Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure

by Nancy Atherton

  “Where’s my blackberry tart?” I demanded as he took his seat.

  “There wasn’t enough room on the tray for your tart,” he explained. “Carrie will bring it over.”

  “Bless her,” I said, and dug in.

  I was halfway through my soul-warming bowl of soup when the lunch rush began. Carrie’s assistant, a wiry, gray-haired woman called Dizz, emerged from a back room to help her boss field orders from the dozens of customers who streamed in and out of the coffeehouse. I kept a close watch on Carrie’s patrons, but they were either young or middle-aged. Not one was old enough to be Aunt Dimity’s very old friend.

  Though the tables filled rapidly, the three armchairs before the faux fireplace remained empty.

  “Are the leather chairs contaminated?” I asked.

  “No,” said Adam. “They’re reserved for Carrie’s old dears—the pensioners I told you about, the ones who come here to chat about old times. She gives them free coffee and tea as well. She says it’s the least she can do for her Battle of Britain boys.”

  “Were they fighter pilots?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” said Adam. “I never know whether Carrie’s joking or not, but if you ask her a straight question, she’ll probably give you a straight answer. I believe she knows the old boys quite well.”

  “What happens if someone sits in their chairs?” I asked.

  “A first-time offender gets a polite warning and a lecture about what we owe the brave men who stepped up to defend our country in its hour of need,” he explained. “Repeat offenders are told to leave and never come back.”

  “I can see why the chairs are empty,” I said. I finished my soup, then glanced toward the front counter and lowered my voice. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what is a bone bagger?”

  “It’s Carrie’s pet name for an archaeologist,” he explained with a martyred air. “I’m working toward a postgrad degree in archaeology, you see, and since you were with me . . .”

  “Got it,” I said, starting in on my sandwich. “Have you bagged many bones?”

  “None,” he replied. “I turned up a bone comb at a dig in Kent, but I haven’t yet uncovered human remains.”

  “I’d rather find a bone comb than a ribcage,” I said with a dainty grimace, “but I’m not an archaeologist. What period are you studying?”

  “Early Anglo-Saxon,” he said decisively.

  “I thought Anglo-Saxon was a language,” I said. “Beowulf was written in Anglo-Saxon, wasn’t it?”

  “It was,” said Adam, “but Anglo-Saxon is also the name of the culture that produced Beowulf, a culture created by the Germanic tribes that invaded, settled, and ruled Great Britain from the fifth century to 1066.”

  “That would be . . . after the Romans, but before the Norman conquest?” I said tentatively.

  “Close enough,” said Adam, grinning. “But if you mention the Dark Ages, I’ll have to deduct points. The Anglo-Saxons weren’t bullet-headed barbarians, Lori. They were fierce warriors, yes, but they were also artists, artisans, poets, and architects.” He leaned forward on his elbows, his face alight with a scholar’s passion. “Have you seen the Sutton Hoo ship burial exhibition at the British Museum?”

  “No,” I admitted. “My sons tend to gravitate to the arms and armor. And the bugs. Will and Rob are crazy about bugs.”

  “Well, if you and your boys ever want a guided tour of the world’s greatest collection of Anglo-Saxon treasures, ring me.” He raised his hand, palm outward. “No fees involved. It would be my pleasure.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Adam,” I said. “I may take you up on your offer, once I finish my Badger hunt.”

  We had plenty of time to savor our meal, and each part of it was worth savoring. The soup’s complex flavor had been deepened by a dash of curry, and the brie-and-tomato baguette had been sprinkled with microgreens and drizzled with a peppery olive oil. The tea had come as such a pleasant surprise that I didn’t mind lingering over it while awaiting the arrival of my blackberry tart.

  I didn’t have long to wait. The lunch rush died down as quickly as it had begun. In an hour, the coffeehouse was once again somnolent, with only a handful of customers popping in for takeout orders. When Dizz cleared our table and Adam’s friends waved good-bye to him, I felt a rising sense of anticipation. I had to remind myself sternly that Badger, not blackberries, was my main priority as Carrie approached our table with my tart and a flask of hot water to top up my teapot.

