Aunt Dimity and The King's Ransom (Aunt Dimity Mystery, Band 23) - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Nancy Atherton is the bestselling author of twenty-three 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.

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One

It was half past eleven on a blustery Tuesday night in mid-October. My ten-year-old sons were asleep in their room, my baby daughter was asleep in the nursery, and the family cat was asleep in my husband's favorite armchair. After a tumultuous evening involving a dead mouse, an emergency diaper change, and an illicit game of cricket in the living room, my husband and I had retreated to the master bedroom, but we weren't asleep.

Bill was sitting upright against his pillows, perusing a sheaf of densely printed legal documents. It wasn't my idea of a riveting bedtime read, but as an estate attorney with a wealthy and demanding clientele, Bill sometimes had to bring his work to bed with him.

I didn't mind. I was so tired that I wouldn't have cared if Bill had brought his bicycle to bed with him. I wasn't sure why I felt so weary, and I hoped that a good night's sleep would cure whatever ailed me, but in the meantime, I was beat.

I turned off the light in the bathroom, climbed into bed, and flopped back on my pillows with a heavy sigh. At the sound of my sigh, Bill set aside his papers and eyed me warily. Twelve years of married life had taught him to choose his next words with care.

"Something wrong, Lori?" he asked cautiously. "Besides the mouse, the exploding diaper, and the smashed vase, I mean."

"No," I said, staring fixedly at the ceiling. "Nothing's wrong. Not one thing." I sighed again. "My life is perfect."

I wasn't exaggerating. Apart from an occasional domestic disaster, my life was nothing short of a dream come true. My husband was the best of men, my children were as bright as they were healthy, and our cat was an excellent mouser. We lived in a fairy-tale cottage made of honey-colored stone near a picture-postcard village nestled snugly among the rolling hills and the patchwork fields of the Cotswolds, one of England's prettiest rural regions.

Although Bill and I were Americans, as were our twin boys, Will and Rob, and our baby, Bess, we'd lived near the small English village of Finch for more than a decade. Bill ran the international branch of his family's venerable Boston law firm from an office overlooking the village green; Will and Rob attended Morningside School in the nearby market town of Upper Deeping; and I juggled the ever-changing roles of wife, mother, friend, neighbor, and community volunteer. Nineteen-month-old Bess did what nineteen-month-olds do, which meant that Stanley, our sleek black cat, spent much of his time avoiding her.

Bill's father, William Willis, Sr., had made our happiness complete when he'd retired from his position as the head of the family firm and moved to England to be near his grandchildren. A handsome widower with courtly manners and a sizable bank account, Willis, Sr., had broken many a hopeful heart in Finch when he'd met and married his second wife, the well-known watercolorist Amelia Bowen. The pair lived in Fairworth House, a graceful Georgian mansion just up the lane from our cottage.

Finch was no more than a stone's throw from Willis, Sr.'s modest estate, across a humpbacked bridge that spanned the Little Deeping River. A stranger might mistake the village for a somnolent backwater, but those of us who called it home were never at a loss for something to do.

In our spare time we fished from the banks of the Little Deeping, hiked the network of footpaths that crisscrossed the countryside, cycled sedately along the hedge-lined lanes, or took to the bridle paths on horseback. Bird-watching, metal detecting, and gardening were among the most popular hobbies in Finch, but a few of us made quilts or collected model trains or produced paintings that would never be mistaken for Amelia Bowen's.

When it came to communal activities, we were spoiled for choice. Art shows, flower shows, church fetes, and gymkhanas were but a few of the events that dotted the village calendar, and a plethora of committee meetings ensured that each event was well organized and well attended.

When we weren't fishing, hiking, cycling, horseback riding, pursuing our hobbies, or participating in villagewide events, we attended services at St. George's Church; shared pots of tea at Sally Cook's tearoom; shopped at Taxman's Emporium, Finch's grandly named general store; and dozed through committee meetings in the old schoolhouse, which served as our village hall.

Everywhere we went, we gossiped. Gossip was a way of life in Finch, and though it could at times be moderately mean-spirited, it was never cruel. More often than not the village grapevine was simply the most efficient way to spread local news, which was the only news we really cared about.

I simply couldn't imagine a better place to live. My neighbors weren't angels, by any means, but they were fundamentally good. They'd welcomed Bill and me to their tight-knit community with open arms, and they'd opened them even wider to welcome our children. Will and Rob had the run of every cookie jar in Finch, and Bess was treated like everyone's favorite granddaughter. We could depend on our neighbors to come to our aid in any emergency, and they knew that they could always count on us.

I even had a best friend living nearby. Like me, Emma Harris was an American, though, unlike me, she'd married an Englishman. Emma ran the riding school where Will and Rob took lessons and where we boarded their gray ponies, Thunder and Storm. Even-tempered and rational, Emma was in many ways my polar opposite, but in our case as in so many others, opposites attracted.

"My life is perfect," I repeated to Bill. "I have a family who loves me and whom I adore. I live in a beautiful place among wonderful people. I'm valued at home and in my community, and my best friend lives five minutes away. I have no reason-and certainly no right-to complain about anything."

"But . . . ?" Bill coaxed.

"But instead of looking forward to making four dozen butterscotch brownies for the bake sale on Saturday, I feel like a prisoner who's been sentenced to four dozen years of hard labor," I said, still gazing dully at the ceiling. "I don't know why. I usually enjoy baking."

Bill studied my profile in silence, then hunkered down beside me and whispered in my ear, "Run away with me."

"What?" I said, startled out of my lassitude.

"You need a break," he said, resting his head on his hand. "Even a perfect life gets old after a while. However pleasant a routine, it's still a routine, and routines are meant to be broken. You haven't been away from home since the long weekend we spent at The White Hart in Old Cowerton, and that was way back in July. You need a change of scene, a breath of fresh air, a chance to recharge your batteries."

"Easier said than done," I muttered.

"Most things are," Bill retorted. "This particular thing, however, will be as easy as pie to accomplish."

"I doubt it," I said. "I have an awful lot to do this week. It's not just the bake sale. I have to repaint the palm trees for the Nativity play, bottle jam with Emma, distribute books and magazines at the hospital, sort donations at the thrift shop-and that's on top of everything I have to do at home."

"There isn't much empty space in my datebook, either," Bill said, "but if I can make room in it for a romantic getaway, so can you." He brushed a tousled curl back from my forehead. "I'm not taking no for an answer, Lori."

"Apparently not." I rolled over to face him. "Are you about to reveal a cunning plan?"

"Naturally." He...