Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea

“That’s exactly what I intend to do,” I said. “I also intend to bring you with me.”

 

 

I should hope so.You’ll need someone to keep you from running amok. And Reginald?You won’t leave him behind, will you?

 

Reginald was a small, pink flannel rabbit with black button eyes, beautifully hand-stitched whiskers, and the ghost of a grape juice stain on his snout. He’d been my constant companion from the earliest days of my childhood, and he remained a cherished chum.

 

When Dimity mentioned Reginald’s name, I looked up at the special niche in the bookshelves where he sat gazing down at me. His black button eyes seemed to dance with impatience in the flickering firelight, as if he were eager to hop into one of the suitcases in the front hall. I hadn’t told him yet that he’d be traveling in my carry-on bag, along with the blue journal.

 

“How could I leave Reginald behind?” I said. “I haven’t taken him to bed with me since I was ten years old, but with Bill in London . . . Who knows? I may start sucking my thumb again, too.”

 

I can think of far worse ways to cope with stress.

 

“Dimity?” I said. “How did you cope?”

 

I put my trust in the police, consumed vast quantities of chocolate, and tried to get at least eight hours of sleep every night, until the case was solved. I’d advise you to get some rest tonight, if you possibly can.You’ll feel much better for it in the morning.

 

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “Good night, Dimity. I’ll fill you in on our whereabouts as soon as we arrive.”

 

Good night, my dear.

 

I waited until the graceful lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, then cast another furtive glance at the ivy-covered window. Dimity had given me sound advice, as always, but I didn’t think I could follow it to the letter. Chocolate I could handle—the vaster the quantities, the better—but I doubted that I’d be able to shut my eyes again, much less sleep, until the king of the bottomless pit was behind bars.

 

 

 

 

 

Three

 

 

An ancient and massive brambly hedge to the south of the cottage separated our property from that of Mr. Malvern, the farmer next door. The hedge was a world unto itself, filled with rabbits, mice, interesting bugs, and a myriad of birds’ nests, and riddled with enticing, cavelike hollows that Rob and Will loved to explore on hot summer days.

 

The hedge was pierced by a sturdy wooden stile that gave us access to Mr. Malvern’s north field, a large expanse of tussocky grass usually occupied by his small herd of dairy cows. Daisy, Beulah, and the rest of the herd were grazing elsewhere on the morning of our departure, but the field wasn’t empty. Two members of Ivan Anton’s security team had, for reasons unknown to me, carried our suitcases over the stile and left them in a neat stack in the damp grass just beyond the hedge.When I asked Bill for an explanation, he said simply that I’d find out soon enough.

 

Bill and I had spent a restless night bravely reassuring each other that all would be well. We’d checked on Will and Rob at least a dozen times between dozes before rising at dawn to see Annelise off, prepare breakfast, and get the boys up, dressed, and fed.

 

At seven o’clock Ivan Anton took Stanley, Stanley’s bowls, Stanley’s toys, and a month’s supply of Stanley’s favorite gourmet cat food to Anscombe Manor. At a quarter to nine, Ivan’s assistants escorted Bill, the twins, and me into the back garden. The two men hopped over the stile, but the rest of us stopped dead in our tracks, transfixed by the astonishing sight of a helicopter landing in Mr. Malvern’s north field. When I glanced questioningly at Bill, he swept an arm in the direction of the wind-whipped hedge.

 

“Your chariot awaits,” he said above the noise of the rotors.

 

As Bill and I guided Will and Rob over the stile, I studied the machine that had come to fly us to safety. To my untrained eye, it looked like the latest model. Big, black, sleek, and shiny, it reminded me more of a cruising shark than a fluttering whirlybird. It seemed to me that only a multimillionaire could afford to own such a fancy plaything, and with that thought comprehension dawned.

 

“Percy!” I exclaimed, as Bill clambered last over the stile. “You’re sending us to stay with Sir Percy Pelham!”

 

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