  “Enjoy your soup?” she asked, pulling a chair over to sit with us.

  “Very much,” I said. “Thanks for suggesting it.”

  “You’ll like the tart, too,” she said. “Berries picked fresh from the hedgerows this morning.” She laid a finger alongside her nose. “I have countryside connections.”

  Like Adam, I didn’t know if she was joking or not, but the blackberries were as plump and juicy as any I’d ever picked, the custard was as smooth as silk, and the crust was a minor masterpiece of buttery flakiness. I’d never expected to meet a baker as skilled as Finch’s own Sally Cook, but Carrie Osborne, I thought, could give Sally a run for her money.

  “Good?” Carrie said, raising her eyebrows.

  “Heavenly,” I mumbled through a forkful of perfection.

  “I’ve told Lori about the leather chairs and your old gentlemen,” said Adam. “She’d like to ask you a few questions about them.”

  “Why would a Yank take an interest in my boys?” Carrie asked, eyeing me narrowly. “Writing a book, are you?”

  “No,” I said, forcing myself to put my fork down. “I live in the countryside, in a very small village not too far from Oxford. I had a friend there—a village woman—who lived in Bloomsbury for a short time after the war. She was very fond of the Rose Café, which was, as you probably know—”

  “Right here, on this spot,” Carrie put in, nodding. “That’s why my old boys come here. They’re the last of the Rose Café crowd. There may be others out there, still in the land of the living, but they don’t come here anymore. I know my regulars.”

  Having heard her grill Adam about his girlfriend, I didn’t doubt it.

  “My friend had a friend,” I continued. “They used to meet at the Rose Café, but she lost track of him a long time ago, and she always regretted it. She asked me to find him and to give him a message. I hoped someone here might know him or know how I can contact him.”

  “A dying wish, was it?” Carrie asked, echoing Adam’s earlier query.

  “Yes,” I said firmly. “It may sound odd, but my friend didn’t know her friend’s proper name. All I have to go on is his nickname.”

  “It doesn’t sound odd to me,” said Carrie. “All of my old dears have nicknames. If they weren’t branded with them at boarding school, they picked them up in the RAF. There’s Griff—Anthony Griffin-Hughes—a squadron leader by the tender age of nineteen. And Chocks—he was ground crew, a first-rate mechanic. And Ginger—he tells me his hair was as red as mine when he joined up. And Granddad—at twenty-three, the oldest man in his squadron. And Fish—he was plucked from the Channel by a trawler after he put his Spitfire into the drink. And Madge—”

  “Madge?” Adam interrupted, looking perplexed.

  “Short for Your Majesty,” Carrie explained. “Old Madge came from old money.” Her expression softened as she turned her head to gaze at the three leather chairs. “Madge is gone now, God rest his soul, along with Griff and Granddad. The only ones left are Chocks, Ginger, and Fish, and they’re in their nineties.” She sighed. “I don’t suppose they’ll be around much longer.”

  “But you’ll look after them while you can,” Adam said kindly.

  “That I will,” said Carrie, rousing herself. “It’s the least I can do for my Battle of Britain boys.”

  “Have you ever heard them speak of someone called Badger?” I asked.r />
  “I don’t believe I have,” said Carrie, frowning in concentration. “Doesn’t mean they haven’t spoken of him. I’m too busy to pay attention to everything my old boys say. I can run the name past them, if you like.”

  “Would you?” I said.

  “They won’t be in today,” she warned, waving a hand through the air to indicate the rain dripping steadily from the striped awning. “Chocks roasted his hands when he pulled a pilot out of a burning Hurricane. Fish broke both kneecaps when his Spit went down. Ginger took a bullet in the shoulder from a passing Messerschmitt.” She shook her head. “Old war wounds don’t mix well with wet weather.”

  “I understand,” I said, “but if you could mention Badger to them the next time they drop in, I’d be incredibly grateful. If they ask for a description, you can tell them that Badger had a dark beard, dark curly hair, strong hands, and a deep tan.”

