Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil (Aunt Dimity Mystery)

Praise for Nancy Atherton and the Aunt Dimity series "Atherton smoothly blends history, village life, and the otherworldly." — Publishers Weekly "Every scene is superbly crafted to perfection. Even if you have not read all the books in this series, I have not, you can enjoy and immerse yourself in this cozy mystery.” — Open Book Society "I love the graceful style... the sense of tight-knit community, characters who aren’t afraid to be themselves, and, the unique paranormal element...I only wish I had learned about this series earlier." —Gotta Write Network "In the realm of the cozy mystery, there are few series that can hold a candle to Atherton's Aunt Dimity series." —everydayebook.com "Atherton is a superb writer who brings a lot of charm and wit to her story." — Suspense Magazine "Always a charming read, the Aunt Dimity series is just right for when life gets too hectic and youxa0need to slow down a bit." — Deadly Pleasures Magazine "Let Nancy Atherton and Aunt Dimity remind you of the reason you got hooked on books in the first place. I promise you will be scouring bookstores for more of the series after you give it a taste." — CrimeCritics.com Nancy Atherton is the bestselling author of twenty-two Aunt Dimity Mysteries. The first book in the series, Aunt Dimity's Death , was voted "One of the Century's 100 Favorite Mysteries" by the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association. She lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil By Nancy Atherton Penguin Books Copyright © 2001 Nancy AthertonAll right reserved. ISBN: 0141002190 Chapter One It was a dark and stormy afternoon on the high moors ofNorthumberland. A cold October rain battered the RangeRover's roof and the fog was as thick as porridge. I hoped myhosts at Wyrdhurst Hall would hold high tea for me, becauseit looked as though I might be a bit late. Thanks to the murky weather, I'd almost certainlymissed the turnoff for Wyrdhurst's gated drive. To judge bythe Rover's lurching progress, I'd somehow left the pavedroad altogether and veered onto a narrow, muddy track thatseemed to be climbing straight into the clouds. I could do nothing but climb with it. The moorland rosesteeply to my right and fell sharply to my left. There was noplace to turn around and I had no intention of backing downa road I could barely see. I had even less intention of using my handy cell phone toinform my husband of the vehicular pickle I'd gotten myselfinto. Bill had already expressed grave reservations about myability to drive without incident from our home in theCotswolds to a remote location near the Scottish border. If Icalled to tell him where I was?or more precisely, where Iwasn't?he wouldn't say "I told you so," but he'd think itloudly enough for me to hear. Apart from that, there was nothing Bill could do to help,short of sending a Hercules helicopter to airlift me to safety,and I couldn't imagine even the most intrepid chopper pilotvolunteering to fly in such wretched weather. The only phone call I was tempted to make was a transatlanticone to Boston, to pour my frustration into the ear ofDr. Stanford J. Finderman, my former boss. The farther Iclimbed, the more willing I was to blame Stan for everysplash of rain that blurred my windshield. After all, the triphad been his idea. I ground my teeth as I recalled the way inwhich he'd goaded me into driving to a distant corner ofnortheastern England in the monsoon month of October. "Shepherd! How the hell are ya?" Stan was the curator of myalma mater's rare-book collection, but his colorful languageowed more to a stint in the navy than to his years in the rarefiedworld of rare books. "You remember Dickie Byrd?" I shook the cobwebs from my professional memory andcame up with: Richard Fleetwood Byrd; head of a thrivingfamily firm based in northern England; a hardnosed, irasciblerascal with a soft spot for illuminated manuscripts. I hadn'tlaid eyes on him for the past eight years, but I doubted thathe'd changed much since then. "The scrap-iron king of Newcastle?" I sat at the desk inthe study, where I'd taken the call. "Sure, I remember him.What's up with Dickie?" "His niece Nicole just got married," Stan informed me."Goes by the name Nicole Hollander now. Hubby's