“It sounds like something they’d do,” I acknowledged, smiling.
Someone will come along one day and rediscover the hoard. In the meantime, I’d advise you to act as its guardian.
“What should I do with the armlet?” I asked.
You should give it a decent burial. Dig its grave near the spot that gave the metal detector fits, drop the armlet in it, cover it over, and move on.
The anxiety I’d carried with me into the study suddenly vanished, to be replaced by a heady feeling of relief. I’d boxed myself into a corner, and Aunt Dimity had shown me the way out. As the hoard’s guardian, I wouldn’t have to sacrifice my family’s privacy for the greater good, nor would I have to fight a losing battle to give credit where credit was due. A guardian would have a much quieter life than a groundbreaker.
“I’ll do it,” I said decisively. “I’ll bury the armlet before Bill finishes the school run.”
You’ll tell him about it, won’t you?
“I’ll tell him the whole story,” I said, “and I’ll tell Badger as well, but I won’t tell anyone else. Bill and I will keep an eye on the boys, in case they decide to play gravedigger; we won’t throw metal-detecting parties; and we’ll never, ever let Adam Rivington pitch a tent in our meadow.”
I believe you’ll be an exemplary guardian, Lori.
“I will be,” I said. “I already have a motto. In the immortal, earsplitting words of Peggy Taxman . . .” I tilted my head back and bellowed, “‘Some things are best left buried!’”
I heard a scrabble of claws in the living room as Stanley leaped from Bill’s armchair and ran for cover. I called out an apology and a promise of tuna for dinner, then glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel.
“I’d better get the burial under way,” I said. “Bill and the children will be home in about forty minutes, at which point my quiet life will cease to be quiet. I’ll be back later, though, to bring you up to date on what’s happening in Finch.”
Before you go, my dear, please allow me to tell you how grateful I am to you for finding Badger. You’ve polished a tarnished memory until it gleams. From now on, when I look back on the moments I shared with him, I’ll feel nothing but happiness. Thank you.
“The gratitude goes both ways, Dimity,” I said. “If you hadn’t sent me on a wild goose chase, I wouldn’t have met Adam, Sarah, Carrie, Chocks, Ginger, Fish, and one of the foremost archaeologists of our time. My new friends mean more to me than any hoard.” I glanced at the clock again. “And now I really do have to run.”
Go! But come back soon. I can hardly wait to hear the latest news!
I smiled as the curving lines of royal-blue ink faded from the page, then returned the journal to its shelf and took the armlet from Reginald’s niche. I held it in the firelight one last time and wondered who had made it, worn it, buried it. As I slipped it into my pocket, I could almost hear a chorus of whispers thanking me for leaving it in peace.
Twenty-three
Finch’s history museum was unveiled on a fine Sunday afternoon in mid-November. The folding tables in the old schoolhouse groaned under the weight of the food the villagers had prepared, and everyone had dressed up for the occasion. I’d been unable to dissuade Will and Rob from wearing riding gear, but I had at least persuaded them to don the formal attire they wore at gymkhanas instead of the grubby garb they wore while cleaning the stables.
Thankfully, Bess was too young to make her own sartorial decisions. I thought she looked adorable in the festive red velvet ensemble I’d chosen for her, and her adoring fans seemed to think so, too. Willis, Sr., took her from Bill’s arms as soon as we walked into the schoolhouse and proudly showed her off to his friends and neighbors, while Amelia recorded the grandfather-granddaughter moment with yet another series of captivating sketches.
Peggy Taxman’s antique cabinet occupied a prominent position in the center of the schoolhouse’s north wall. The cabinet was at least six feet tall and four feet wide—much larger than I’d imagined it— but I couldn’t tell whether it was Victorian or Edwardian or Early Troglodyte because it was shrouded in one of Mr. Barlow’s paint-spattered drop cloths. I suspected that Jasper’s refinishing work had met Peggy’s exacting standards, however, because she looked as serene as a millpond.
