Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince

by Nancy Atherton

  “No,” I admitted.

  In that case, I think we can safely rule out supernatural intervention.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “But honestly, Dimity, the way Daisy looked at the silver sleigh and the way she talked about it . . . It just seemed very . . . odd . . . at the time.”

  You were under the influence of dim lighting and bizarre surroundings, Lori. Your encounter with Daisy was bound to seem odd.

  “I suppose so,” I conceded. “And I may have let my emotions get the best of me. I felt so sorry for her, with her skinny legs and her ratty old parka. I wanted to reach through the glass and give the silver sleigh to her. I wish . . .” My voice trailed off into a forlorn, frustrated sigh, but Aunt Dimity seemed to read my mind.

  You wish you could rescue her. The thing is, Lori, she doesn’t seem to need rescuing. Her father may have failed her, but she has a hardworking mother who appears to care very much for her. Daisy may not be as well fed or as well dressed as Will and Rob, but she seems to be well loved. And love, as you know, can make up for deficiencies in diet and dress.

  “Even so—” I broke off as the sound of raucous voices came to me from the kitchen. “Sorry, Dimity. Gotta run. The arctic adventurers are back and they’re howling for hot chocolates.”

  Go, my dear. And try not to worry about Daisy. I seem to remember another bright and inquisitive little girl who was raised by a hardworking mother—and she turned out quite well.

  I smiled ruefully, closed the journal, returned it to its shelf, and gave Reginald’s pink flannel ears a fond twiddle before heading for the kitchen. I tried to put all thoughts of Daisy Pickering behind me as I left the study, but when I saw my rosy-cheeked sons I couldn’t help remembering the girl’s pale face and the burning look in her eyes as she gazed at the silver sleigh.

  Five

  The boys’ headmistress telephoned on Sunday afternoon to inform me that Morningside School’s ailing heating system had been restored to good health and that classes would resume on Monday morning. The news didn’t sit well with Will or Rob, who’d hoped to spend the rest of their lives building snow yurts with Bree in the back meadow, but they cheered up when I reminded them that their friend intended to stick around for a few more days.

  “I’m glad I didn’t ask Peggy Taxman for shelter,” Bree said. “The look she gave me at church this morning would have curdled milk. I don’t think she approves of my hair.”

  It was early evening. We’d finished dinner and repaired to the living room to lounge lazily on the couch. Stanley had emerged from his self-imposed exile in the guest room to take possession of Bill’s favorite armchair and the boys knelt at the coffee table, drawing pictures of deformed skulls to take to school for show-and-tell.

  “I like your hair,” Will said loyally.

  “Me, too,” said Rob. “It’s cheerful. Like a clown’s.”

  “Thanks, Rob,” said Bree, grinning. “What’s on your agenda for tomorrow, Lori? You’ll let me know if I’m in the way, won’t you? I can always make myself scarce.”

  “You can make yourself at home,” I said. “I’ll be in Upper Deeping for most of the day, helping out at the charity shop.”

  “Charity shops are known as op shops in New Zealand,” Bree informed me. “Short for opportunity shop.”

  “I know,” I said. “Op shops are called thrift stores in America, but in England they’re known as charity shops.”

  “An English op shop,” said Bree. “Sounds thrilling. May I tag along?”

  “Of course,” I said. “We can always use an extra pair of hands.”

  Will and Rob, who’d caught every word of our conversation, glanced up from their artwork.

  “The charity shop in Upper Deeping is called Aunt Dimity’s Attic,” said Rob, bending to blacken a hollow eye socket.

  “And it’s Mummy’s shop,” Will chimed in, putting a jagged edge on a broken tooth.

  “Is it?” Bree asked interestedly, turning to me.

  “It was my brainchild,” I replied, “but it doesn’t belong to me. It’s one of a chain of six shops owned by the Westwood Trust, a charitable organization founded in the 1950s by the woman who left me this cottage.”

  “Dimity Westwood,” said Bree, nodding. “The vicar’s mentioned her a few times and I’ve seen her headstone in the churchyard.”

