Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince

by Nancy Atherton

  “Because meeting him might change the way you feel about his books?” said Frances, her eyes twinkling.

  Bree nodded. “Best to keep the two separate, I think.”

  “So do I,” said Frances. “Now. What would you like me to tell you about my home?”

  “We didn’t come here to ask you about your home,” Bree said. “And we’re not journalists.”

  I choked, and clapped a napkin to my mouth to avoid spraying the table with soup. Frances, by contrast, heard Bree’s announcement without betraying the faintest hint of alarm.

  “I see,” she said calmly, resting her chin in her cupped hand.

  “Maddie Sturgess swallowed our cover story whole,” Bree continued, “but it wouldn’t be right to tell a lie here”—she gazed reverently at the paper-strewn desk—“in the place where Lark Landing was written.”

  “Those are bills,” Frances informed her, following her gaze. “I was attempting to file them when I was overcome by an irresistible urge to paint. Paperwork has that effect on me.” She pointed toward a door to the left of the refrigerator. “My husband’s office is through there, so please feel free to tell as many lies as you like.”

  “No, I, uh . . .” Bree faltered, blushing to her roots.

  I mopped the last vestiges of soup from my chin and smiled ruefully at Frances, who raised an interrogative eyebrow.

  “I apologize for the subterfuge,” I said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, but the time has clearly passed so we’ll give honesty a whirl and see where it takes us.” I pushed my bowl aside and folded my hands on the table. “Bree and I are trying to find out if a story a young girl told us recently is true. The girl’s name is Coral Bell and she heard the story from her best friend—”

  “Daisy Pickering,” Frances interrupted. “Does the story concern a Russian prince named Mikhail?”

  “Yes it does,” I said, taken off guard. “Did Daisy tell you the same story?”

  “Daisy tells us lots of stories,” said Frances. “She visits us whenever her mother brings her to work and every visit is an adventure. Felix says she’s a creative genius and I must say I agree with him.” Frances got up to refill my bowl, but continued to talk as she ladled soup from the pot on the stove. “It’s what comes of being sick so often, I suppose—that, and being an only child. She has to rely on her imagination more than most children. For a long time she entertained us with thrilling tales about her best friend—Coral Bell—battling mummies, skeletons, and gigantic insects, but about a month ago we began to hear about Mikhail.”

  “What did she say about Mikhail?” I asked.

  “It’s a tale that grew in the telling.” Frances placed my bowl before me and returned to her chair at the table. “Mikhail started out as an interesting new acquaintance, but he evolved into a deposed Russian prince who fled his kingdom only to be kidnapped and held hostage by an evil man who took his treasures and cast him into a dungeon.” Frances paused. “Sound familiar?”

  “Very,” I said firmly.

  “Daisy hoped Felix and I would help her to free Mikhail,” Frances explained, “but we put her off as kindly as we could. Making up stories is one thing. Believing them is another. Since I’m not a creative genius, I can’t imagine what Daisy did to convince you that such an incredible tale might be”—she smiled wryly—“credible.”

  Bree gave a sharp gasp and swung around to face me, crying, “Daisy meant to bring it here.”

  “She meant to bring what where?” Frances inquired.

  Bree planted her forearms on the table and leaned toward Frances.

  “Daisy was desperate to free Mikhail, but she couldn’t do it on her own,” she said rapidly. “She asked you and your husband for help, but you wouldn’t help her because you didn’t believe in Mikhail.”

  “How could we believe in him?” Frances said reasonably. “He’s a fantasy figure.”

  “If Daisy managed to get her hands on one of Mikhail’s stolen treasures,” said Bree, “would you still regard him as a fantasy figure?”

  “I might reconsider my position,” Frances allowed.

  “Lori?” said Bree. “Exhibit A, please.”

  I reached into my shoulder bag and produced the silver sleigh. Frances stared at it as if she couldn’t believe her eyes, then took it from me and examined it from every angle.

  “It’s a troika saltcellar,” said Bree. “It’s Russian, it’s portable, and it’s worth a lot of money. It could have been smuggled out of Russia during or after the Revolution by a fleeing nobleman.”

