Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince (16 page)

They don’t have Peggy Taxman working at their post office. She’d put an end to their
ignorance.

“It’s a pity she can’t,” I said, “because if these women had known each other—
really
known each other, the way I know Sally Pyne and Christine Peacock and Miranda Morrow
and the rest of the villagers—they would have recognized the characters in Daisy’s
stories. And if they’d recognized her characters, they might have believed her when
she told them about Mikhail.”

Perhaps Daisy didn’t intend to return the silver sleigh to Mikhail after all. Perhaps
she intended to show it to one of her listeners as proof of her veracity.

“Bree had the same thought,” I said. “Which is why I’m taking the sleigh with me to
Tappan Hall tomorrow. I’ll wave it under Lady Barbara Booker’s nose if I have to.
I need her to remember whatever she can about her Russian playmate.”

I hope, I truly hope, that Lady Barbara’s recollections will lead you to Mikhail.

“I’ll settle for her being well enough to talk to us,” I said. “We’ll see where we
go from there.” I yawned, rubbed my eyes, and leaned my chin on my hand. “Bree experienced
a moment of doubt after we left Shangri-la this afternoon, but I told her in no uncertain
terms that if Mikhail can be found, we’ll find him.”

You’re still your mother’s bullheaded baby girl, Lori. Your obstinacy isn’t always
one of your more endearing features, but in this particular case, it’s a definite
asset. Now, run along to bed, my dear, before you fall asleep in your chair.

“Good night, Dimity,” I said, smiling.

Good night. And good luck with Lady Barbara!

T
he sky was clear, the temperature moderate, and the wind nonexistent when we rose
on Saturday morning. Bree and I delivered Will and Rob to the stables after breakfast
for an entire day of horsey fun, then took off for Tappan Hall. I was fueled by a
flood of optimistic energy, but Bree looked as though she could have used a few more
hours in the sack.

“Did you get
any
sleep last night?” I asked after her fifth yawn had sucked most of the oxygen out
of the Range Rover.

“Not much,” she replied. “I got carried away with my Shangri-la piece. Didn’t turn
off the light until after midnight.” She rubbed her nose and peered at me with bleary-eyed
curiosity. “Who were you talking to in the study?”

If I hadn’t had a tight grip on the steering wheel, I would have driven through a
hedge. I hadn’t realized that Bree had overheard my conversation with Aunt Dimity
and I hadn’t the faintest intention of introducing one houseguest to the other.

“Reginald,” I said as casually as I could after receiving such a severe shock to my
nervous system. “I was talking to Reginald. I like to review the day with him before
I turn in for the night.”

“I do the same thing with Ruru,” said Bree, referring to her owl. “He wasn’t much
help last night, though.”

I made an urgent mental note to speak more softly with Aunt Dimity while Bree was
staying at the cottage, then asked, “What conundrum did Ruru fail to solve for you?”

“It’s a tricky one,” said Bree. “I’ve decided to give the money I earn from my magazine
articles to Tiffany Bell. I don’t need it and she does, but I don’t know how to give
it to her without offending her.”

“She might not be offended,” I said. “She might be grateful.”

“And she might feel like a charity case,” Bree said, frowning. “I keep thinking of
the way Mrs. MacTavish sneered at us when she thought we were reporters writing a
sensitive article about the deserving poor.” Bree shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“I don’t want Tiff to see me as one of the beastly Bog brigade, doling out alms to
the needy while I look down my nose at them.”

“You couldn’t be a beastly Bog if you tried,” I chided her. “But if you’re worried
about hurting Tiffany’s pride, take it slowly. Get to know her better and let her
get to know you before you bring up the touchy subject of money.”

“Take it slowly,” Bree repeated, sounding awed. “What an excellent idea. I would have
slept better last night if I’d thought of it myself. Thanks, Lori.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, struck once again by the strangeness of having a teenager
accept my advice. There were days when I didn’t feel much older than Bree and days
when I felt much younger, yet she sometimes seemed to regard me as a font of wisdom.
Was this what it felt like to be an adult? I wondered. If so, it wasn’t half bad.

