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) 📖

The shop bell jangled as she pushed the door. Jasper, sprawled out on the table, taking advantage of the only patch of sun, roused and arched. But it was a half-hearted spat, the feline not bothering even to get to his feet. Rozlyn felt herself recognised and, it seemed, accepted by the guard cat. The thought pleased her and, almost, she reached out to fondle the animal’s pricked ears. Then thought better of it. Maybe not wise to play on such a short acquaintance.

“Next time, he’ll let you stroke him.”

Ethan Merrill seemed to specialise in this appearing from nowhere thing.

“Don’t you ever make a noise?”

“I don’t know. I prefer soft shoes. Less jarring on old bones, I find.”

Rozlyn glanced down at the other’s feet. Ethan Merrill, epitome of sartorial elegance, wore crepe-soled shoes. “Brothel creepers! Oh my God. I didn’t think you could even get those anymore.”

Ethan Merrill smiled. He seemed pleased to be different. “You’ve brought the spear head this time? Good. Then come on back. I’m having breakfast.”

Rozlyn followed him, struggling through the crowded little shop — how did he get this past fire regs? — and to a door she’d not seen on her first visit. Ethan held it open and gestured for her to pass. Rozlyn found herself in the small but fascinating space beyond. The layout of the premises was, Rozlyn now realised, similar to the rows of terraced houses like that inhabited by Mouse Man, albeit on a larger scale. The shop, then this room behind and a door probably leading to the stairs, another to the kitchen, this extending, as Rozlyn could see through the large sash window, into the enclosed yard.

One wall was lined, floor to ceiling, with books. Most were leather bound, though a shelf of modern hardbacks, their dust wrappers adding an oddly garish note, told her that Ethan kept up to date with his subject. Antiques guides and reference works sat beside learned-looking treatises on the worlds of art and archaeology. Beneath the window were further shelves, covered with bits of broken pot and fossils while the remaining walls were almost invisible behind a gallery of paintings and yellowed maps and postcards and play bills. Rozlyn supposed it must save on the decorating.

The room was warm; a fire had been lit in a cast-iron grate. The hearth and surround were decorated with Minton tiles in shades of green and sea blue. The fire crackled happily and Rozlyn couldn’t blame it. This, for all its clutter — or maybe even because of it — was a friendly room. A calm and pleasant place to be. Ethan waved her into one of three old leather wing chairs. Two matched, their deep red brown, soft, well fed and warm, denoting them a pair. The smaller of the three was darker in colour and newer, though not by much. She sat in one of the pair, her hands moving to caress the smooth, well-worn leather of the arms. These were chairs made for reading or dozing or chatting by the fire. Firm enough to support the back, but with just enough give that they moulded to the individual. Rozlyn realised suddenly how tired she was.

“Would you like tea?” Without waiting for a reply Ethan opened the kitchen door and took a mug from the dresser. A pot of tea and the remains of toast stood on a small table beside the fire. Ethan refreshed his own mug and poured Rozlyn’s drink before sitting down. “You look weary,” he observed.

Weary, not tired or worn out. Weary. It was, Rozlyn realised, a perfect word, describing as it did that state which has gone beyond tired but instead, developed into a bone ache, heart ache, mind-numbing exhaustion.

“Late night,” she said. It sounded so prosaic she wanted to add more. Instead, she delved into the pocket of her coat and withdrew the spearhead. “I tried to get this to you yesterday, but, well, things came up.” She held it out but Ethan shook his head and pointed to a small desk standing in the alcove between the fireplace and the shop door. “Open the flap, the struts come out automatically, that’s it. There’s a blotter tucked inside, see it? Good, lay it down on that for me, will you. You know, you shouldn’t keep it in a plastic bag, especially not if it’s been allowed to get wet.”

You probably shouldn’t scrub it with a nailbrush and anti-bacterial soap, either, Rozlyn added silently, glad, when she took the object from the evidence bag, that none of the antiseptic smell lingered.

She stood back, but Ethan didn’t move. Instead, he sat sipping his tea and gazing at the spear across the width of the room as though trying to see it in some kind of context that Rozlyn could not fathom.

“Sit down,” Ethan said. “Drink your tea; give yourself a few minutes to take stock of the day while you have the chance. Then we’ll both take a proper look.” His eyes, bright blue and oddly youthful, fixed Rozlyn with their gentle amusement. For a mere instant she felt irritated and then, the spell cast by Ethan Merrill and his cosy room took hold and she thought, yes, what’s the rush, five minutes either way won’t do any harm and if Brook wants me, he can sing. She sat back down in the easy chair — never had the name seemed more appropriate — and rescued her mug from where she’d placed it on the floor and waited.

“How long have you had the shop?”

“Oh, eight, nearly nine years.”

“Do you actually do any business? I mean, I don’t mean to be rude, but . . .”

Ethan laughed. “I run a mail order company and most of my work comes via the internet. Oh yes, I’m actually quite twentieth century.”

“Twentieth? Don’t you mean twenty-first?”

“No. I don’t believe in rushing into things.”