  “And the nobleman’s name could be Mikhail,” murmured Frances. She placed the sleigh on the table, where it glinted and gleamed and splashed the room with shards of reflected light. “How did Daisy come by it?”

  “I’d rather not say,” I answered. If Bree and I were ever accused of concealing a crime and withholding evidence from the police, it would give me some small measure of comfort to know that I hadn’t drawn Frances into our web of naughtiness. “It’s for your own protection. The less you know, the better off you’ll be.”

  “In other words,” said Frances, “Daisy stole it from the evil man who stole it from Mikhail.”

  “My lips are sealed,” I said.

  “In that case, I won’t bother asking how it ended up in your bag.” Frances ran a fingertip along the sleigh’s delicate runners. “Perhaps Daisy was telling us the truth after all. When she comes here again, I’ll ask her to tell me more about Mikhail.”

  “You’re too late,” I said. “Daisy and her mother have disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Frances said, frowning. “When? How?”

  I recounted everything Mrs. MacTavish and Madeleine Sturgess had told us about the Pickerings’ abrupt departure, but I said nothing about Skeaping Manor or the charity shop.

  “We think the move took Daisy by surprise,” Bree added. “She was swept away before she could show the sleigh to you.”

  “Or return it to Mikhail,” I interjected.

  Frances sighed deeply. “Felix will be sorry to hear about Daisy. I have to confess that I’m sorry as well, not only because she’s an enchanting child, but because we failed her. I would have liked to apologize to her for doubting her.”

  “You don’t doubt her anymore?” asked Bree.

  “I can’t argue with hard evidence.” Frances leaned back in her chair, clasped her hands behind her head, and regarded us with an air of amused speculation. “You must think Daisy met Mikhail in a house her mother cleaned. And you must have come here today to find out if Felix and I were the culprits who robbed and imprisoned him.”

  “Something like that,” I mumbled, blushing.

  “If we’d known who you are,” Bree said earnestly, “we never would have suspected you.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Frances said easily. “Once one accepts the basic premise, everyone becomes a suspect.”

  “Not quite everyone,” I said. “Amanda worked for six different employers. We’re hoping to find one with a Russian connection. We tackled Hayewood House first because Madeleine Sturgess’s husband is named Sergei, but he’s as English as a pint of ale. Are you aware of a family or an individual of Russian descent living in the vicinity of Upper Deeping?”

  “No,” said Frances. “I believe I mentioned earlier that Felix and I aren’t particularly sociable. As a result, I’m not as familiar with my neighbors as I should be.” Frances pursed her lips for a moment, then asked, “Did Daisy’s mother work at Risingholme by any chance?”

  “Yes,” Bree and I chorused.

  “If I were you, I’d make Risingholme my next stop,” Frances advised.

  “Why?” asked Bree. “According to my research, Risingholme is owned by Lord and Lady Boghwell. Boghwell doesn’t sound like a Russian name.”

  “It’s pronounced ‘buffel,’” Frances informed her gently, “and it isn’t a Russian name. I’m not suggesting that Lord and Lady Boghwell had anything to do with Mikhail’s alleged kidnapping, bu
t I think they might prove helpful nonetheless.” Frances grinned. “I’ve met them only once, but they’ve lived in Risingholme forever and Madeleine Sturgess tells me they’re the most frightful old gossips she’s ever met. If a Russian invaded the neighborhood within the past hundred years, I expect they’ll know about it.”

  “Brilliant.” I plucked the silver sleigh from the table and dropped it into my shoulder bag. “We’ll attempt to wangle our way into Risingholme next.”

  “If I might offer a word of advice?” said Frances, looking directly at Bree. “You may want to tone down your appearance before you approach the Boghwells. They’re an old-fashioned couple.”

  “How old-fashioned?” Bree inquired.

  “Your hair would scare them,” Frances stated flatly. “And you won’t be received at Risingholme with a ring in your nostril.”

  “Right,” said Bree. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Thanks for everything, Frances,” I said. “The meal, the conversation, your forbearance . . .”