I stopped at the café in Upper Deeping long enough for Bree to pick up a large cup
of black coffee to go, then sped out of town and down the motorway. Since we weren’t
posing as journalists, freelance or otherwise, we’d dressed for the day as ourselves,
in blue jeans, wool sweaters, sturdy shoes, and winter jackets. Bree hadn’t gone so
far as to restore her nose ring to its customary place, but her hair was considerably
less tidy than it had been the day before.

My shoulder bag sat in the Rover’s backseat, next to the old day pack Bree used as
a purse. We’d left our cameras and tape recorders behind at the cottage, but I’d brought
my notebook with me, in case Lady Barbara Booker let slip something worth recording,
such as Mikhail’s address, phone number, and the name of the villain who was abusing
him. I didn’t hold out much hope for such a windfall, but I would be ready to catch
it if it came our way.

The silver sleigh was nestled in my shoulder bag. Since I’d left it in Bill’s wall
safe in the study for most of the week, I’d almost forgotten how heart-stoppingly
beautiful it was. I’d taken a moment to reacquaint myself with its exquisitely wrought
details before tucking it carefully into my shoulder bag.

I glanced at Bree as I exited the motorway, saw that the coffee had had its desired
effect, and posed a question to her that had crossed my mind as I’d studied the valuable
artifact.

“Why hasn’t Miles Craven raised the alarm about the silver sleigh?” I asked. “He must
know it’s missing by now, yet I didn’t see a single word about it in this morning’s
paper.”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” said Bree, “and I keep coming up with
the same answer: Miles Craven is in cahoots with the dirtbag who nicked the sleigh
from Mikhail. Craven doesn’t dare report the theft to the police because they’ll ask
awkward questions about the sleigh’s provenance. If they find out how he acquired
it, he’ll be in a big bucket of trouble.”

“The Jephcott Endowment won’t look favorably upon a curator with criminal connections,”
I observed. “And once the board of directors gives him the heave-ho, no other museum
will touch him. He’ll lose his job, his flat, his reputation, and his freedom, all
for the sake of a shiny bauble.”

“A rare and valuable bauble,” said Bree. “People have broken the law for a lot less.”

“May he find consolation in the thought while he’s doing time,” I said, adding sardonically,
“I may have flushed my life down the toilet, Your Honor, but at least I had the good
judgment to steal something worth stealing.”

Bree laughed, but I heaved a regretful sigh.

“I wish I didn’t like him so much,” I said. “I’d feel better about blowing the whistle
on him if he hadn’t been so nice to me at the museum.”

“Nice or not,” said Bree, “the whistle shall be blown. If he’s guilty.”

“If he’s guilty,” I echoed, and as I exited the motorway I found myself rooting for
Miles Craven’s innocence.

•   •   •

Tappan Hall’s wrought-iron gates were open when we arrived, and the weeds that had
sprouted around them suggested that they were seldom closed. The unguarded entrance
seemed to reinforce Gracie’s claim that her friend Lady Barbara was less hoity-toity
than the Boghwells, though how anyone could be more snobbish than they were was beyond
me.

The drive was well maintained, as were the grounds, but there was a relaxed atmosphere
to the estate that appealed to me greatly. The trees and shrubs looked healthy, but
natural, and the gently rolling landscape struck a happy balance between the woefully
neglected and the fussily manicured.

The hall itself was unlike any country house Bree and I had visited so far. It wasn’t
symmetrical, it didn’t have a rectangular facade, and it wasn’t made of Cotswold stone.
Instead, the whole was made up of randomly placed one-, two-, and three-story parts
clustered in a half circle around a graveled courtyard. Redbrick walls, copper-clad
windows, and steeply pitched red-tile roofs unified the irregular design, and a border
of sturdy rhododendrons within the courtyard diluted the overwhelming effect of so
much red. Tappan Hall was a tad gloomy, I thought, but nothing about it was too shiny
or too decrepit.

“It doesn’t look very old,” Bree said, eyeing the hall doubtfully. “According to Gracie,
Lady Barbara’s family has owned Tappan Hall longer than the Bogs have owned Risingholme,
but I don’t see how it can be true. This place looks as though it were built relatively
recently.”

“This Tappan Hall may have replaced an earlier version,” I said. “We can ask Lady
Barbara. She’ll know.”

“She’ll know,” Bree agreed, “but she may not be in a fit state to tell us what she
knows.”

