Shanice was, I realized, a much better person than I was.
“Just one more question, if you don’t mind,” I said, pausing on the top step. “How on earth did Lord Boghwell come to know filmmaking jargon?”
My innocent inquiry provoked a gale of laughter that sent a flock of crows flapping from the potholed driveway to a beech tree’s leafless branches.
“If I told you, pet, you wouldn’t believe me,” Shanice said, wiping her eyes. “Mind how you go.”
Still chuckling, she closed the door.
Sixteen
It was too late in the day to mount a major snooping assault on Shangri-la and too early to pick up Will and Rob, so I headed home for a bite to eat and a change of clothes. I’d had nothing to sustain me since breakfast, apart from a cup of tea and one measly Russian tea cake, and my coffin saleswoman outfit was getting me down. Once I’d put the Boghwells’ pitted drive behind me, I stomped on the gas pedal.
If the coast was clear, I told myself as I sped toward Upper Deeping, I’d have a quick word with Aunt Dimity as well. My head was fizzing with the clues I’d bagged at Risingholme and I was eager to hear her take on them.
The coast, alas, was not clear. I called Bree’s name when I entered the cottage, heard her cheery response from the living room, and altered my plans. Food could wait, less dismal attire could wait, and Aunt Dimity would be only too happy to wait, but I wouldn’t be happy until I’d shared the fruits of my gossip-gathering labor with a coconspirator.
I dropped my shoulder bag onto the hall table, hung Bree’s black trench coat on the coat rack, strode purposefully into the living room, caught sight of my houseguest, and did a double take worthy of a cartoon character.
Bree was lying on the couch, reading Lark Landing, with Stanley draped across her legs and Reginald tucked into the crook of her left arm. I scarcely noticed Reginald, however, because my gaze was riveted to Bree’s hair, which had undergone yet another radical transformation. Though it was still short and spiky, it was no longer fire-engine red. Her new hair color was, bewilderingly, her old hair color: a dark, lustrous brown.
“Hi,” she said. She closed the book, encouraged Stanley to seek another resting place, swung her legs over the edge of the couch, and sat up. After settling Reginald comfortably in her lap, she explained, “This little guy fell off a shelf in the study. Once I picked him up, I couldn’t seem to put him down.” She turned Reginald to face her. “He is a he, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is,” I said, tearing my gaze away from her hair. “His name is Reginald and he’s been around longer than you have.”
“I can sense his wisdom,” said Bree, peering into Reginald’s black button eyes. “Wise and snuggly—what a brilliant combination! You certainly know how to make a girl feel loved, little guy.”
I blinked as I remembered the last thing I’d said before leaving the study the previous evening. Had my pink bunny complied with my request? It was a ridiculous notion—a stuffed animal could not hop from a shelf on cue—but there he was, making Bree feel like a million bucks. Who was I to argue with success?
“Reginald means as much to me as Ruru means to you,” I said. Ruru was a tattered stuffy—an owl—Bree had brought with her from New Zealand. “Where is Ruru, by the way? You didn’t leave him at home, did you? He’ll reek of paint fumes.”
“No worries,” said Bree, laughing. “Ruru’s in your guest room, but he’s a bit too fragile for full-on cuddling. Not like your little charmer. I could cuddle Reginald for hours. As a matter of fact, I just did.”
“Reginald is special,” I agreed, using the word Shanice had used to describe Daisy Pickering. “But he hasn’t changed color since the last time I saw him, whereas your hair . . . has.” I sat in the armchair across from Bill’s—his had already been colonized by Stanley—and asked the question I’d wanted to ask since I’d charged into the living room. “What gives?”
“Messages first.” Bree became as businesslike as she could be while cuddling a pink flannel rabbit. “Emma rang. The stables will be open for business bright and early tomorrow morning. Thunder and Storm will be saddled and waiting for Will and Rob to take them out for a short gallop before school. Bill rang. He’s nursing a serious sunburn—”
“Serves him right,” I muttered.