  “Each was given with great pleasure,” Frances assured me. “I don’t often say it, but you’re welcome to stay for tea.”

  “I wish we could,” I said, glancing at my watch, “but if we don’t leave right now, my little boys will have to hitchhike home from school, which would give them a thrill and me a stroke.”

  “I understand,” said Frances. “Bring your boys with you next time. Children seem to like it here.”

  We all got up from the table. While Bree and I donned our coats, Frances excused herself and went into her husband’s office. She reappeared a moment later holding a hardcover book, which she handed to Bree.

  “It’s a signed first edition of Lark Landing,” she explained. “Felix would want you to have it.”

  Bree tried to speak, but the stifled croak she emitted expressed her gratitude more eloquently than words.

  “I’ve tucked one of Felix’s business cards into the book,” Frances said as she opened the galvanized steel door. “If you do find Mikhail, please let us know.”

  “We will,” I promised. “Good-bye for now, Frances.”

  “Good-bye, Lori,” she said. “Be well, Bree.” Bree could do nothing but nod, and as we strode into the late afternoon sunlight, she turned her head away from me, as though she hoped to hide the tears tumbling down her face.

  Thirteen

  Bree’s eyes were dry when we reached the Rover, but it took her awhile to find her voice. We were more than halfway to Upper Deeping before she emerged from her cocoon of introspection and shared her thoughts with me.

  “I wasn’t joking when I told Frances that her husband’s books saved my life,” she said.

  “I didn’t think you were,” I said.

  “They’re not . . . silly,” she went on. “You know right from the start that each story will have a happy ending, but you can’t imagine how the characters will ever get there.” She caressed the copy of Lark Landing Frances Wylton had given her. “When Dad would go on a bender, I’d shut myself up in my room and disappear into a world where everything came right at the end. I didn’t believe deep down I would find my own happy ending, but the books made it seem . . . possible. So I held on.” She glanced shyly at me, looking much younger than her nineteen years. “Then you turned up.”

  “Sent by your great-grandaunts,” I reminded her.

  “They were my fairy godmothers, and you were their wand,” Bree said, with a watery smile. “Sometimes, just sometimes, life is even better than books.”

  She clutched the first edition to her chest and said nothing more until Will and Rob were bouncing impatiently in the backseat. Their high spirits couldn’t help but lift hers.

  “Spies!” Rob shouted.

  “Invisible ink!” bellowed Will.

  “I’m on it!” Bree exclaimed. “Unless your mum is out of lemon juice . . .”

  Fortunately, I had sufficient quantities of lemon juice on hand at the cottage to keep Bree and the boys entertained for hours. While I fielded telephone calls from Emma, Bill, and Willis, Sr., my spies-in-training dipped toothpicks in the juice, wrote their names carefully on a sheet of paper, and watched in amazement as the juice dried and the writing vanished. They waited on tenterhooks while Bree held the sheet of paper over a warm lightbulb and they went bananas when their names “magically” reappeared.

  Once they got the hang of it, Rob and Will were off and running. They drew invisible pictures of their ponies, made an invisible sign for their bedroom door, wrote an invisible letter to their father, and scribbled invisible notes, which they passed to me and to Bree covertly during supper. By bedtime their fingers were as puckered as prunes.

  Bree seemed indisposed to talk when we finally had the living room to ourselves, so I settled on the couch with a basket of clean laundry and folded clothes while she stared into the fire. I was examining a jagged tear in Will’s newest pair of school trousers and wondering how long it would take me to mend it when Bree broke the silence.

  “Lori?” she said. “I think it would be better if you tackled Lord and Lady Boghwell on your own. They won’t let you in the house if I’m with you.” She pointed at her hair and made a goofy face. “I’ll only frighten them.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, turning Will’s trousers inside out to inspect the tear from another angle. “I’ll be Country House Monthly’s sole representative at Risingholme.”

  Bree lapsed into silence again, but a short time later she said, “I also think it may be time for me to go home.”

  “Now you’ve gone too far,” I said with mock severity. “You can abandon me to my fate at Risingholme, but not here.”