“Let us cross our fingers,” I said, “and hope for the best.”

I parked the Rover before the rounded redbrick arch that framed the hall’s modest,
ground-level main entrance and walked to the door with Bree. A neatly dressed young
woman answered my tug on the bellpull and ushered us into a simply furnished foyer.
When we asked to see Lady Barbara, the young woman invited us to wait in the foyer
while she fetched Lord Ronald.

“Lord Ronald?” I murmured to Bree while we waited. “Gracie didn’t mention a husband.”

“Maybe Lord Ronald doesn’t like pool parties,” she suggested.

The young woman returned a few minutes later, accompanied by a short, pudgy, balding
man wearing a beige cardigan, baggy tweed trousers, and horn-rimmed spectacles. He
looked as though he might be in his early sixties. Try as I might, I couldn’t picture
him lounging beside Gracie’s pink pool any more than I could picture him married to
a woman in her nineties. If he was Lady Barbara’s husband, I decided, then she had
a taste for toy boys.

“Thank you, Carly,” the man said to the young woman. “You can go back to work. I’ll
take it from here. How do you do?” he said, extending his hand to shake mine, then
Bree’s. “I’m Lady Barbara’s great-nephew, Ronald Booker.”

“Pleased to meet you, Lord Ronald,” said Bree.

“Mr. Booker, please,” he said, blushing. “Doesn’t seem right to use the title while
Auntie Barbara’s still alive. By rights, Tappan Hall should have gone to her, but
the entail being what it is, it came to me instead. Friends of my great-aunt’s?” he
inquired, peering at us myopically.

“I’m Lori Shepherd,” I said.

“And I’m Bree Pym,” said Bree. “Gracie Thames sent us. She thought we’d enjoy meeting
your great-aunt.”

“Ah, Gracie . . .” Lord Ronald bobbed his balding head to demonstrate his recognition
of the name. “Splendid woman. Bit overwhelming—all that hair!—but kindhearted. Brings
Auntie Barbara chicken soup. Sent you, did she?”

“Yes,” I said gently. “To meet your great-aunt.”

“Ah, yes.” Lord Ronald raised a hand to scratch his ear, looking faintly distressed.
“Thing is, my great-aunt’s just back from hospital. No visitors allowed. Too stimulating.
Not good for her.” He shrugged helplessly. “Doctor’s orders.”

“We understand,” I said, swallowing my disappointment. “Gracie warned us that your
great-aunt might not be able to see us.”

“Pity,” he said, “but there you are. Come again tomorrow, if you like. Auntie Barbara
may feel better by then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Booker,” I said, “but we’ll wait until Monday to call again. We don’t
wish to disturb your great-aunt on a Sunday.”

“Auntie Barbara won’t mind,” he said matter-of-factly. “Atheist. Doesn’t give two
figs about God. Sunday’s like any other day to her.”

“Even so,” I said, suppressing a smile, “we’ll give your great-aunt an extra day to
regain her strength before we call again.”

“Should be right as rain by Monday,” he said helpfully. “Bounces back, you see. Can
you let yourselves out? I should look in on Carly.”

“We’ll be fine, Mr. Booker,” I assured him. “Thank you for seeing us.”

“Used to it,” Lord Ronald said resignedly. “Waifs and strays always turning up on
the doorstep. Auntie Barbara attracts them. Nice to meet you.”

He shook our hands again, then left us alone in the foyer. Bree started to laugh as
soon as we closed the front door behind us.

“Waifs and strays?” she said, chortling. “I’ll be the waif if you’ll be the stray.”

“I like the part about Auntie Barbara being an atheist,” I said, smiling. “It’s not
the sort of tidbit I’d expect a man like Ronald Booker to share about his great-aunt.”

“Ronald’s a corker!” Bree said, happily misquoting Gracie Thames. “Honestly, Lori,
it was worth coming to Tappan Hall, just to meet His Lordship.”

We were halfway to the Range Rover when someone hissed at us. I turned in the direction
of the hiss and spied a little old woman peering at us through a gap in the rhododendron
hedge. She was wearing a tweed hat with earflaps, a thick woolen dressing gown, and
shearling bedroom slippers. Thin, flexible plastic tubes ran from her nostrils to
what appeared to be an oxygen tank on wheels. When she saw that she had our attention,
she beckoned to us with a skeletal but rapidly waving hand.