  “He won’t have dark hair anymore,” Carrie commented, “but my boys might remember him from the old days.”

  “I hope they do,” I said. I pulled a scrap of paper from my bag and scribbled my name and my phone number on it. “I’ll leave my number with you, Carrie. If Chocks, Fish, or Ginger knows Badger or if they know anyone who knows Badger, please ring me. I’ll be happy to meet them here or in their homes or wherever is most convenient for them.”

  “Dying wishes must be honored,” Carrie said with a firm nod of approbation.

  “I’d like to meet them for my own sake as much as my friend’s,” I said. “As you say, they may not be around much longer. I’d like to thank them face-to-face while they’re still in the land of the living.”

  “They’ll tell you not to be so soppy,” said Carrie, “but they’ll like it all the same.” She took the scrap of paper from me and slipped it into her apron pocket. “Leave it to me, Lori. I’ll put the word out.” She pushed herself to her feet. “But first I’ll give Dizz a hand with the washing up. I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Lori. Eat up the rest of your tart.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, but when her back was turned, I pushed the plate toward Adam and asked, “Would you finish it for me, please?”

  “Why?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Broken wrists, broken kneecaps, and bullet wounds,” I said bleakly. “It doesn’t seem right to eat dessert after hearing about what those men went through—what they’re still going through.”

  “They’d disagree with you,” said Adam. “If Ginger, Chocks, and Fish were here, they’d tell you to enjoy every bite. They’d say they fought the war so that you could eat dessert in peace.”

  “Is that what your granddad says to you?” I asked.

  “All the time,” he replied.

  “Well,” I said reluctantly, “if you insist . . .”

  “I do,” Adam said, getting to his feet, “because I’m ordering a cream bun, for myself, and I don’t plan to share it with you!”

  As he returned to the counter for his cream bun, I lifted a forkful of blackberry tart in a toast to the three empty chairs.

  Eleven

  Adam was as good as his word. He didn’t share so much as a crumb of his cream bun with me. I got even with him by buying a few to take home. Carrie’s immortal buns were too rich for Bess, but they would, I was certain, be a big hit with my menfolk.

  By the time we left the coffeehouse, the steady downpour had given way to intermittent showers. I opened my umbrella, Adam raised his hood, and we set out for the last stop on our Aunt Dimity–inspired walking tour.

  Number 16 Northington Street turned out to be a major disappointment. I couldn’t tell whether Aunt Dimity’s borrowed flat had been in a charming Georgian row house or in a bland brown brick pile because every building on the block was covered from attic to cellar with scaffolding and draped in green safety netting. Even the chimney pots were shrouded in tarpaulins, presumably to protect them from the rain while they were being repaired or replaced.

  “Gentrification,” Adam observed. “A developer is turning affordable housing into upscale, upmarket flats for the upwardly mobile. It’s happening all over London. If I wanted to be a millionaire, I’d invest in travertine flooring and complicated taps.”

  I tried bending over to peer under the safety netting, but it was like looking into a stalactite-filled cave.

  “It’s not much of an image to fix in my memory,” I said, straightening.

  “It’s London as it was, is, and ever shall be,” Adam intoned. “Like Great Ormond Street Hospital, London is always under construction. Your friend must have seen miles of scaffolding during the postwar building boom.”

  “True,” I said. I almost added, “I’ll ask her,” but I swallowed the treacherous words before they could escape. “Well, Adam, we found the Rose Café, and we identified three members of the old Rose Café crowd who might lead me to Badger. I think we’ve done as much as we can do today.”

  “To Paddington?” he queried.

  “To Paddington,” I replied. “I should be home in plenty of time for dinner.”

  I could hardly believe how quickly we reached the tube station. With no sightseeing stops to delay us, we made it from Northington Street to Russell Square in ten minutes flat. The tube was less crowded than it had been in the morning, and I had to admit that it was nice to be out of the rain.

