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) 📖

I don’t have time to sit here and let you ramble. You’ve been great and I don’t mean to be rude, but I think it’s time I went.”

Ethan let her finish and when Rozlyn stood, he did not move. Instead he sat regarding her thoughtfully with his hands steepled beneath his chin. “You can spare me an hour, no more.” He said. “Call it a return for hospitality. Then I’ll drive you over for your appointment with Brook.”

“I don’t need that. I’ve got my own car.”

“Which is missing a rear screen and has a bullet hole in the front dash.”

“What?” Rozlyn sat down, the strength suddenly going from her legs. “He shot at me, didn’t he? Christ.” She wiped her hands across her face as though to clear the cobwebs from her thoughts. So much had happened over the last two or three days that they had taken on a dreamlike quality. She was no longer certain she could sort clearly what had actually happened from what she had only imagined. She reached across and took the brooch from the little table where Ethan had placed it.

He poured more tea into her mug. This time, he added milk but no sugar. “Cassie, darling — could you bring those sandwiches through and I think we might have some cake? Can you manage?”

“Sure. You like cherry cake, Rozlyn?”

She nodded, wondering if they had gone mad or if it was just her. So many threads but she still wasn’t certain how any of them tied up.

“So,” Ethan continued. “Nineteen twenty-two.”

Rozlyn stared, then came to a decision. She reached for her tea and sat back in the leather chair. “Ok,” she agreed. “An hour, then you drive me to town and I see Brook and tell him . . .” She paused and took another deep breath. “Whatever there is to tell.”

“Some of it he knows already,” Ethan informed her. “I thought it best to mention the car. I told him I’d moved it for you and that you’d been rambling about shots being fired. Of course,” he continued airily, “I’m not au fait with such incidents and assumed it was the fever talking.”

“Oh sure. Not au fait. Right.”

“He came back this morning to take a look. They removed the car about an hour ago but there’ve been people in white overalls crawling over it most of the day. They recovered the bullet, I believe. Brook wasn’t impressed by the idea that Mr Richards might have armed men on his property, even if they did happen to be shooting at trespassers. I think it offended him even more that the trespasser in question was one of Brook’s own.”

“One of Brook’s . . . Don’t make me laugh.”

“Oh, I think he takes this very seriously. I think he takes you very seriously. I told him I’d bring you back to town when you woke.”

“Happy with that, was he?”

“He didn’t have a choice. Ah, thank you, Cassie. Rozlyn, would you move the tea tray? I’ll go and make some more, I think.”

He left Cassie fussing over Rozlyn’s choice of sandwich and disappeared into the kitchen. Rozlyn suspected Ethan was enjoying her impatience.

“Now, where was I?” Ethan asked as he returned.

“Nineteen twenty-two,” Rozlyn muttered darkly.

“Ah, yes. You know that there had been rumours about a treasure hidden in the chantry ruins.”

“Oh sure. I hear it has a ghost too.”

“I imagine it has several. Anyway, the digging didn’t last very long. They found a few trinkets and the odd coin, but nothing of any age or worth and so, once boredom set in, off they went, satisfied at having got their hands dirty and carried out more manual labour than ever before in their spoiled little lives. But my parents went back. My mother had felt something, you see. She sensed that there was something to be found. Oh, if you don’t like that explanation you can settle for the one that says my father knew enough to suspect that the legend was not without foundation. These things rarely are. So they hung around after the others had gone and, beneath the altar stone, buried in a lead casket still sealed with wax, they found these.”

He lifted the box from the floor and set it on his lap. Opening it, he removed what Rozlyn thought at first were smaller wooden boxes. As Ethan handed her the first, it dawned that this was a book, the pages thick and oddly textured between wooden covers carved with twining leaves and words she could not read.

Letters chased across the pages, crammed together so that there was little break to define them. The lines ruled by the scribe were still visible and the ink remained black and bold. The writing had been formed in a rounded almost childish hand and the whole was written as though right justified on a modern printer, the margins equal all around. Looking at it, Rozlyn could almost make out words. Trying to shape them, to discern where one ended and a second began, she felt a soft jolt of recognition in the pit of her stomach and a shiver that began at the base of her spine and raised hairs on her neck and arms, but she could not immediately place the source of that recognition.

“How old is this?”

“As old, almost, as the brooch. A little younger than the spear.”

Rozlyn stared, disbelieving. “It must be worth a fortune? Are you sure it’s genuine?”

“Oh, yes, as genuine as it was the day my father stole it from the chantry.”

“Stole it? I don’t quite understand.”

“What is there to understand? He found it and he took it. They replaced the altar stone and disguised what they had done by rubbing the scuffed stone with moss and mud.”

Rozlyn shook her head. “I’ve seen that thing. It’s lying toppled on the ground and I’ll