  “Dimity was the sort of person who’d appreciate a good thrift store,” I said, “and since I happen to be the Westwood Trust’s current chairwoman, I named our shop after her—Aunt Dimity’s Attic.”

  “Who gets the money?” Bree asked.

  “It’s all about locals helping locals,” I said. “The trust owns the property, but local people manage the shop, donate the goods, and buy the goods. The money they raise goes to local schools—publicly funded schools, that is. Places like Morningside don’t get a penny.”

  “Places like Morningside don’t need a penny,” Bree observed.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Aunt Dimity’s Attic helps to pay for cultural programs—art, music, drama, the sort of thing that’s all but disappeared from state-funded education because of budget cuts.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Bree.

  “You’re also optimistic,” I said. “Monday mornings at Aunt Dimity’s Attic aren’t so much about treasure hunting as they are about trash collecting. You’d be surprised at some of the garbage people dump on our doorstep on Sundays. We’re closed on Sundays,” I explained, “so donors who wish to remain anonymous leave their so-called donations in our doorway when no one’s there to stop them. Some thoughtful soul once left a sack filled with dirty diapers.”

  “One woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure,” Bree said confidently. “I intend to find something astounding.”

  “Like a skull with three eyeholes,” Rob said proudly, holding up his drawing.

  “Or a skull with fangs,” said Will, putting the finishing touch on his masterpiece of the macabre.

  The conversation went downhill from there, with Bree, Will, and Rob vying with one another to come up with the most outlandish item a bargain hunter might find at a thrift store. I’m sorry to say it, but their suggestions made a sackful of used diapers seem deeply desirable.

  • • •

  Bree and I delivered Will and Rob to Morningside School on Monday morning, then drove to Upper Deeping’s main square, where Aunt Dimity’s Attic was located, nestled comfortably between a bank and a bookstore. I left the Rover in the parking lot behind the shop, unlocked the back door, and ushered Bree into the storage and sorting room, where we found Florence Cheeseman, the shop manager, already hard at work.

  Florence was a petite, gray-haired dynamo with an eye for bargains, an ear for gossip, and an old-fashioned work ethic. She was always the first to arrive at the shop and the last to leave and she made the most of the time in between. Even so, she refused to accept a paycheck, grumbling irritably: “If I needed the money, I wouldn’t work as a volunteer in a charity shop, would I?” Florence had dressed for the day in a bulky black turtleneck, a pair of designer jeans, and gigantic hoop earrings that glinted in the overhead light.

  “I’ve brought reinforcements, Florence,” I said. “My friend Bree Pym is from New Zealand, but she lives near Finch.”

  “What in heaven’s name have you done to your hair, girl?” Florence exclaimed, staring at Bree. “You look like a fireworks display.”

  “Just thought I’d brighten things up a bit,” said Bree, unfazed.

  “You’re obviously mad,” Florence declared, shaking Bree’s proffered hand, “but you’re welcome all the same. Our neighbors have been busy over the weekend, Lori.”

  She gestured to four cardboard boxes and five trash bags piled on the large oblong table that occupied the middle of the room. “I found these in the doorway when I arrived. Heaven knows what horrors await us.” She pulled a box toward her. “At least nothing’s squirming. You may find it hard to believe, Bree, but someone once left us a snake.”r />
  “We found a good home for it,” I put in.

  “You didn’t take it back to the cottage with you?” Bree asked mischievously.

  “Certainly not,” I said, adding loftily, “Dimity the snake is now living in Cheltenham with an eminent herpetologist.”

  “Sounds ideal,” said Bree. “I’ll bet Will and Rob would love to visit the happy couple.” Before I could threaten her with grievous bodily harm should she ever so much as mention the herpetologist to my sons, Bree stepped up to the table. “Enough small talk, ladies. I’m here to work. What’s the drill?”

  I pointed to my right. “Stand at the end of the table. Open a bag or a box and sort through the contents. Put the unspeakably filthy, the hopelessly irreparable, and the utterly useless items in the appropriate recycling bins and leave the rest on the table. Florence or I will take it from there.”