calledJared." "You want me to drop off a wedding present?" I asked. "Just listen up, will ya?" Stan replied testily. "Dickie'sNicole's legal guardian and she's the apple of his eye. LittleNickie wanted a country house for a wedding present, soDickie let her choose one of the family estates. She chose abig old Victorian heap way the hell up in Northumberland.It's called Wyrdhurst Hall." " Weird hearse? " I echoed, grimacing. "Creepy name for awedding present." "Dust off your Old English dictionary, Shepherd. It'sspelled W-Y-R-D-H-U-R-S-T. Means `watch-place on thewooded hill.' Dickie's grandpa built it. Came complete withits own library?more than a thousand books, Dickie tellsme." "Now, that's a nice wedding present," I observed. "I thought so, too," Stan agreed, "but Dickie doesn'tthink the books in the library are classy enough for hisprincess. Wants a professional to decide whether to keep'em or replace 'em with something better. I'd go myself, butI've got to chair a frigging conservation conference at Yale.Besides, my department's budget ..." "Yeah, yeah, yeah," I muttered. I'd heard it all before.Whenever Stan caught the scent of a book deal in England,he called on me to check it out. My old boss seemed to beunder the impression that I'd moved my family from Bostonto a tiny Cotswolds village for the sole purpose of stretchinghis travel budget. "What's Dickie offering in return for ourservices?" "The Serenissima," Stan replied. I gave a low whistle. The Serenissima was a fifteenth-centuryprayer book adorned with gold leaf, semipreciousstones, and lots of bright enamel. It was the kind of thingStan could show off proudly at donors' dinners. "Isn't that apretty big payoff for such a little favor?" "What can I say? Dickie wants the best bookman in thebusiness to work for his niece. That's why he called me. Andthat's why I'm calling you. Will ya help me out, Shepherd?Northumberland's right up your alley?all the scenery youcan eat." I was tempted, sorely tempted, by Stan's offer. It hadbeen ages since I'd prowled a really juicy private library, andI'd never set foot in Northumberland. The Gypsy in mekicked up her heels at the thought of roaming those misty,myth-filled hills, but the responsible mother in me put herfoot down. "How long will it take?" I asked. "A week, tops," Stan assured me. "The Hollanders are alreadyin residence. They'll put you up in style." "A week?" I sighed. "That's an awfully long time for me tobe away. Bill might not want to spend a whole week on hisown with the twins, now that they're walking and talking andteething and?" "Your new nanny a stinker?" Stan interrupted. My new nanny was, in fact, worth more to me than theSerenissima would ever be. Annelise Sciaparelli had inheritedthe job from her older sister, who'd married and movedto Oxford. Childminding skills evidently ran in the family,because Annelise was every bit as caring and competent asFrancesca had been. "Annelise is a gem," I replied, "but?" "When's the last time Bill hightailed it off on one of hisbusiness trips?" Stan pressed. "What's sauce for thegoose ..." "That's unfair," I protested. "Bill's work is importantand?" "And yours isn't? I get the picture, Shepherd. Just let meknow what your lord and master decides, will ya?" My oldboss snorted derisively and hung up. I returned the phone to its cradle and gazed pensivelythrough the study's ivy-webbed window. I should have ignoredStan's cheap shots, treated them with the contemptthey deserved, and I would have, if they hadn't contained onetiny particle of truth. I hadn't gotten out much, lately, whereas Bill had gottenout quite a lot. In the nineteen months since the twins had been born,I'd spent exactly one night apart from them. Bill, on the otherhand, had been gone for weeks on end, supervising the Europeanbranch of his family's law firm. I'd agreed to the arrangementwillingly enough?no job was more important to methan motherhood?but Stan's pointed comments made itseem a smidge unfair. It certainly wasn't healthy. Will and Rob were pearls beyondprice, but after a year and a half in their company, I wasbeginning to sink to their level. As proof, I recalled a fifth-wedding-anniversarydinner at a swanky restaurant in Oxford.Neither Bill nor I would ever forget the pained look onthe sommelier's face when I sipped the wine, grimaced