  I allowed Adam to lead me to the correct platform in Paddington Station, and I didn’t object when he offered to wait with me. I was coming down with a bad case of sensory overload, so I was grateful to have someone on hand to keep me from boarding the Outer Hebrides Express.

  “Thank you, Adam,” I said as my train pulled into the station. “I would have been lost without you—and I’m speaking literally. Shall we team up again the next time I’m in London?”

  “I’d like that,” said Adam. “Your husband has my contact information. And don’t forget our day at the British Museum. If your sons like arms and armor, they’ll love the Sutton Hoo exhibition. Once you’ve seen it, you’ll realize that the early Anglo-Saxons weren’t simple-minded barbarians.”

  “I never thought they were,” I protested. “To be perfectly honest, I never thought about them at all,” I continued, adding hastily, “but I’m willing to learn.”

  “You’ll love it,” Adam stated firmly.

  “Until next time, then,” I said, and boarded the train.

  A train journey can offer a splendid opportunity for reflection. I’d planned to review the day’s adventures while London’s far-reaching tentacles slipped past me. I’d intended to contemplate the remarkable sights I’d seen and the stories I’d heard, but my overstuffed brain refused to cooperate. Instead of using my travel time to think deeply about my experiences, I fell asleep as my train left Paddington, and I stayed asleep until it reached Oxford.

  Refreshed, I drove home without incident.

  The cottage hadn’t fallen down in my absence, and my family was gratifyingly pleased to see me. Will and Rob showed me the stories they’d written at school, which involved dinosaurs, race cars, and champion cricketers, and Bess informed me that she was considering a career as a timpanist. Bill had his doubts about my interpretation of her words—he doubted that they were words—but I understood her perfectly.

  Bill’s lentil stew filled the cottage with a savory aroma that reminded me of autumn leaves and bonfires. To my relief, it tasted even better than it smelled. While the boys set the table, their talented father stowed my box of cream buns in the refrigerator, made a green salad, and sliced a loaf of crusty brown bread.

  Feeling pleasantly superfluous, I returned the garnet bracelet to Reginald’s niche in the study, brought Bess upstairs with me, and swapped my big-city clothes for a soft flannel shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers.

  We sat down to eat at our usual time, but our dinner table conversation was highly unusual, in that it was more of a monologue than a discussion. I
simply couldn’t stop talking about my day in London. I didn’t mention the Badger hunt in front of the boys, but I prattled on about everything else. My newfound enthusiasm for the metropolis must have been contagious because Will, Rob, and Bill listened intently rather than patiently.

  “The next time you go to London,” Will said when I finally ran out of steam, “can we come with you?”

  “We want to see the little queen,” said Rob. “And Sam the Cat.”

  “And the air raid shelter,” added Will.

  “You can’t see the air raid shelter,” I explained, “because it’s underground.”

  “We could see Carrie’s coffeehouse,” Rob pointed out.

  “And we could have a blackberry tart each,” said Will.

  “Carrie may not have blackberry tarts all the time,” I warned, “but I’m sure she’ll have something you’ll like just as well.”

  “I wouldn’t mind an eclair,” Rob conceded.

  “Or a jam doughnut,” Will chimed in.

  “Maybe two puddings each,” Rob reconsidered, using the British word for dessert. He had, after all, been raised in England.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Daddy and I will take you to London during your Christmas break.” I looked at Bill. “The museums will be jam-packed, but the parks and the backstreets won’t be too crowded, and they’re just as interesting as museums. In some ways, they’re more interesting.”

  “I’ll ask Adam to design a walking tour for us,” said Bill.

  “Ask Adam to come along,” Will suggested.

  “We’d like to meet him,” said Rob. “And see Sutton Hoo.”

  “Hoo!” Bess crowed from her high chair.

  “Okay,” I said, laughing. “We’ll fit one museum into our schedule and we’ll definitely ask Adam to join us there. I can give you a treat from Carrie’s coffeehouse right now, though. Sit,” I ordered as Bill started to get to his feet. “You made dinner. The boys will clear the table, and I’ll get the dessert.”