“—and hopes to be home a week from today,” Bree continued. “Deirdre Donovan rang. She’s given William the all-clear to attend church on Sunday. William rang. He will attend church on Sunday, with or without Deirdre Donovan’s all-clear. Last but not least, Peggy Taxman rang to find out why I’m here.”
“What did you tell her?” I asked, eyeing Bree nervously.
“I told her you and I were plotting to take over Taxman’s Emporium,” Bree replied.
I whirled around to peer though the bay window, half expecting to see Peggy Taxman marching up the lane with a flaming torch in one hand and an axe in the other. Peggy was fiercely protective of her general store.
“Did she believe you?” I asked anxiously.
“I don’t think so,” Bree said, sounding faintly disappointed. “She told me not to be impertinent and rang off in a huff.”
“Thank heavens,” I said, sinking back in my chair. “The one thing I don’t need at the moment—or ever, really—is Peggy Taxman on the warpath. Would you please resist the urge to pull her leg while you’re staying here? Guilt by association could be hazardous to my health.”
“Sometimes her leg needs pulling,” said Bree. “But I’ll try not to tease her while I’m under your roof.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Now, about your hair . . .”
“Like it?” Bree twirled a gleaming lock between her fingers. “I decided to take Frances Wylton’s advice and tone down my look for the duration of our investigation.” She touched her right nostril. “Nose ring? Gone. And I’ll keep my tattoos under cover until we’re done. If I want people to believe I’m a professional journalist, I have to look like one.”
“Seems sensible,” I said.
“Also . . .” Bree twiddled Reginald’s ears absently for a moment, then placed him beside her on a cushion, folded her hands in her lap, and faced me squarely. “I have a big house and I’ve been trying to think what to do with it.”
“You’re not going to sell it, are you?” I said, aghast.
“Of course not,” said Bree, looking shocked. “Auntie Ruth and Auntie Louise would climb out of their graves to haunt me if I ever sold their house. But I think they’ll rest easier if they know I’m putting it to good use.”
“What do you have in mind?” I asked.
“An idea came to me while we were chatting with Coral Bell,” said Bree. “You know, Daisy Pickering’s best friend, the girl who told us about the lost prince.”
“I remember Coral,” I said nodding.
“While we were chatting with her,” Bree went on, “it struck me that she and her brothers might enjoy spending a day in the country every now and then, and when Frances Wylton told us that children like to visit the converted barn, I said to myself, ‘I may not live in a converted barn, but I have a garden and a stretch of woods and a maze of attics worth exploring. Why not give three pale-faced town kids a chance to explore them?’”
“It’s a great idea,” I said, “but their mother might have a thing or two to say about it. I’d probably call the police if a stranger offered to take Will and Rob away for a holiday.”
“That’s why I had my hair done at the New You salon this morning,” Bree said, a note of triumph in her voice. “Tiffany Bell and I aren’t strangers anymore.”
“Who is Tiffany Bell?” I asked.
“Coral’s mother,” Bree replied. “She’s a stylist at the New You salon, remember? I requested her especially and by the time she finished doing my hair, we were best friends.” Bree looked down at her folded hands and said more somberly, “Tiff’s husband was killed in a car crash two years ago.”
“Poor Coral,” I said, wincing, “and Ben and Tom.
It must have been terrible for them to lose their father so suddenly.”
“It was terrible for Tiff, too,” said Bree. “She took the flat in Addington Terrace because she couldn’t afford to live anywhere else after her husband died. It’s not easy to feed three kids on a hair stylist’s salary.”
“No,” I murmured. “It wouldn’t be.”
“Tiff’s saving up for a better flat in a better neighborhood,” she went on, “but in the meantime, she’s willing to give the kids a fresh-air break.” A grin spread slowly across Bree’s face. “They’re coming to my house next Sunday. The whole family. Sundays are Tiff’s only days off,” she added.
“What does she do with the children on Saturdays?” I asked.
“She tried taking them to work with her, the way Amanda Pickering took Daisy,” said Bree, “but Tom and Ben turned the salon into a war zone.”
