantelpiece, anchored there by a row of smooth, fist-sized stones. My suede boots sat at a little distance from the fire, where they would dry without splitting. They’d be stiff by morning, though, thanks to the mud.
    “We’re a bit isolated here.” A match flared and Adam bent low to light the gas rings. He placed a saucepan on one, a teakettle on the other. “I’ve no telephone, and my car is in the village at the moment, undergoing repairs. I’ve a bicycle”—he motioned toward a sturdy mountain bike leaning just inside the front door—“so I could have ridden into town for help, but I didn’t want to leave you alone.”
    As he stirred the contents of the saucepan, a series of fuzzy images took shape in my mind—gray fog, silver rain, and a muddy brown track swept away by a savage torrent.
    “The only thing left,” Adam was saying, “was to build up the fire and sandwich you between its warmth and mine.” He lifted a spoonful of soup to his lips. “Purely for medicinal purposes, you understand.”
    I felt the cold rain soak my sweater as the Range Rover sank from view, and shuddered violently.
    “My God,” I whispered, shrinking back against the pillows.
    The spoon clattered to the countertop and Adam’s face appeared above mine, his brow furrowed with concern. “Lori? What’s wrong?”
    “It’s gone,” I told him, as the memories flooded back. “My car, my luggage,” I moaned, grief-stricken, “and
Reginald
.”
    “Dear Lord…” Adam knelt beside me, put a firm hand on my shoulder, and said calmly, “Was someone else in the car with you?”
    “No,” I said. “Reginald’s not a person. He’s a”—I blushed crimson—“a rabbit, a pink flannel rabbit. I know it sounds childish, but I’ve had him ever since I was a baby. He’s…he’s…”
    “An old friend?” Adam suggested.
    “That’s right,” I said gratefully. “I have to find him. And I have to call my husband. He’ll be worried sick about me.” I tried to push the blankets aside, but Adam gently pinned me to the pillows.
    “Lie still,” he ordered. “I’ll get word to your husband as soon as I can. I’d go now, only I don’t fancy my chances, cycling to the village phone box on a dark road in a force-nine gale. I fancy yours even less.”
    A flurry of raindrops pelted the windowpanes and I flinched.
    “Relax,” Adam soothed. “You’re safe. The hut’s been here for more than a hundred years. It’s stood worse storms than this.”
    I looked past him, noted the depth of the windowsills, the thickness of the walls, and was comforted. The hut was as snug as a cave.
    “Where