BURY ME DEEP an utterly gripping crime thriller with an epic twist (Detective Rozlyn Priest Book 1) JANE ADAMS (fox in socks read aloud TXT) 📖

in England.” Rozlyn had no idea what other delights Sir Walter had available by way of comparison, but she had to admit that the little town, with its winding streets lined with shops and pubs and a proliferation of churches built either of soft golden ironstone or the cooler, gull grey limestone was an attractive one. Rozlyn had been to Stamford only a few times. Twice for the music festival and once to visit Burghley House. She’d taken her grandfather there, knowing the old man’s love of history. The Elizabethan mansion had enchanted him with its sparkling, mullioned windows and odd little towers and cupolas perched high on the roof line which they’d only belatedly realised were elaborate chimneys. She had spent a good hour telling her grandfather about the landscaping of the park by the famous Capability Brown, only to have the old man turn to her with a look of vague disgust and comment “this place was mine, I’d fill this garden with every flower you could think of and a few more besides.” Recalling the overcrowded yard, so full of vegetation it was barely possible to walk from back door to gate without ending up entwined and pollinated, Rozlyn could well believe he’d do just that.

Not sure where she had to go, she decided to park next to the George Hotel and then make her way on foot. She hadn’t recognised the address but Cheyne Lane turned out to be a narrow and ancient pedestrian thoroughfare, lined with small shops and even smaller eateries. Entering from the main street, Rozlyn instinctively ducked, the upper storeys of the houses jutting out so far that they almost met what seemed like only inches over Rozlyn’s head.

She almost missed the place she wanted. Having been told that Ethan Merrill now ran a shop she’d therefore been looking for a shop front, but Merrill’s, as it was simply known, hardly qualified for that kind of status. The door was set back from the lane and the shop windows restricted to narrow, angled panes forming a porch on either side. Rozlyn peered through dusty glass at vague shapes of vases and clocks and trays of jumble. Perhaps, she thought, if you came to see Ethan Merrill it was because you knew what you were looking for and such wares as he sold didn’t require anything so obvious as display or advertising. Rozlyn pushed the door and eased inside, startled by the jangling of a brass bell fixed to a spring above the entrance.

Inside was as uninspiring at first glance as the window display, though the room was wider than she would have guessed from the poky little entrance. Inside, the shop smelt of old books and bees-wax polish, though there was no evidence of the latter being recently applied if the layer of dust was anything to go by. A cat, stretched out on a table close to the door, turned to stare, then arched its back and hissed at her. It sounded like Mrs Chinowski. Rozlyn ignored it and looked around.

The shop was dimly lit. The lane being narrow and the windows small and filthy, not much light filtered inside. Dust motes swam in the single beam that fought through the glass panelled door and illuminated a space of some two feet wide and three feet long. Small wall lights, of a kind more at home in a living room than a shop, created tiny pools of radiance high up on the walls and revealed shelves of objects too deep in shadow for Rozlyn to properly define. The light lacked the energy to reach the floor.

Warily, she took a further step and called out Ethan Merrill’s name. Hadn’t he heard the bell? Did he always leave this place unattended? Anyone could walk in off the street and help themselves. Or maybe that was what the cat was for. It watched her still, no longer hissing, but the back arched and the amber eyes glittered. Rozlyn raised her hands to where it could see. “Look. Nothing,” she said. “You can relax, go back to sleep.”

“He won’t sleep until you’ve gone,” a soft voice said. Rozlyn nearly jumped out of her skin. She’d heard no one and yet, when she turned, the old man who’d spoken was almost at her elbow.

“Shhi— Sorry. You scared the hell out of me.”

“An American?” The man raised a quizzical brow. “Or no. Something between. The accent is an odd mix. New York . . . Brooklyn, perhaps . . . meets Louisiana and a little home counties English thrown in for good measure.”

Rozlyn laughed uneasily. “Not a bad guess,” she admitted. “Um, I’m looking for Mr Ethan Merrill. I’m Inspector Priest, I was told that Mr Merrill might be the man to give me some information I need.”

“Oh, and what information would that be?”

“Are you Ethan Merrill?”

“So they tell me. Jasper, you’ve already met.”

“Who?” Rozlyn glanced around. “Oh, the guard cat. Right.” She looked curiously at Ethan Merrill. It was hard to guess the man’s age. His hair was white, hanging past his collar in a thick mane that waved at the tip and showed no sign of thinning on top. His skin looked dark in the dim light, but smooth too. There were lines around the eyes, which spoke of good humour, but the rest was soft and clear. He was a tall man, almost matching Rozlyn’s six feet. Straight backed, he looked strong and fit. The hand that reached out to fondle the ears of the brindled cat, transforming the almost subliminal hiss into a purr, was broad at the palm, tapering at the fingers, capable looking and, like the face, tanned nut brown. The rest of Ethan Merrill was covered by a suit. Not quite black, Rozlyn noted, her eyes having adjusted to the low levels of light. The shirt was grey, open at the neck and Rozlyn caught a glimpse of gold