Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin by Nancy Atherton Read Free Book Online

hints about location.
    The intermittent gouts of rain splattering my windshield made my task more challenging than usual, so when I spied St. Cuthbert Lane painted in black on the cornice of a one-story redbrick building on my right, I heaved a sigh of relief, made an immediate right-hand turn, and darted nose-first into a parking space that miraculously appeared a few doors down from Mrs. Beacham’s building.
    While poring over the map the previous evening, I’d formed a clear mental picture of 42 St. Cuthbert Lane based on nothing but my impressions of Miss Beacham. It would, I thought, be a charmingly decayed older building made of mellow stone, with ivy trailing from attractively crumbling balustrades, broken window boxes brimming with bright geraniums, and perhaps a bit of chipped stained glass over the lobby door.
    My mental picture bore no resemblance to reality. Miss Beacham’s building was, in fact, a modern, well-maintained, four-story apartment house made of blond brick with large, aluminum-framed windows. Four cement-floored balconies, stacked one atop the other, projected from the building’s east wall, each hemmed with plain, brown-painted metal railings. The lobby door was made of glass and aluminum. There were no geraniums. Forty-two St. Cuthbert Lane was, in short, clean, neat, functional, and profoundly charmless.
    I surveyed the nondescript cube with a jaundiced eye and began to understand Miss Beacham’s fascination with Finch. I had little doubt that a tiny village filled with cozy, quirky cottages—and even quirkier residents—would appeal strongly to a sensitive woman immured in a soulless pile of dull bricks.
    Sighing, I pulled my rain parka’s hood over my head, grabbed my shoulder bag, and climbed out of the Rover. The wind promptly slapped my face with a handful of cold raindrops, as if to remind me of why I’d dressed the boys warmly and dressed myself in a snuggly cashmere pullover, wool trousers, and waterproof leather boots before embarking on my journey.
    I scurried up the front walk to the shelter of the gray-tiled lobby, pushed my hood back, and shook the rain from my parka as I turned to examine the mailboxes set into the wall on my right. Four boxes were arranged in a row above a rectangular metal table scattered with advertising leaflets. A plastic wastebasket sat beneath the table, half-filled with discarded leaflets, torn envelopes, and balls of crumpled paper. I was inordinately pleased to discover the trash. It was the first proof I’d seen of human habitation.
    “Four mailboxes, four floors, four apartments,” I said aloud. My words echoed hollowly from the blank walls. “Miss Beacham must’ve had the whole top floor to herself. Good for her!”
    A buzzer protruded above each mailbox, and an intercom telephone hung beside the lobby’s inner door. I scanned the mailboxes’ labels and found Miss Beacham’s name handwritten in beautiful calligraphy on the box for apartment number 4. The contrast between the label’s bold, elegant calligraphy and the letter’s shaky, feeble script was striking. Clearly, Miss Beacham’s illness had taken its toll. I raised a fingertip to trace the elaborate B in Beacham, then pulled the keys out of my pocket.
    I used the brass key to unlock the door to a vestibule, where I had to choose between a well-lit, carpeted staircase and an elevator. I gladly chose the elevator. I hadn’t been looking forward to climbing three flights of stairs.
    The elevator delivered me to a short corridor. Its white walls and gray carpet were spotless, and there wasn’t a speck of dust on the light fixtures’ frosted globes, but the decor’s general effect was so coldly institutional that it made me shiver.
    I pictured the comfortable chaos of my own front hall—the braided rag rug, the overflowing coatrack, the ever-changing jumble of shoes, boots, umbrellas, riding helmets, and miscellaneous toys heaped around the telephone table—and wondered how Miss