  “If you have any questions, ask,” Florence added, examining a chipped china cow. “And try not to dawdle. We open at ten o’clock, which leaves us just over an hour to get through this mess.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Bree snapped off a salute, grabbed a cardboard box, and marched with it to the end of the table.

  I moved to the opposite end, dragged a trash bag toward me, opened it, and saw that it was filled with children’s clothing.

  “Have a nice weekend?” Florence asked, turning her attention to a dented brass candlestick.

  “Very nice,” I replied. “Bree and I took the boys to Skeaping Manor on Saturday.”

  “Skeaping Manor isn’t my idea of nice,” Florence said, grimacing. “I’ll take out-of-town guests there if they insist on going, but I always try to talk them out of it. The exhibits there are even creepier than our Monday morning haul.” She eyed a headless wooden monk with disfavor and tossed it into a recycling bin.

  “Some of the exhibits are quite beautiful,” I said.

  “Beautiful exhibits? At Skeaping Manor? Don’t make me laugh,” Florence scoffed. “The displays are nothing but creepy. The curator is creepy, too. Miles Craven—did you meet him? Just as twisty as his exhibits.”

  “He didn’t seem twisty to me,” I protested. “A little theatrical, maybe, but not twisty.”

  “He’s creepy,” Florence said firmly. “How could he not be? He lives there, for pity’s sake. How could anyone live in Skeaping Manor and not be creepy?”

  “He lives in the museum?” I said, surprised.

  “In a flat round the back,” Florence confirmed. “Myrna Felton saw him in the garden one day, dressed like an Edwardian undertaker and declaiming poetry. She thinks he’s balmy. So does Barbara Halstow. She saw him . . .”

  While Florence cataloged Miles Craven’s many eccentricities, I made my way through the layers of clothing in my trash bag, placing sweaters, wool skirts, corduroy trousers, and winter-weight tights in separate piles on the table. It looked as though a child had outgrown her wardrobe, and though the clothes were far from new, they were clean and in acceptable condition. Nothing caught my attention until I reached the the last item at the very bottom of the bag.

  A pale pink winter parka lay there. It was a sad little jacket, worn and faded, its pink hood trimmed with a matted strip of gray polyester fur. The moment I saw it my mind spun back to Skeaping Manor’s silver room, and Florence’s rattling rant gave way to a young girl’s dreamy soliloquy.

  . . . The gentlemen wore diamond studs in their stiff collars and gold links in their cuffs. They ate and drank late into the night while the world outside grew darker and colder. . . .

  I glanced at the clothes I’d already placed on the table, saw a purple skirt and a pair of black woolen tights, looked again at the pink parka, and knew beyond doubt that the child who’d outgrown her wardrobe was Daisy Pickering.

  Dazed by the unsettling coincidence of finding Daisy’s jacket at the shop so soon after seeing it on her, I reached into the bag to confirm by touch what my eyes had already told me. A pang of pity shot through me when I felt a lump in one pocket and realized that she’d left something in it—a small, cherished toy, perhaps, something that meant as much to her as Reginald did to me.

  I slipped my fingers into the pocket and withdrew the forgotten object. The thought of returning it to Daisy was foremost in my mind when what in my wandering hand should appear but a miniature sleigh pulled by three tiny horses. Three silver horses. Pulling a silver sleigh. A glittering, exquisitely wrought silver sleigh—a masterpiece of the silversmith’s art. However much I blinked and stared, there was no mistaking it. The forgotten object I’d retrieved from the pink parka was the silver sleigh I’d last seen at Skeaping Manor.

  I was thunderstruck. I didn’t gasp or squeak or cry out in surprise because my entire head had gone numb. Though the silver sleigh rested firmly in the palm of my hand, I half expected it to vanish in a puff of fairy dust. When it didn’t, I was forced to ask myself a painfully obvious question: How had the priceless artifact ended up in Daisy Pickering’s pocket?

  “Found a snake?”

  “What?” I said, startled out of my ruminations.

  “Have you found another snake?” Bree asked. “You’ve been looking into that bag for the last five minutes. What’s in it? A Cotswold cobra?”