“I’ll bet they did,” I said.
“So now Mrs. MacTavish looks after Tiff’s kids in exchange for free perms,” said Bree. “Can you imagine how hard up you’d have to be to leave your children with a woman who chain-smokes?”
“Only too well,” I said. “Not every working mother has the money to spare for decent child care.”
“Tiff doesn’t. I’ll prove myself to her, though,” Bree said determinedly. “When I do, I’m sure she’ll let the kids spend their Saturdays with me. I think they’ll like my house better than Mrs. MacTavish’s.”
“I’m absolutely positive they’ll like you better than her,” I said.
“I’ll have to boy-proof the house,” Bree said thoughtfully. “Can’t have Ben and Tom breaking the aunties’ best china. But I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever it takes to get those kids away from Mrs. MacTavish. I want them to know that life has more to offer them than Addington Terrace.”
“It’s an excellent scheme, Bree,” I said. “Your great-grandaunts would love it. And they’d be very proud of you for coming up with it.”
Bree smiled bashfully and unclenched her hands, as though she’d needed me to tell her she was doing the right thing before she could be sure of it herself. I wasn’t used to teenagers seeking my approval. It made me feel uncharacteristically grown up.
“I didn’t forget our scheme while I was hatching mine,” she said. “I asked Tiff about Amanda and Daisy Pickering, but she didn’t have much to say about them. Amanda kept herself to herself and Daisy was a strange little girl who missed a lot of school. Tiff had never even heard of Mikhail. I reckon she’s too tired by the end of the day to pay attention to Coral’s chatter.” She curled her legs beneath her and spread her arms across the back of the couch. “How about Lord and Lady Boghwell? Did they come through for us?”
“With flying colors,” I said. “Do you have your laptop handy?”
“It’s upstairs,” she said.
“Bring it here,” I told her, getting to my feet. “I have something to show you.”
Ten minutes later, we were seated side by side on the couch, peering intently at the laptop’s screen. Bree had downloaded the photographs from my camera and enlarged one of the many I’d taken in Shanice’s kitchen.
“Look familiar?” I said.
“It looks like the recipe we saw in the receipt book at Hayewood House,” Bree said slowly. “Except for the date.” She turned to me with a puzzled frown. “But you didn’t photograph the receipt book at Hayewood House.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said. “I did, however, photograph Risingholme’s receipt book.”
I leaned back and recounted everything I’d learned from the Boghwells and from Shanice. I told Bree about the Tereschchenkos and Shangri-la, the Russian tea cakes and the receipt book, and she came to the same conclusion I had.
“It can’t be a coincidence!” she exclaimed. “Two houses in the same neighborhood using the same recipe written in the same handwriting? The recipe must have come from the Tereschchenkos.” She thumped the arm of the couch to emphasize her point. “A Russian family, a Russian recipe, a Russian troika, and a Russian prince—it fits together like . . . like . . .”
“Like borscht and sour cream,” I said decisively.
“Yeah,” said Bree, looking as though she’d never heard of borscht but nodding nonetheless. “Like that.”
“My guess is that Daisy met Mikhail while her mother was working at Shangri-la,” I said. “He told Daisy about the tea cakes, maybe even shared some with her. When Shanice happened to mention the very same cookies, Daisy must have taken it as a sign that she was meant to tell Shanice about Mikhail. Shanice didn’t believe her, of course. Even if Daisy had identified Shangri-la as Mikhail’s prison, Shanice would have dismissed it as a figment of a little girl’s overactive imagination, just as Frances Wylton did.”
“We believe Daisy, though,” Bree said, “and Shangri-la is our best lead yet. When do we follow up on it?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “After the boys finish their gallop at Anscombe Manor and after we drop them off at school. Speaking of which . . .” I glanced at my watch and groaned. “I meant to grab something to eat when I got home, but it’s too late now. I have to leave for Morningside right this minute.”
“I’ll start dinner,” Bree offered.
“Make it something hearty,” I said, jumping to my feet. “I’m starving!”