“You, there,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Come in, will you? I’m bored to tears!”

B
ree and I hesitated for less than a nanosecond before plunging into the rhododendrons.
The old woman nodded approvingly and led us slowly but steadily toward a pair of French
doors, dragging her oxygen tank behind her like a golfer pulling a cart.

“Have we met?” she asked over her shoulder.

“No,” I said. “I’m Lori Shepherd.”

“And I’m Bree Pym,” said Bree.

“Gracie Thames sent us,” we chorused.

“Any friend of Gracie’s is a friend of mine,” the woman declared. She panted softly
as she spoke and her voice was as rusty as an old hinge, but her words were crisp
and clear.

“Are you Lady Barbara?” I inquired.

“Barbara or Barb will do,” Lady Barbara replied. “I’ve never been much of a lady.”
She paused before the French doors, put a finger to her lips, and said, “No shouting,
please. Ronald doesn’t know I’m down here. He thinks I’m upstairs in the well-ventilated,
antiseptic chamber of horrors the dimwit doctor created for me, and I’d just as soon
keep it that way.”

“When your great-nephew sees our car,” I said, “he’s bound to wonder where we’ve gone.”

“Let him wonder,” barked Lady Barbara, opening one of the French doors and waving
us in. “It’ll do him good.”

The room we entered could not be described as well-ventilated or antiseptic. It was
stifling hot, thanks to a fire blazing in the redbrick hearth, and furnished with
sagging armchairs and dusty oak tables. I was certain it was soundproof as well because
no sound short of a cannon’s roar could have penetrated the layers of books that surrounded
us. Books were everywhere, jammed two deep onto the shelves that lined the walls from
floor to ceiling, heaped haphazardly on the chairs and tables, and stacked in teetering
columns on the floor.

Lady Barbara threaded her way through the literary forest to four armchairs that occupied
a small clearing in front of the hearth. She dropped her tweed hat onto one armchair
and settled herself into another, pulling the oxygen tank to one side and draping
the plastic tubes carefully over the chair’s fraying arm.

“Bung your bags and jackets there,” she said, pointing to the chair that held her
hat, “and bung your bums anywhere you please.”

Though no lamps had been lit in the room, I could see her quite clearly by the light
of the roaring fire. Her short hair was pure white and appeared to be naturally wavy.
Faded freckles covered almost every inch of her wizened face, and though her blue
eyes were as faded as her freckles, they were lit by a roguish twinkle. The wavy hair,
the freckles, the blue eyes, and the twinkle made me suspect that Lady Barbara had
once been a ravishing redhead.

“I’ve spent the past three months in hospital,” she informed us after we’d seated
ourselves in the sagging armchairs facing hers. “They let me come home last week,
at my insistence, but while I was away my idiot great-nephew allowed my idiot physician
to turn my bedroom into a hospital ward.” She paused to catch her breath. “No fires,
because ash irritates my airways. No books, because dust irritates my airways.” She
set her jaw mulishly. “What’s the point of living if I can’t have fires and books?”

“I’m sure your great-nephew meant well,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” Lady Barbara said, her voice heavy with sarcasm, “Ronald always
means
well. He meant well when he got married, but it didn’t stop his wife from divorcing
him. Fortunately, the tart produced a very decent sort of son before she ran off with
her chiropractor, so the lawyers won’t have to hunt high and low for the next heir.
In case you were wondering, the pretty blonde who answered the door isn’t Ronald’s
midlife crisis.”

“I, uh, wasn’t,” I faltered. “Wondering, that is.”

“It’s a reasonable thing to wonder,” said Lady Barbara. “Young girl, old codger, country
house. They could get up to all sorts of naughtiness, but they don’t. Ronald’s too
much of a fuddy-duddy and Carlotta von Streuther—to give Carly her pedigreed name—can’t
imagine anyone over the age of thirty engaging in a bit of rumpy-pumpy.”

“I see,” I said, struggling to keep a straight face. Frankness, it seemed, was a Booker
family trait.

“Carly’s working toward a degree in information science,” Lady Barbara explained.
“She came here to create a digital catalogue of the library.”

