Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure

by Nancy Atherton

  “I know you can take care of Bess and the boys,” I said hastily, “but what about the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, and the shopping? What about the Hobsons’ blender? If I don’t bring it to them, who will?”

  Bill rolled his eyes heavenward.

  “I know I’m new around here,” he said with an exasperated sigh, “but I’m fairly sure I can find my way to Ivy Cottage.”

  “Very funny,” I muttered. “I’ll probably be the only person in Finch to miss James Hobson’s metal-detecting demonstration.”

  “For pity’s sake, Lori,” Bill said, laughing, “you’re not going on safari. You’re popping down to London for the day.”

  “It’ll take more than a day to find Badger,” I said, “and I have no intention of camping out in London until I track him down.”

  “You can stay with my cousins,” said Bill. “Gerald and Lucy would love to see you. Or you could stay at the Flamborough. It’s your favorite hotel and one of the finest in London.”

  “I don’t want to impose on your cousins,” I said moodily, “and I don’t want to stay at a hotel.”

  “Limit your search to one day at a time, then,” Bill said. “Go there, come home, go there again. If commuters can do it, so can you.”

  “I don’t want to be a commuter,” I snapped.

  Bill closed his laptop, placed it on the coffee table, and crossed to sit beside me on the couch.

  “You’ve told me what you don’t want,” he said, putting his arm around me. “Why don’t you tell me what you do want?”

  “I want to put the garnet bracelet back in the attic,” I said, “and pretend I never found it.”

  “Why?” Bill asked.

  I heaved a forlorn sigh, leaned my head against his shoulder, and gazed into the fire.

  “I’ll be looking for a needle in a haystack,” I said despondently. “I’m afraid I’ll come back empty-handed.” I swallowed hard as a lump rose in my throat. “I’m afraid I’ll disappoint Dimity.”

  “You can’t disappoint her,” Bill said, giving me a gentle shake. “Even if you don’t find Badger, she’ll know that you tried. That’s the important thing, isn’t it? That you tried?”

  “But she’s counting on me to succeed,” I said dolefully.

  “She believes in you,” said Bill. “What’s wrong with that? I believe in you, too. If Badger can be found, you’ll find him.”

  “Do you honestly think so?” I asked, looking up at him.

  “I honestly think so,” he replied. “Let’s face it, Lori. You’re too stubborn to fail.”

  “True,” I agreed without rancor. “My mother didn’t call me her bullheaded baby girl for nothing.”

  “Maybe I should start calling you Badger,” said Bill.

  I chuckled in spite of myself.

  “It might be fun to explore Aunt Dimity’s old stomping grounds,” Bill continued. “The flat in Northington Street will probably be off limits, but you could stroll past the building. If Dimity mentions it again, you’ll have a clear image of it in your mind. You’ll know what St. Megwen’s Lane looks like, too,” he went on. “You’ll walk where she walked, see the sights she saw. Aunt Dimity learned some pretty important things about herself while she was living in Bloomsbury. Your Badger hunt might help you to understand her better.”

  “With luck,” I said, “I’ll learn a few things about Badger, too.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Bill.

  Bolstered by his pep talk and intrigued by the notion of retracing Aunt Dimity’s footsteps, I sat up and swung around to face him.

  “You know what?” I said. “Forget about the driver. Aunt Dimity didn’t have a guide to steer her through her new neighborhood. She explored it on her own, and so will I. If I get lost, I get lost. I’ll bet she got lost every day.”

  “Yes, but she knew London well enough to get herself unlost,” said Bill. “You don’t. As you said before, a native guide might be useful. Without one, you could end up in the Outer Hebrides.”

  I laughed out loud.

  “Okay,” I said. “Hire a driver for me.”

  “Consider it done,” said Bill. “I’ll print a map of Bloomsbury for you as well. Will you start your search at the coffeehouse?”

  “I’ll have to,” I said. “It’s the closest thing I have to a lead.”

  “Then I’ll circle it on the map,” he said. “I’ll circle number sixteen Northington Street as well, to make it easier for you to find Aunt Dimity’s flat.”