• • •
The study was warm and silent and my stomach was very full. Bree had produced a magnificent meal and I’d shown my appreciation by stuffing my face with chicken and dumplings and everything else she’d placed on the table, while she’d fielded questions from Will and Rob, who’d wanted to know what she’d done with her nose ring, why she’d changed her hair color, and whether she’d keep changing it until she got it right. I’d tried to distract them by talking about the stables’ grand reopening, but once they’d zeroed in on Bree, they wouldn’t let go.
Bree had, understandably, retreated to the guest room after dinner. I’d put the boys to bed, loaded the dishwasher, and straightened the kitchen, then settled in for a long-delayed tête-à-tête with Aunt Dimity. Before retiring, Bree had returned Reginald to his special niche in the bookshelves. He looked down on me with a satisfied gleam in his black button eyes as I opened the blue journal and told Aunt Dimity about my highly informative day.
She was deeply amused by my encounter with the Boghwells.
People are like trees, Lori. Some continue to grow for as long as they live, while others petrify. Lord and Lady Boghwell turned to stone long ago. They were insufferable prigs in my day and they’re insufferable prigs now.
“Shanice feels sorry for them,” I said, shaking my head at the thought of anyone feeling the smallest degree of pity for the boorish Boghwells.
Shanice is a generous soul. It was kind of her to make Daisy’s days at Risingholme such fun. Most cooks would object vociferously to having a child underfoot in the kitchen.
“Daisy’s a special child,” I said. “The sort of child who’d take an old man’s troubles to heart and try to help him. Frances Wylton and Shanice thought Daisy was telling taradiddles when she rattled on about Mikhail. I believed her from the start and the Russian tea cakes added weight to my conviction. She’s been telling the truth all along, Dimity. A highly colored version of the truth, maybe, but the truth.”
The tea cake recipe is merely one piece of the puzzle you were clever enough to assemble today. If the Tereschchenkos were driven from their homeland by the 1917 revolution, they could have arrived in England in the early 1920s. The new government would have seized their Russian assets, but foreign investments might have enabled them to purchase Whiting Hall.
“If Mikhail was a young man in the early 1920s,” I said, “I doubt he’d still be alive today.”
Perhaps he was an infant, brought to safety by his parents. His mother and father could have brought family treasures with them as well. Small but valuable heirlooms—like the silver sleigh—were frequently smuggled into the country to supplement an immigrant family’s income. Mikh
ail could have inherited what was left.
“And his inheritance could have been stolen from him by someone he trusted,” I said darkly. “A brother who’d made a mess of his own finances, for example, could have plundered Mikhail’s treasures and sold them under the counter to unsuspecting dupes like Miles Craven. If Miles Craven is an unsuspecting dupe.”
Mikhail’s heirlooms might very well have been taken from him and sold without his consent. Sadly, it’s the sort of thing that happens to vulnerable, isolated people, and immigrants tend to be both vulnerable and isolated.
“If he threatened to report the theft to the police,” I said, “his brother—or some other rotten relative—would have wanted to shut him up.”
I doubt he would have gone to the police, Lori, but he might have threatened to take his grievance to other members of the Russian émigré community who could protect him from further exploitation.
“Either way,” I said, “the thief would have wanted to keep him quiet. Mikhail would have been a sick old man by then, and unable to put up a fight. Instead of killing him, the brother—or whoever—just made sure he never left Whiting Hall.”
The tea cake trail does seem to lead to Whiting Hall. By 1925, the Tereschchenkos might have felt secure enough in their new surroundings to share a family recipe with their neighbors at Risingholme and Hayewood House.
“Whiting Hall must have seemed like paradise after everything they’d been through,” I said. “No wonder they renamed it Shangri-la.”
The Tereschchenkos changed their surname as well, a not uncommon practice among naturalized citizens. Thames is quintessentially English and much easier for their new neighbors to pronounce than Tereschchenko.
“Does either name ring a bell with you?” I asked.
Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince Page 13
