Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince (4 page)

T
he 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.”

“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.

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.

•   •   •

The shop was unusually busy all day. Florence blamed it on the cold spell, saying
that people were eager to get out and about after being trapped indoors for a week.
Whatever the reason, I was glad to have Bree on hand to help because my mind wasn’t
on the job.

When I wasn’t gazing distractedly into the middle distance, I was asking customers
if they’d heard rumors about a burglary at Skeaping Manor. The responses were uniformly
negative, and since Upper Deeping’s gossip grapevine was almost as efficient as Finch’s,
I concluded with some confidence that Miles Craven hadn’t yet noticed the theft.

The thought of his ignorance filled me with hope because I knew what I wanted to do
with the silver sleigh. And what I wanted to do was a tiny bit illegal.

•   •   •

“Dimity?”

Four hours had passed since dinnertime. Bree, Will, and Rob were asleep in their respective
beds, Stanley was asleep in mine, and I was seated in one of the tall leather armchairs
in the study, with a fire burning merrily in the hearth and the blue journal open
in my lap. I’d decided that it might be a good idea to explain my plan of action to
Aunt Dimity before I followed through on it.

“Dimity?” I repeated. “Something really strange happened today.”

Aunt Dimity’s handwriting appeared, curling lazily across the page, as if she couldn’t
quite work herself into a froth of excitement over my announcement.

I hope today’s strange event was stranger than yesterday’s because, frankly, yesterday’s
wasn’t very strange at all.

“Today’s will knock your socks off,” I promised. “Remember the silver sleigh I told
you about, the one I saw at Skeaping Manor?”

The twinkling trinket that entranced young Daisy Pickering? How could I forget it?

“What would you say if I told you it was in my shoulder bag?” I asked.

I’d say: Bravo! You’ve piqued my curiosity! Have you embarked on a life of crime,
my dear?

“No, but I’m about to,” I said. I took a deep breath and launched into a highly detailed
account of my day at the charity shop. I told Aunt Dimity about my discovery of the
silver sleigh, my belief in Daisy’s guilt, and my conviction that Miles Craven was
unaware of the crime. I was about to reveal my slightly illegal scheme to her when
she asked a question that hadn’t even occurred to me.

Why would Amanda Pickering donate her child’s winter coat to the charity shop? The
pink parka didn’t appear to be too small for Daisy when you saw her wearing it, did
it?

“No,” I said. “If anything, it seemed to swallow her up. As I said, she’s a little
wisp of a thing.”

Why, then, would a woman in Amanda’s precarious financial position give away a perfectly
good winter coat?

“Because it isn’t perfectly good?” I ventured. “The parka is miles too big for Daisy
and it’s too tatty to sell at the charity shop. Amanda must have found a nicer jacket
for her daughter.”

I hope so, for Daisy’s sake. I don’t yet see how your life of crime comes into the
picture, my dear, but I’m sure you’ll make it clear to me before dawn.

“I will,” I said, eager to move on from a digression that held no interest for me.
“It could be argued that I broke the law when I put the silver sleigh into my shoulder
bag. I should have reported the theft to the police immediately, but I didn’t, and
I don’t intend to.”

You intend to return the sleigh to the museum before anyone notices it’s missing because
you wish to keep Daisy from getting into trouble and because you’re afraid Amanda
Pickering will lose her job if her daughter’s misdeed comes to light.

“I . . . uh . . . yes,” I faltered. It was disconcerting to have Aunt Dimity describe
my plan to me before I’d described it to her. “That’s what I intend to do. How did
you know?”

I know you, my dear, and it’s just the sort of noble, selfless, and completely wrongheaded
thing you would do.

“How is it wrongheaded?” I demanded.

The answer is perfectly obvious, my dear. Daisy can’t be allowed to wander through
life taking things that don’t belong to her. She must learn the difference between
right and wrong and she must learn to take responsibility for her actions. You must,
therefore, give her the opportunity to return the sleigh herself.

“I can’t do that,” I protested. “What if Miles Craven blames Amanda Pickering for
the theft? What if he fires her? Daisy’s father has already walked out on her, Dimity.
What will happen to her if her mother can’t find another job?”

If you insist on playing the “what if” game, why not take a more positive approach?
What if Miles Craven isn’t the ogre you imagine him to be? What if he knows Daisy
better than you do? What if he’s aware of her fascination with the sleigh and forgives
her for taking it? What if he accepts some responsibility for the incident and guards
his domain more securely from now on?

I began to sputter, but Aunt Dimity’s handwriting continued as if I hadn’t made a
sound.

You don’t know how Miles Craven will react, Lori. You do know, however, that the sleigh
must go back to the museum. After a moment’s calm reflection, I’m sure you’ll agree
that Daisy must be the one to bring it back.

I stopped sputtering, clamped my lips together, and with great reluctance began to
reconsider my position. Though I hated to admit it, Aunt Dimity had a point. If I’d
found a mummified hand in Will’s or Rob’s pocket on Saturday afternoon, I would have
marched the offender back to Skeaping Manor to make a confession, an apology, and
an offer of restitution to Miles Craven. Why would I bend the rules for Daisy Pickering?

“She’s a waif,” I said helplessly. “She’s a scrawny little waif dressed in cast-off
clothing, yet she sees the world as a magical place filled with glittering people.
I know she shouldn’t have taken the sleigh, Dimity, but I can understand why she did.”

Poverty is no excuse for crime, Lori. Your pity won’t help Daisy to learn the lessons
all children must learn if they are to become honest and trustworthy adults.

“All right,” I said with a heavy sigh. “I’ll find out where Daisy lives, go to her,
and persuade her to make a clean breast of things.”

If Amanda Pickering loses her job at the museum because of her daughter’s mistake,
you can always offer her a position at the charity shop.

“What a good idea,” I said, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
“You’re a genius, Dimity. I’ll give Amanda a job if she needs one and I’ll invite
Daisy over to meet the boys. With her imagination, she’ll fit right in.”

And you’ll have a chance to fatten her up.

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

You always do.

“I’ll have to tell Bree what’s going on,” I continued. “I can’t leave her to twiddle
her thumbs while I deal with Daisy.”

She may not wish to be involved.

“I’ll leave the choice to her,” I said, “but she doesn’t strike me as much of a thumb-twiddler.”

I agree.

“I won’t tell her until after we take the boys to school,” I said.

Very wise. Will and Rob have highly developed eavesdropping skills. Heaven knows what
tales they’d tell their teacher if they overheard you.
The handwriting paused for a moment before recommencing at a slower than usual pace.
Lori? I hope you don’t think I’m being too hard on Daisy.

“I don’t,” I said gently. “I think you have her best interests at heart. And I think
I needed a refresher course in Parenting 101.”

It would have come back to you eventually. But I’m always happy to help!

“I know you are,” I said, smiling. “Good night, Dimity.”

Good night, my dear. And good luck with Daisy.

I waited until the graceful lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, then
closed the journal and returned it to its shelf. Reginald’s black button eyes gleamed
encouragingly as I curled up in the tall leather armchair and revised my scheme for
the silver sleigh’s return.