Though the cabinet and its contents were concealed by the drop cloth, the Handmaidens’ ink-stained fingers bore witness to their calligraphic endeavors, and a laminated version of Lilian’s minutely marked map of the village green was being passed from hand to hand, to great acclaim.
I was discussing Lilian’s map with Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham when Sally Cook collared me. Will and Rob, who clearly had no future in diplomacy, had evidently informed her that the cream buns I’d brought back from London were the best they’d ever tasted. I appeased Sally by employing Aunt Dimity’s strategy of downplaying Carrie Osborne’s baking skills and playing up my sons’ indiscriminate fondness for all forms of pastry. The boys atoned for their blunder by appearing at my elbow with powdered sugar mustaches and chocolaty fingers.
“Well done, Lori,” said Grant, after Sally, Will, and Rob had departed.
“Handled like a pro,” Charles agreed. “Were the London cream buns better than Sally’s?”
“My lips are sealed,” I said, “but I’ll give you an address where you can find them.”
Grant and Charles were feeling rather pleased with themselves, having discovered a hammered farthing from the reign of Edward I in their back garden. They’d dutifully reported it to the proper authorities, who’d returned it after recording it for posterity.
Bree Pym had also scored a major coup with James Hobson’s metal detector, but she hadn’t had to report it to anyone. While scanning her front garden, she’d unearthed a trowel that had once belonged to her great-grandaunts. Bree, like Grant and Charles, had donated her find to the museum, along with a photo of Ruth and Louise Pym and some dried flowers from the garden they’d created.
At the appointed hour, Lilian Bunting asked for everyone’s attention. My family group was scattered far and wide, but Bill managed to tear himself away from the sausage rolls Christine Peacock had brought to the festivities and join me. The vicar, who had been similarly engaged, brushed crumbs from his fingers, made his way to the shrouded cabinet, and gave a short homily on the importance of preserving the past.
He expressed his gratitude to Peggy Taxman for presenting her display case to the village, and he singled out the donors without whom the display case would be an empty shell. He acknowledged the Handmaidens’ artistic contributions, and he concluded by thanking his wife for her map and for the research she’d done to enhance our understanding of the objects within the cabinet.
After a brief round of applause, I expected Peggy Taxman to sweep past the vicar and yank the drop cloth from the display case. Instead, the vicar asked James Hobson to step forward. James seemed genuinely taken aback by the request, but after Felicity gave him an encouraging shove, he smiled sheepishly and went to stand beside the vicar.
“James,” said the vicar, “I know I speak on behalf of the entire village when I say that you have done us a great service by introducing us to your fascinating hobby. You have shown us that metal detecting can be used, not for personal gain, but for the enlightenment of a community. It is with great pleasure and sincere gratitude that I invite you to, er, remove the drop cloth from our history museum.”
“M-me?” James faltered, glancing furtively at Peggy Taxman. “Are you sure you don’t mean—”
“He means you, James,” Peggy boomed. “Get on with it!”
The hearty round of applause that followed was directed solely at Peggy. The good people of Finch knew a generous gesture when they saw one, and Peggy’s willingness to allow a newcomer to take the lead in a once-in-a-lifetime village event redefined the boundaries of generosity.
I was proud of Peggy
for giving James the spotlight he deserved, but I was also relieved that she hadn’t stepped into it. If she’d assumed her usual role, she would almost certainly have subjected us to a lengthy and full-throated panegyric about a hobby she’d once dismissed as “playing in the dirt.” James, by contrast, waited until the applause died down to make the shortest speech ever heard in Finch.
“Without further ado . . .” He left the sentence hanging as he reached up and plucked the drop cloth from the cabinet. The tumultuous applause he received suggested that I wasn’t the only one who was aware of our lucky escape.
A crowd of villagers converged on the cabinet, but I could see enough of it to realize that, although it was handsome, it was no more antique than I was. The plain cherrywood frame, the mirrored rear wall, the massive glass panels, and the interior lighting hinted at a relatively recent date of manufacture.