  I gazed at him in grateful silence for a moment, then ducked my head.

  “Sorry I was so ratty when I first came in here,” I said. “If I’d thought things through before I left the study, I wouldn’t have wasted time whining at you.”

  “Were you whining?” Bill asked airily. “I didn’t notice.”

  “You’re a terrible liar,” I said, snuggling up to him, “but a very nice husband.”

  “I’m quite a catch,” Bill agreed. “When do you leave?”

  “The sooner, the better,” I said. “Badger’s not getting any younger. Plus, it’s October—the days are drawing in. If I don’t make hay while the sun shines, I’ll need a flashlight to read your map. Would tomorrow morning be too soon?”

  “Tomorrow morning will be just fine,” said Bill. “I’ll need the Range Rover for the school run, but you can use my car to catch an early train out of Oxford.”

  “I’ll be home by dinnertime,” I assured him. “London’s a great place to visit, but I’d much rather spend the night here, with you.”

  Bill pulled me into his arms and for quite a long while made it clear that the feeling was mutual. He was, without doubt, quite a catch.

  Nine

  The sky was a gloomy shade of battleship gray the following morning, but I felt as bright as a daisy. Bill’s confidence-building campaign had continued late into the night, and it had had its intended effect. Although I remained convinced that my quest for Aunt Dimity’s long-lost admirer was doomed to failure, I was ready to give it my all.

  After arranging for a driver to meet me on the train platform in London, Bill insisted on taking charge of the children’s morning routine. I left him to it and enjoyed the rare luxury of dressing in peace. To ward off the nip in the air, I pulled on a dove-gray cashmere sweater and a pair of merino wool trousers. My old walking shoes were the obvious choice for footwear. They weren’t in the least stylish, but I could rely on them to keep my feet blissfully blister free on city pavements.

  Armed with Bill’s well-marked map of Bloomsbury and swathed in a voluminous black raincoat, I kissed Will, Rob, Bess, and Bill good-bye, tucked the garnet bracelet and a compact umbrella into my shoulder bag, and drove Bill’s Mercedes to the train station in Oxford. I reached London’s Paddington Station at ten o’clock.

  My walking shoes had scarcely touched the train platform when I was approached by a young man who was, at a guess, in his late twenties. I wasn’t sure who he was, but he didn’t look like a chauffeur. He was tall and slender and dressed like a university student, in black jeans, black leather boots, and a scruffy black rain jacket. Though his attire was depressingly monochromatic, his face had a fresh, rosy glow, his eyes were the color of cornflowers, and his blond hair fell over his brow in a loose golden wave.

  “Lori Shepherd?” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the station’s clamor. “I’m Adam Rivington. Your husband asked me to meet you. He said you wouldn’t mind if I dispensed with the suit and tie. Forgive me . . .” He gripped my elbow and steered me away from the flood of detraining passengers to the relative sanctuary of a newspaper kiosk before adding brightly, “I’ll be your guide for the day.”

  “My guide?” I said in surprise. “I was expecting a driver.”

  “I can be your driver,” he allowed, “but to be perfectly honest, a car isn’t your best mode
of transport in London. The tube is. I’ve taken the liberty of purchasing an all-day pass for you, but if you’d rather not use it . . .” His voice trailed off as he awaited my pronouncement.

  “I’m fine with the tube,” I assured him. “It’s better than battling traffic and hunting for parking spaces.”

  “Much better,” he agreed, looking pleased.

  “How did you know I was me?” I asked somewhat incoherently.

  “Mr. Willis sent a photo,” he said, showing me his cell phone. “He also instructed me to address you as Lori, because—”

  “—everyone does.” I finished the sentence for him and smiled wryly. “It’s true. I hang up on anyone who asks for Mrs. Willis because it’s a sure sign that I’m about to hear a sales pitch. May I call you Adam?”

  “I’d prefer it to ‘Mr. Rivington,’” he said, smiling. “I’ve worked for your husband’s firm many times, driving out-of-town clients to and from Heathrow and around town, but I’ve never been asked to give a walking tour. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Did my husband tell you why I’m here?” I asked.

