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) 📖

There followed a comic turn as Albert sought to get ahead of Rozlyn before she reached the stairs and then pushed her in ungentlemanly fashion out of the way so that he could precede her. Rozlyn almost laughed out loud, but the thought of laughing set her sinuses off again and manifested a spasm of such pain between her shoulders that it threatened to crease the rest of her back.

Mark Richards was seated at his desk. Rozlyn wondered if he’d moved since his last visit or if this office was the heart of his home, much as the kitchen had been in her grandparents’ place, their entire lives seeming to revolve about that warm, welcoming hub.

There was nothing either warm or welcoming about Mark Richards or his office.

“What do you want, Inspector? I’ve already told you everything I know — and that’s nothing.”

“Have you? Y’know, I’m still not convinced it wasn’t you that lost that spear and I wondered if, seeing what a fine collection you have, you could have overlooked it, somehow. Do you have an inventory for your collection, for instance? For insurance purposes and the like. You could show it to me and me and Al here could have a check through. See what else might have gone for a walk.”

Albert gasped at the insult of having his name shortened. “I think you should leave.”

“Hmm. I can see how you would like that. But I’ve another question for you and this one, you’ll be glad to know, is new. You ever hear of someone called Dr Donovan Baker?”

“Of course.”

His reply took the wind out of Rozlyn’s sails and, for a moment, she floundered.

Mark Richards smiled. He got up from his desk, crossed to one of the bookcases that lined the wall opposite the window and withdrew two books. He brought them over for Rozlyn’s inspection. “Before he retired, Donovan Baker was one of the foremost field archaeologists working on late Anglo-Saxon sites in this area.”

“Oh?” Rozlyn pulled the books towards her. They were fat volumes, packed with coloured plates and comparative tables. “He retired, you say? Old man, is he?”

Mark Richards laughed. “No, just well off enough to make choices.”

“Money to be made in this archaeology lark, is there?”

“There can be, but I believe that Dr Baker had a private income. Inheritance from his mother’s side.”

“Oh, you know him well, then, this Donovan Baker.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No? You seem well appraised of his financial situation.”

“I met him on odd occasions when we attended the same functions.” Richards scowled. “In fact he did some work for me here. On the chantry.”

Rozlyn got the impression that Richards regretted saying that almost as soon as the words fell from his mouth. “Chantry? That’s some kind of chapel, isn’t it? Where’s that then?”

Richards’ involuntary flick of the head took her over to the window. The rain had eased, though glowering skies promised much more. Across the vast expanse of lawn, and to the side, between the line of trees that marked the road and a more formal clipped yew hedge, Rozlyn could see the remnants of a building, the top of a wall and a high arched window. The yew hedge would have hidden it from the drive and she’d not looked out of that particular window on her last visit. “How old is it?” she asked, pure curiosity taking the place of police-type questions.

Mark Richards sighed. “What you can see is twelfth century,” he said, “but it’s built on a much earlier foundation. Records suggest that it was founded by the abbey out at Storton, about ten miles away, some time in the late ninth century. Now, if you’ve satisfied your curiosity, I’d be glad if you went.”

“What kind of work did he do, this Donovan Baker? Was it a private commission?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Mr Richards, we’re conducting a murder investigation. Anything that might impinge upon that is business of mine.”

“I still fail to see . . .”

“Mr Donovan Baker’s name has come up in relation to some dodgy dealings in the antiquities market and a predisposition towards violence. Personally, I think that’s enough to make him of legitimate interest.”

Mark Richards shrugged this aside, but Rozlyn knew from the way he left his desk and began to pace the room that he was shaken. Or maybe it was just that he really didn’t like Rozlyn.

“He did a preliminary excavation, that’s all. As I say, the records indicated earlier foundations; I wanted to know.”

“Find anything to add to that personal museum of yours?”

“That’s enough, Inspector. This is my home and I insist that you leave.”

Rozlyn shrugged. She made a meal of writing down the titles of the two books she’d been shown and checking the flyleaf for other books Donovan Baker might have authored. Then she took her leave. “See you again, Mr Richards.”

“Only if you have a search warrant and a bloody good reason.”

“Oh, don’t fret, I’m working on it.”

“I have friends, you know.”

Rozlyn had been wondering when that would come up. “I’m sure you do, but you know something? It’s always amazed me how those kinds of friends tend to vanish back into the woodwork when they think their own reputation might be affected. I can see myself out.”

Albert escorted her to the door and watched as she got into her car. Rozlyn drove off round the sweep of drive and onto the straight avenue that led to the gates and then she pulled over. She guessed that the chantry was about level with her present position and wondered if she could reach it through the trees. Quite why she wanted to look, she didn’t know but the place drew her with an insistence that felt like more than just idle curiosity? Or was it simply the opportunity,