“Antique, my foot,” I whispered to Bill.
“Haven’t you heard?” he murmured in return.
“Heard what?” I asked, pulling my allegedly gossip-proof husband away from prying ears.
“Christine Peacock told me that Peggy’s old display case was riddled with woodworm,” Bill explained. “It came apart in Jasper’s hands.”
“Disaster,” I said, wincing.
“To save face,” Bill continued, “Peggy bought a brand-new curio cabinet at the discount furniture shop in Upper Deeping.” He looked around to make sure no one else was listening before he added delightedly, “Rumor has it that she persuaded them to cut the price in half.”
“The woman knows how to haggle,” I acknowledged.
“Christine saw Peggy and Jasper unload the flat pack from the trunk of their car,” said Bill. “She says it took Jasper a week to assemble the parts.”
“Poor Jasper,” I said, trying not to laugh.
“What are you two whispering about?” inquired Lilian, strolling over to us.
“Woodworm and flat packs,” I replied.
Lilian disguised an unseemly snort of laughter with a cough.
“I never thought I’d say it,” she said quietly, “but thank God for woodworm. Peggy’s original donation was dark, musty, and horridly Victorian. I much prefer the new one. The shelves are adjustable, the glass door slides sideways for easy access, and the light switch is mounted on the back, so we won’t have to open the case every time we turn the lights on and off.”
“Thank God for woodworm,” Bill and I chorused.
“It’s no good looking at it from over here, though,” said Lilian. “The crowd’s thinned a bit. You should be able to see the displays now. I’d like to know what you think of them. Your honest opinion, mind. I’m impervious to flattery.”
Bill and I walked with her to take a closer look at Finch’s history museum. A small placard on top of the cabinet credited the Handmaidens’ calligraphy and Lilian’s research, while a modest brass plaque mounted on the base cited Peggy’s major contribution. Since I’d expected Peggy to emblazon her name across the schoolhouse wall in lurid pink neon, the brass plaque came as a pleasant surprise.
Each object or group of objects was accompanied by a simple white place card upon which the Handmaidens had inscribed the donor’s name in a script reminiscent of Aunt Dimity’s fine copperplate, though they’d elected to use black ink instead of royal blue. While the place cards were both handsome and legible, Lilian’s painstaking research gave the little collection of odds and ends an unexpected depth.
Mr. Barlow’s horseshoe and Lilian’s hand-forged horseshoe nails were grouped together in front of a sepia photograph of the old smithy. Sally Cook’s lira was paired with a group photograph of Piero Sciaparelli’s numerous descendants. Peggy’s hair clip glittered prettily before a black-and-white photo of a Ferris wheel at Madame Karela’s traveling fair, and Elspeth Binney’s palette knife was accompanied by a color photo of all four Handmaidens dressed in their pastel painters’ smocks.
Henry Cook’s counterfeit wedding ring stood in for the real one Mr. Barlow had discovered. It lay before a color photograph of Sally and Henry grinning at the camera while he held his left hand, fingers splayed, over his heart. Mr. Barlow’s rusty hammer and his tenpenny nails were displayed with a photo of him putting up shelves in the vicarage.
Grant’s and Charles’s hammered farthing was dwarfed by a postcard portrait of Edward I, and Bree’s dried flowers had been lovingly arranged around the trowel and the photo of her great-grandaunts.
Lilian had selected photographs of world events to go along with the modern English coins the villagers had unearthed. Her 1965 florin, for example, had been placed before a photograph of Sir Winston Churchill’s state funeral. As expected, Peggy had donated more items to the museum than anyone else, and though most of her finds fell into the extremely modern coin category, Lilian had diligently dug up photographs to accompany them.
Not content merely to illustrate the displays, Lilian had also written captions for them. All of the captions contained basic information—the place and date of an object’s discovery as well as a brief description of it—but a few contained much more. Lilian had taken the time to write detailed and occasionally humorous narratives about the fair, the smithy, Mr. Barlow’s hammer, Henry Cook’s wedding ring, Elspeth Binney’s palette knife, Bree Pym’s great-grandaunts, and Piero Sciaparelli’s prisoner-of-war camp.