“Aren’t we in the library?” Bree asked, looking around the book-filled room.

“These are
my
books,” Lady Barbara said with an air of immense satisfaction. “The family’s collection
is in the west wing. It belongs to Ronald now. Tappan Hall and its contents are his,
you see, but he lets me park my carcass here when I’m not off gallivanting.”

The notion of a woman in her nineties gallivanting with an oxygen tank in tow was
utterly enthralling. I could only dream of having half as much gumption as Lady Barbara,
and I was less than half her age.

“Gracie told us you grew up here,” Bree was saying.

“I did,” said Lady Barbara, “but we’re an old-fashioned family. When it comes to inheriting
property, only male heirs need apply.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Bree asked.

“I never give it a second thought,” Lady Barbara replied. “It was the way of the world
when I was young. I was amply provided for by my father, and even if I’d wanted to
dispute the inheritance, I didn’t think I’d live long enough to see the end of the
fight.” She patted the oxygen tank. “Chronic asthma. Been cursed with it since I was
a teenager, yet I’ve somehow managed to outlive them all—brothers, uncles, cousins.
The lawyers had to dig up a great-nephew to meet the entail’s requirements.”

“Yours may be an old-fashioned family,” Bree observed, “but Tappan Hall isn’t as old-fashioned
as I expected it to be.”

“Well-spotted, that girl,” said Lady Barbara, beaming at Bree. “The ancestral heap
burned to the ground in 1905. My rascally grandfather scandalized the family by hiring
an Arts and Crafts architect to design the new hall. Farsighted man, my grandfather.
The upkeep on the old Palladian barracks was ruinous. The new place is easier on the
family coffers.” Lady Barbara pointed to a woolen blanket lying in a heap near her
slipper-clad feet. “Give us a hand, will you? I shoved it aside when I heard your
car pull up.”

Since I was fighting the urge to strip down to my skivvies in the overheated room,
I didn’t understand her request. Bree, however, caught on immediately, jumped to her
feet, and spread the heavy blanket over Lady Barbara’s lap. She began to tuck it in
around Lady Barbara’s legs as well, but old woman waved her off.

“Thanks, but I can manage,” she said brusquely as Bree returned to her chair. “I may
be an invalid, but I’m not incapacitated. Not yet, at any rate.” She gave a cackling
laugh, then slid her blue-veined hands under the blanket. “But enough about me. Tell
me about you.” She looked directly at Bree. “Unless I’ve lost my ear for accents,
you’re a Kiwi and you”—she turned her gaze on me—“are a Yank.”

“Your ear for accents is as acute as ever,” I assured her. “Bree’s from New Zealand
and I’m an American, but we both live near a small village on the other side of Upper
Deeping.”

“I believe we have two other friends in common, Barbara,” Bree piped up. “Apart from
Gracie Thames, I mean. Do you know Amanda Pickering and her daughter?”

“Of course I know them,” said Lady Barbara. “I’ve always been partial to ginger-haired
children, having been one myself, but I was particularly fond of Daisy. Her mother,
I’m told, has found greener pastures. Have you any idea where those pastures might
be?”

“None,” Bree replied.

“Nor does Ronald,” said Lady Barbara. “Vanished without a trace, he tells me.”

“It’s true,” said Bree. “Amanda left her flat, but she didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.” Lady Barbara squinted reflectively at the fire. “Amanda
liked to hold her cards close to her chest. I could never tell what she was thinking,
but I always had the impression that she was hatching a marvelous scheme. I hope for
her sake she’s found another husband. The world can be a difficult place for a single
woman raising a child, especially when the child’s sick more often than not.”

I’d heard Daisy described as a sickly child before. Her frequent illnesses had been
mentioned in passing by Frances Wylton, Shanice, and Gracie Thames, while Madeleine
Sturgess had ascribed her poor health to unspecified respiratory problems. Mrs. MacTavish,
too, had portrayed Daisy as a little girl with a weak chest, and I’d thought her painfully
thin.

Daisy’s porcelain-pale face seemed to rise before me in the firelight. I glanced at
Lady Barbara’s oxygen tank and jumped to the obvious conclusion.

“Does Daisy have asthma?” I asked.