  “A jacket,” I said. I pulled the pink parka out of the bag with my free hand, gave it a shake, and held it up for Bree to see.

  “Sorry,” said Bree, shaking her head. “It wouldn’t suit Rob or Will.”

  “Good one,” I said, forcing a smile.

  I glanced at Florence, saw that she and Bree were exchanging grins, and quickly slipped the silver sleigh into my shoulder bag. I wasn’t sure what I would do with it, but I needed time to think things through before I revealed my astounding find to anyone.

  Six

  I placed the parka on the table, opened a cardboard box, and sorted through its ragtag contents while my mind raced toward an unpleasant conclusion.

  Daisy Pickering had stolen the silver sleigh. It was the only explanation that made sense. Miles Craven might be eccentric, but I couldn’t envision him giving the museum’s treasures away to his employees’ children. Amanda Pickering looked as though she could use some extra cash, but if she’d taken the sleigh, she would have kept it in a safe place until she could sell it. She wouldn’t have stuffed it carelessly into a jacket she intended to donate to a charity shop.

  If I put my mind to it, I could construct a scenario in which a random thief dropped his loot into Daisy’s pocket to avoid being caught with it, but to blame the theft on a faceless criminal was to ignore the fact that Daisy was a far more likely suspect. She’d had the motive, the opportunity, and, I strongly suspected, the intent to commit a crime that might not have seemed like a crime to her.

  No, I thought unhappily. Daisy was the thief. Daisy Pickering had stolen the silver sleigh. She’d gazed at it, longed for it, dreamed of it until she could no longer resist the temptation to have it for herself. She’d taken the display case key from Miles Craven’s office after she’d finished the hot cocoa her mother had made for her. She’d slipped back to the silver room unseen, unlocked the case, and pocketed the sleigh. She couldn’t have known what her mother planned to do with the pink parka. If she had, she would have hidden the silver sleigh somewhere else.

  “Florence,” I said, “have you heard anything about a theft at Skeaping Manor?”

  “A theft at Skeaping Manor?” Florence repeated incredulously. “What self-respecting burglar would waste his time on that awful place? The market for shrunken heads isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Maybe not,” I said, “but what about the market for jade or porcelain or, um, silver?” I felt myself blush guiltily and hurried on. “As I told you before, there are beautiful things there, too, and I think they’re pretty valuable.”

  “Then Miles Craven should take better care of them,” Florence retorted. “The museum’s security system is a joke.”

  “Is it?” said Bree. “I spotted security cameras around the
outside of the building and in every room.”

  “They don’t work,” Florence stated flatly. “Never have. They’re dummies, meant to deter theft, but they don’t record anything. As for the guards—”

  “What guards?” Bree interrupted.

  “You might well ask,” said Florence with a disparaging sniff. “The museum’s crack team of security specialists consists of Les and Al, a pair of doddering old codgers who spend most of their work hours guzzling tea in the staff room. They’re as useless as the cameras. The display cases are locked, I’ll grant you, but the locks are a thousand years old. It would be child’s play to pry them open.”

  “Child’s play,” I echoed, wincing inwardly. “If something was stolen, Miles Craven would report it to the police, wouldn’t he?”

  “If something was stolen from Skeaping Manor,” Florence declared, “Miles Craven would climb up on the roof, fire a blunderbuss, and announce it to the world.”

  “Which means that you would have heard about it,” I said.

  “The blunderbuss would probably catch my attention,” Florence said dryly. She gave me a sidelong look. “Why are you going on about thefts at Skeaping Manor, Lori? Are you planning a break-in?”

  “Yes,” I said, smiling. “I’ve always wanted a collection of giant weta.”

  “That’s as may be,” Florence said sternly, “but the shop doesn’t want a collection of nasty old beer mats.” She pointed at the table space in front of me. “Please feel free to toss that lot, Lori.”

  I looked down at the assortment of sticky, stained beer mats I’d stacked neatly beside the pink parka, and grinned sheepishly at Florence.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was daydreaming about giant weta.”

  Florence and Bree laughed. I dropped the beer mats into the recycling bin and tried to focus on my work.