Lilian had clearly saved her best efforts for the top shelf. She’d lined it with black velvet, placed Dave Dillehaye’s bronze-colored Victory Medal on a faded Union Jack, and surrounded the faded flag with photographs from the First World War.
It wasn’t easy to look at the shattered limbs, the blood-soaked bandages, the filth, the rats, and the ragged corpses—and I was glad that the images were too high up for my sons to see—but the photographs brought home the horrors that had pushed Dave and others like him past endurance. His caption was much longer than the others’ because it included his honorable service record, the shameful story of his original burial, and Lilian’s plans to give the story a new and kinder ending.
Tears stung my eyes as I finished reading about Dave, and when I turned to Lilian, I had to swallow hard before I could speak.
“Is it all right?” she asked.
“It’s a long way beyond all right,” I replied, wiping my eyes. “The scholars at the British Museum couldn’t have done better.”
Lilian flushed with pleasure as Bill added his praise to mine. While they discussed the displays, I gazed in silence from one object to the next. None of the villagers had unearthed the tiaras and the gold doubloons I’d envisioned during James’s metal-detecting demonstration, and they knew nothing of the Anglo-Saxon hoard, but they’d discovered buried treasure nonetheless.
My neighbors’ mundane finds served as portals to the past. The hoard might outshine the rusted, worn, and broken treasures the villagers had rescued from oblivion, but it was part of the same story, the story of an ordinary place where ordinary people had always lived extraordinary lives.
Epilogue
It was a cold and snowy night in mid-December. Bill was dozing in his favorite armchair, and Stanley was dozing in his lap. Will and Rob had gone to bed, and Bess was dreaming baby dreams in the nursery. I was in the study, seated in one of the tall leather armchairs that faced the hearth, enjoying the warmth of the roaring fire while I brought Aunt Dimity up to date on recent events.
“Peggy offered to donate a second curio cabinet to the museum,” I said, “but I don’t think we’ll need another cabinet anytime soon.”
Have the villagers lost interest in metal detecting?
“They’re strictly fair-weather detectorists,” I replied. “When winter sets in, they stay in. James is still out there, though. He’s scanning the pasture behind Ivy Cottage. So far he’s found a soup can, three horseshoes, a pair of embroidery scissors, and a gold-rimmed monocle.”
The monocle must
have belonged to Mr. Perry. He lived in Mr. Barlow’s house when I was a girl, but he and his wife were bird-watchers, and the pasture behind Ivy Cottage was one of their local haunts. It took an entire month for Mr. Perry to replace his precious monocle—he had an unusual prescription—but his wife continued bird-watching without him. At least, she said she was bird-watching. The scissors could have slipped out of her pocket when she was . . . bird-watching. I’m afraid the lost monocle didn’t help their marriage one bit.
I burst out laughing, then shook my head helplessly.
“I love your stories, Dimity,” I said. “James would love them, too, and Lilian would find them riveting. It’s a shame that I have to keep them to myself.”
I suppose it would be difficult to explain how you came by them.
“Lilian and James would think I’d gone soft in the head if I told them about you,” I reminded her.
Perhaps you could bend the truth a little, as you did in London. You could tell them that you heard my stories from your mother.
“I did hear your stories from my mother,” I said, “but none of them mentioned Mr. Perry and his monocle.”
Are you certain? Isn’t it possible that you forgot Mr. Perry’s story, but it returned to you when you learned of James’s discovery?
“Dimity,” I said, wagging a finger at the blue journal, “I believe you’re leading me down the path to perdition.”
Don’t be melodramatic, Lori. I’m merely attempting to give James Hobson pertinent information about the monocle he found. I’m sure it would make him happy.
“James seems to be at his happiest when he’s figuring things out for himself,” I said. “He may be able to identify Mr. Perry through his unusual prescription.”
Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure Page 21