  “I’ve been parked in your guest room for nearly a week,” she protested. “I don’t want to outstay my welcome.”

  “You couldn’t possibly outstay your welcome.” I decided the trousers were salvageable, tossed them aside, and gave Bree my full attention. “If you want to go home because you want to go home, fine. But if you want to go home because you think the twins and I are sick of the sight of you, you’re out of your cotton-picking mind. We love you, Bree, and we love having you around.”

  Bree’s chin quivered and her eyes began to glisten.

  “But we secretly hate you,” I added hastily, “and we hope you’ll never darken our doorstep again. There. Will that keep you from blubbering?”

  Much to my relief, Bree gave a shaky laugh, wiped her eyes, and got to her feet.

  “I secretly hate you, too,” she declared, “and I’d like nothing more than to make your life a misery. So I’ll stay awhile longer.”

  She bent down to give me a quick hug—something she’d never done before—then pounded up the stairs to her room. I thought it likely that the guest room pillows would soak up a few tears before morning, but since they would be happy tears, they didn’t worry me.

  I left Will’s trousers and the basket of clean clothes on the couch and went to the study, where I touched a finger to Reginald’s pink flannel snout and took the blue journal with me to one of the tall leather armchairs before the hearth. I didn’t bother to light a fire because I didn’t think I’d be in the study long enough to make lighting a fire worthwhile.

  “Dimity?” I said as I opened the journal. “I bring you the latest bulletins from the home front: Willis, Sr., will be well enough to attend church on Sunday, Emma will reopen the stables on Friday, and Bill will remain in Majorca for at least another week, the dirty dog.”

  I looked down and smiled as Aunt Dimity’s handwriting began to flow across the page.

  Thank you, my dear. I do like to keep abreast of local news, though I am, of course, eager to hear news from farther afield as well. How did you and Bree fare today?

  “I wish I could give you a progress report,” I said, “but we didn’t make any progress.”

  Was Sergei a dead end?

  I snorted mirthlessly. “Sergei Sturgess doesn’t have a drop of Russian blood in him. He was named after Sergei Diaghilev by a thoroughly E
nglish mother who adores Russian ballet. He lives in London during the week and comes home only on weekends, so we didn’t even get to meet him.”

  Who told you about his mother?

  “His wife, Madeleine,” I replied. “She’s a peach. She let us crawl all over Hayewood House, but we didn’t find Mikhail. And before you ask, the Sturgesses have no retired retainers living on the property because they have no retired retainers, and even if they did, there’d be no place for them to live. The workmen’s cottages that might have housed them were demolished after the war.”

  A pity.

  “Bree and I did, however, visit the Sturgesses’ converted barn,” I continued, “where we made a significant discovery.”

  Did you find Mikhail trussed up in the hayloft?

  “We did not,” I said. “We didn’t search the hayloft or any other part of the barn because it happens to be the home of Bree’s favorite living author, Felix Chesterton.”

  How extraordinary.

  “You can say that again,” I said. “We didn’t meet Mr. Chesterton because he’d gone to London to see his editor, but we spent the afternoon with his wife, Frances Wylton.”

  Frances Wylton? The romance writer?

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Felix Chesterton writes romance novels under his wife’s name.”

  I am astonished, and if I’m astonished, Bree must have been bowled over.

  “She was gobsmacked,” I confirmed. “She couldn’t bring herself to tell fibs in Felix Chesterton’s sacred writing space, so we dropped the journalist disguise and came clean with Frances. It turns out that she and Felix are familiar with Prince Mikhail’s story because Daisy Pickering started telling it to them about a month ago. They thought she’d made it up.”

  Understandable.

  “Bree decided to make a believer of Frances by showing her the silver sleigh,” I said. “The gambit worked. Frances is now willing to admit that Mikhail might not be a figment of Daisy’s lively imagination.”

  Is Frances willing to join in the hunt for Mikhail?

  “Not really,” I said. “She and her husband are pretty reclusive. I came away with the impression that they don’t leave the Hayewood estate unless they have to.”