“Certainly not,” Lady Barbara replied, tossing her head at the suggestion. “I’m the
world’s leading authority on asthma and I can tell you categorically that Daisy Pickering
isn’t afflicted with it.”

“Then why did she miss school so often?” asked Bree.

“Because she was miserable,” Lady Barbara replied. “She’s been pining for that no-good
father of hers ever since he abandoned her. It’s common knowledge that unhappy children
become ill more often than happy ones. Depression weakens the immune system.”

“Was Daisy depressed?” Bree said skeptically. “The stories she invented didn’t seem
gloomy to me.”

“Fantasy provided the child with a temporary escape from her depression,” Lady Barbara
said in a voice that brooked no contradiction. “Though Daisy’s stories weren’t pure
fantasies.” The roguish gleam returned to her pale blue eyes. “I recognized each of
the main characters.”

“Including the big round woman in the turban?” I asked.

“Shanice Clarke,” said Lady Barbara without missing a beat. “Works for the boorish
Boghwells. Shanice Clarke happens to be one of my cook’s closest friends.”

“I’m glad to know she has a friend,” I said, though I was ashamed of myself for failing
to learn Shanice’s last name.

“Shanice knows every servant within fifty miles of Risingholme,” Lady Barbara informed
me. “And she visits them as often as she pleases, much to the Boghwells’ chagrin.
They can’t afford to sack her, though. No one else will put up with them for more
than five minutes.”

“About Daisy’s stories . . .” Bree put in.

“I enjoyed them more than you can possibly imagine,” said Lady Barbara, smiling reminiscently.
“To see my neighbors through Daisy’s eyes was immensely entertaining.” She sighed
reedily. “I won’t miss Amanda because I didn’t really know her, but I will miss hearing
Daisy’s stories.”

I glanced fleetingly at Bree, saw that she was sitting on the edge of her seat, and
felt a wave of nervous anticipation surge through me. The next few minutes, I told
myself, could determine the outcome of our quest.

“There’s one story you haven’t heard,” I said to Lady Barbara.

“I thought I’d heard them all,” she said, frowning.

“You couldn’t have heard this one,” I said, “because Daisy started telling it just
a few weeks ago, while you were in the hospital.”

“Oh, I hope it’s about the Boghwells,” Lady Barbara said enthusiastically. “I’d give
my left lung to hear Daisy’s take on that pair of pimples.”

Bree managed a shaky giggle, but I was too tense to be diverted.

“Daisy’s new story isn’t about the Boghwells,” I said. “It’s about a man named Mikhail.”

An arrested expression crossed Lady Barbara’s face. Her cheeks turned cherry red and
her eyes rolled into the back of her head as she gave a strangled gasp and went limp.

“Oh my God,” I breathed, horrified. “I’ve killed her!”

I flung myself from my chair to kneel beside hers and nearly wept with relief when
I saw that she was still breathing. While Bree scurried over to check the oxygen tank’s
gauge, I fished a bony hand from beneath the blanket and chafed it gently.

“Barbara?” I said. “Barb? Can you hear me?”

“Should I fetch Ronald?” Bree asked frantically. “Or the doctor?”

Lady Barbara slowly opened her eyes and fixed Bree with a withering look.

“Do you
want
me to die?” she wheezed. “Sit. Go nowhere. Give me . . . a minute.”

Bree fell weakly into her chair, but I remained by Lady Barbara’s side until her breathing
became more regular and her flushed cheeks regained their former pallor. I would have
stayed there longer, but she had other ideas.

“Brandy,” she said, pointing to a cut-glass decanter half hidden by a pile of books.
“Now.”

I splashed a generous tot into a balloon snifter I found near the decanter and held
it to her lips while she took several small sips.

“All better,” she said finally. She took the snifter from me, cupped it in her hands,
and shook her head. “Good Lord, Lori, you certainly know how to rattle an old lady’s
cage.”

I was reluctant to mention the lost prince’s name again, lest it trigger another attack,
but Bree evidently had more confidence than I in Lady Barbara’s ability to bounce
back.

“Do you know Mikhail?” Bree asked.

My pulse raced as I sank onto my chair and awaited Lady Barbara’s reply.

“Many years ago,” she said, gazing dreamily into the fire, “I knew a young boy named
Mikhail. . . .”