Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea by Nancy Atherton
For
Jim Hudson and Diane Martin,
cherished chums
One
At 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.”
“Not one foot,” the boys repeated soberly.
“Mummy and I will be in the study for a while,” Bill went on, “and we don’t want to be disturbed. I have to speak with Mummy.”