horribly,and declared it "yucky." Clearly, my brain was stagnating. I needed to spend moretime among grownups, for the sake of my vocabulary, ifnothing else. While the mother in me dithered, the Gypsy danced,stirred by the lure of those misty hills. By the time I sat downto discuss the trip with my husband, the Gypsy had won out. "Bill," I began with steely determination, "Stan has a projectfor me, up in Northumberland." "That's great!" Bill exclaimed. "It'll do you a world ofgood to get away from the cottage for a while, and frankly, I'dlove to spend some time alone with the boys. I don't wantthem to grow up thinking fatherhood's a part-time job." "B-but I'll be gone for at least a week," I sputtered, disconcertedby Bill's support. It was like slamming a fist into apile of whipped cream. "No problem," said Bill. "I'll rearrange my schedule, andGerald can take care of any urgent business that comes up.With Annelise on hand to help with the boys, there'll benothing for you to worry about." "True," I acknowledged weakly. "I can join you when you've finished the job," Bill enthused."We'll drive up to Edinburgh together and take in asession of the new Scottish Parliament. I've been wanting tosee it in action. It's the first time in nearly three hundredyears that the Scots?" He broke off in midstream to eye mecuriously. "For heaven's sake, Lori, you don't have to ask mypermission to go. Who do you think I am? Your lord andmaster?" "I think," I said, melting, "you're just about perfect." After kissing my husband as thoroughly as I knew how, Ipicked up the phone to call Stan, who was tickled pink by thenews. "Knew I could count on you, Shepherd. I'll fax the detailsand let the Hollanders know you're on your way. Enjoythe scenery." What scenery? I fumed as the Range Rover continued its precariousascent. I couldn't see much farther than the whiteknuckles of my hands gripping the steering wheel. The weathermanon the car radio informed me cheerfully that it hadbeen raining heavily in the north for the past month andseemed to suggest that it would go on raining well into theforeseeable future. I hoped the sun had shone on the Hollanders'wedding day, because I was willing to bet they hadn'tseen it since. There was no point in blaming Stan for my predicament.He might have goaded me into going to Northumberland,but he hadn't made it rain, so I left the cell phone in myshoulder bag, beneath the jacket I'd tossed on the passenger'sseat. Something small and pebbly bounced off the Rover'sroof. "Hail," I muttered, rolling my eyes. "What's next? Locusts?" I glanced over my shoulder at the spots usually occupiedby the twins' safety seats, thanked heaven that my boys weresafe at home, and nearly swerved off the road as a shower ofrocks smacked into the Rover, cracking the windshield andsplintering the side windows into a million jagged shards.Scared witless, I jammed on the brakes and skidded to thebrink of a landslide that had obliterated the muddy track. Even as I watched, a spitting, roiling cataract crasheddown the steep hillside, devouring the narrow lane and sweepingdebris down into the mist. Gingerly, I reached for the gearlever, to shift into reverse, but before I could get hold of it,the car gave a sickening shudder and tilted crazily toward thechurning torrent. The ground was giving way beneath mywheels. My hand froze in midair, then returned slowly, carefully,to release the seat belt. Scarcely daring to breathe, I reachedfor the door handle, nudged the door open with my elbow,and flung myself onto the muddy track, where blind panicsent me scrambling away from the precipice. Panting withfear, I swung around just in time to see the Range Rover turntail-up and plunge, like a breaching whale, into the fogboundvalley. I sank limply into the mud, choking back terrified sobswhile a tiny, rational corner of my brain stood back calmlyand took stock of my situation. No car, no phone, no coat, and no umbrella. No brokenbones, granted, but also no idea of where I was or where Imight find shelter. High tea at Wyrdhurst Hall was looking iffy. Continues... Excerpted from Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil by Nancy Atherton Copyright © 2001 by Nancy Atherton. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. 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