  “He said you were looking for someone,” Adam replied, “and he gave me an outline of your itinerary. Our first stop will be Carrie’s Coffees in Bloomsbury.” He glanced at his watch, then extended his arm in a courteous, sweeping gesture. “Shall we?”

  My young guide ushered me safely through the tangled torrents of commuters to the Underground station and onto a dank, crowded tube train. I was content to let him lead the way when we changed trains at Piccadilly Circus, and I followed him like a devoted puppy when we disembarked at Russell Square. I emerged from the tube station, longing for a breath of fresh air.

  The air I breathed was fresher than I expected. A crisp breeze plastered my flapping raincoat to my body, and ominous clouds hung low in the sky. Adam thrust his hands into his jacket pockets while I pulled a silk scarf from my shoulder bag and wrapped it around my neck.

  “To tell you the truth,” I said as I closed my bag, “I prefer buses to the tube. The view from the top deck of a double-decker bus is a whole lot more entertaining than the view from an underground train.”

  “It is,” Adam agreed. “On the other hand, you don’t have to stand in the rain while you’re waiting for the tube. And the tube is faster. Unless there’s a transport workers’ strike, in which case all bets are off. Would you like to take the scenic route to Carrie’s Coffees, or would you prefer a more direct route?”

  “Scenic, please,” I said, thinking of Aunt Dimity’s long walks through London. “I’ll take scenic over direct every time.”

  “Me, too,” he said happily.

  Adam adapted his long stride to my shorter one as we strolled down a side street and crossed a busy thoroughfare. As we quickstepped from curb to curb, I felt myself ease into the rhythm of city life. Though I’d lived in the country for more than a decade, I’d grown up in Chicago and hadn’t yet lost my urban chops. I could shoulder my way through a crowd without bumping into anyone too vigorously, and I knew how to manage the stuttering sidestep required to dart out of the bustling throng when a shop or a restaurant beckoned.

  I’d also retained the ability to take in my surroundings while dodging lampposts, mailboxes, large dogs, small children, and inattentive grown-ups. Bloomsbury struck me as an understated, expensive, and surprisingly eclectic neighborhood. A plethora of tidy Georgian row houses gave the streetscape a pleasant sense of cohesion, while dashes of Victorian, Edwardian, Regency, and Art Deco architecture kept it from becoming monotonous. The few modern eyesores seemed to be medical centers of one sort or another.

  “I’m not too keen on them, either,” Adam admitted when I commented on the drab modern buildings. “Many of them occupy bomb sites, though—places where buildings were destroyed during the war—so I try to think of them as battle scars. Paris may be prettier, but London was braver.”

  I’d never compared the two cities in quite that way before, but I suspected most Londoners had. I tried to envision the street strewn with rubble, clouded with smoke, and scarred by bomb craters, but my pensive imaginings were cut short when we entered the tranquil precincts of a small park dotted with venerable trees.

  The severe iron railings surrounding the park were softened by shrubs and flower beds, and a row of weathered but serviceable wooden benches faced the leaf-littered central lawn. It was easy to imagine Aunt Dimity sitting on one of the benches, kicking off her shoes, and giving her tired feet a breather.

  “Queen Square Gardens,” Adam announced.

  “Lovely,” I said. “Though not as lovely as it will be when the lilacs are in bloom. Thanks for bringing me here, Adam. It’s the perfect antidote to the Underground.”

  “Your husband told me that you might need a few doses of greenery to get you through the day,” said Adam.

  “A little greenery never hurts,” I conceded, “but I’m doing okay. I haven’t been to London for years—not on my own, at any rate. I’m enjoying it more than I thought I would.”

  “Even in this weather?” Adam queried.

  “If I wanted sunshine every day,” I said, “I wouldn’t live in England.” I caught sight of a statue half hidden by the branches of a towering lilac bush. “Who’s that?”

  “Good question,” said Adam.

