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

are we?” I asked.
    Adam sat back on his heels. “We’re in a fishing hut on the banks of a small stream not an hour’s drive from Newcastle. We’re a half-mile from the village of Blackhope and within shouting distance of Wyrdhurst Hall.”
    “You’re kidding,” I said.
    “I’m not. If you’d walked a bit farther, you’d’ve bumped into the gates.” The teakettle’s low whistle climbed to a shriek and Adam stood, announcing, “Dinner will be served in five minutes, Mrs. Shepherd.”
    “It’s Ms. Shepherd,” I corrected. “But I prefer Lori.”
    “Then you must call me Adam.” He drew me into a sitting position, propped the pillows behind me, and returned to prepare the teapot. “Are you a friend of the family?” he asked, over his shoulder.
    “The Hollanders?” My stomach voiced its approval as simmering broth’s savory aroma wafted my way. “I’ve never even met them. Mrs. Hollander’s uncle hired me to do a rough survey of the books in her library.”
    “She’s a Byrd by birth, isn’t she?” Adam asked.
    “That’s right,” I said. “Her uncle’s Dickie Byrd, the industrialist.”
    “Then at least one of the rumors is true.” Adam took a stoneware bowl from the cupboard. “The only one, I’ll wager.”
    “Rumors?” My ears pricked up. “What rumors?”
    Adam shrugged dismissively. “The usual nonsense. You know how country people are about newcomers.”
    As an American living in a small English village, I knew exactly how country people were about newcomers. If the villagers in Blackhope were like my neighbors in Finch, Nicole and Jared Hollander would be subject to all manner of speculation.
    “Are you a local?” I asked.
    “I’m a writer,” Adam replied, not quite answering the question. “I rented the fishing hut to serve as my sanctuary while I’m finishing up my latest book.”
    “No telephone.” I glanced at the portable typewriter. “And you don’t use a computer, so you can’t get E-mail.”
    Adam twirled his spoon in the air. “I’m beyond the reach of editor, agent, and publicist. It’s pure bliss.”
    He strode over to a bookcase and removed an oversized, slender volume. I thought it was one of his works and expected him to show it to me. Instead, he carried it to the pine table, where he covered it with a thin white tea towel.
    “I haven’t a tray,” he explained, arranging dishes on the towel-draped book, “so Ladlighter’s
Illustrated History of the Ypres Salient
will have to do.”
    “Ypres,” I repeated, trying to wrap my tongue around the awkward syllable. “That’s from the First World War, isn’t it?”
    “Full marks, Lori.” Adam looked impressed. “It’s a town in southwest Belgium. The soldiers called it Wipers, and yes, it played a significant role in the Great European War. A quarter of a million men died there.”
    “Do you write about the, uh, Great European War?” I asked.
    “I write about its repercussions.” He carried the makeshift tray to the bed, and placed it on my lap. “Dinner is served, madam.”
    The bowl of rich brown broth had been augmented by a mug of sweet, milky tea and a thick slice of buttered brown bread. My hands were so trembly that I could barely lift the mug to my lips, and after watching me spill a spoonful of soup down the front of his sweatshirt, Adam took up the task and fed me like a baby. By the time he’d spooned up the last drop, my hands had steadied and I was able to finish the tea on my own.
    I rested against the pillows while Adam rinsed the dishes, extinguished the oil lamp, and donned a heavy, cobalt-blue ribbed sweater. The sweater came as something of a relief to me. Adam Chase wasn’t a big man, but he had an athlete’sbuild, and the rosy glow of firelight on his sculpted abdominals had been more than a bit distracting.
    After adding a few lumps of coal to the fire, he swung the leather armchair around to face me. “I suggest you get some sleep,” he said, easing himself