  He led the way along a curving path to a plinth topped by the statue of a plump, round-faced woman. Since the woman wore an elaborate gown and an odd, muffin-shaped crown, I assumed that she was the queen in Queen Square Gardens, but I didn’t know which queen she was. As it turned out, I wasn’t alone.

  “No one is absolutely sure who she is,” Adam informed me, gazing up at the statue. “The statue was erected in 1775, we think. Its subject has, at various times, been identified as Queen Charlotte, Queen Anne, Queen Mary, and Caroline, King George the Third’s consort. General consensus pegs her as Queen Anne, but it’s a mystery that may never be solved.”

  I felt a rush of affection for the plump little queen. If my search for Badger proved to be as fruitless as I expected it to be, I would, I decided, console myself with the knowledge that scholars much cleverer than I had been equally unsuccessful in their bid to identify Queen Whatshername.

  “How wonderful,” I said. “In an age when everything is counted and measured and recorded in triplicate, it’s nice to know that a few mysteries remain beyond our reach.”

  “I’m afraid there’s no mystery at all to our next point of interest,” said Adam, “except that most people miss it because it’s so difficult to see.”

  I followed him to a bronze plaque lying flat in a circular patch of stone paving set into the lawn. The words on the plaque were almost too worn to read, but Adam saved me the trouble of deciphering them by reading the inscription aloud.

  “‘On the night of the eighth of September 1915 a zeppelin bomb fell and exploded on this spot,’” he recited. “‘Although nearly one thousand people slept in the surrounding buildings no person was injured.’” He squatted to brush some stray leaves from the plaque. “The Queen Square zeppelin bomb was the first high-explosive bomb to detonate in central London.”

  “Too bad it wasn’t the last,” I said. “The Blitz would make zeppelin raids look pretty tame.”

  “Are you interested in the Second World War?” Adam asked, straightening.

  “I am,” I said. “I have—” Since I had no intention of explaining Aunt Dimity’s equivocal state of existence to my guide, I checked myself and began again. “I had a friend who lived in London during the war. She’s gone now, but her stories have stayed with me.”

  “Here’s a story your friend may not have told you,” said Adam. “Approximately two thousand people took refuge from the Blitz in an air raid shelter”—he pulled his hand out of his pocket and pointed at the ground—“beneath your feet.”

  “Is the shelter still there?” I asked,
looking down in amazement.

  “As far as I know,” Adam replied. “Let’s hope we never need it again.”

  I looked from a pair of women chatting animatedly as they crossed the park to a red-haired man throwing a ball for a very excited wire-haired terrier, and I shook my head.

  “It’s hard to believe that it was needed in the first place,” I said.

  “Not for me,” Adam said. “I grew up hearing my granddad’s stories.” He gazed at the bronze plaque in silence, then raised his head and smiled. “One more stop before we leave the gardens. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  He took off across the park and I trotted after him until he stopped before another, more modern memorial: a bronze cat peering down from a freestanding, four-foot-tall segment of redbrick wall, as though entranced by a sudden movement in the wind-whipped leaves.

  “Please allow me to introduce you to Sam the Cat,” said Adam. “Sam was placed here in 1997 to honor his owner, the late Patricia Penn, a defender of historic buildings and—needless to say—a cat lover.”

  “A brick wall and a bronze cat,” I said. “Very appropriate.” I stepped forward to give Sam’s head a rub. “I would have walked right past him if you hadn’t pointed him out. For someone who doesn’t give many walking tours, Adam, you seem to know an awful lot about Bloomsbury.”

  “I should,” he said. “I’ve lived here all my life.”

  I blinked at him in surprise, then burst out laughing.

  “No wonder Bill called you,” I said. “You’re not just a guide. You’re a native guide—a bona fide Bloomsbury-born bloke.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Adam acknowledged. “I’m the fourth generation of my family to live here. My great-grandfather witnessed the zeppelin attacks, my grandfather served as an air raid warden during the Blitz, and my parents work at the British Museum. I hope to work there, too, after I get my postgraduate degree.”