Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince (6 page)

“I concur,” said Bree. “Next stop, 53 Addington Terrace.”

“Oh, dear,” I said, grimacing.

“Something wrong?”

“Let’s put it this way,” I said, starting the engine. “Upper Deeping has many lovely
streets, but Addington Terrace isn’t one of them.”

W
hen travelers dream of seeing the “real” England, they seldom have places like Addington
Terrace in mind. The street was located in an enclave of low-rent housing that had
been built in the 1950s and quickly forgotten. Everywhere Bree and I looked we saw
signs of neglect and poverty: peeling paint, broken windows, overflowing trash cans,
and multiple layers of graffiti. It hurt my heart to imagine Daisy living in such
squalor, but it helped me to understand why Amanda took her daughter to work with
her instead of leaving her at home.

The neighborhood’s run-down row houses were set back from the street, behind small
grassless gardens separated by waist-high cinder block walls. Fifty-three Addington
Terrace looked every bit as decrepit as its neighbors.

“Reminds me of Takapuna,” Bree said as we pulled up to the curb. “My hometown.”

Her remark would have puzzled a native New Zealander, but I was familiar with Bree’s
background and knew exactly what she meant. Though Takapuna was an affluent community,
Bree had been raised by a father who drank too much and worked too little. Their shabby
apartment building had been a blot on an otherwise pristine landscape.

“Not all of Takapuna,” she went on. “Just my part of it. I’m glad Daisy has a lively
imagination. You need a good imagination when you live in a place like this. You need
to believe that one day things will be better.”

“They got better for you,” I said encouragingly.

“Not everyone has a pair of great-grandaunts to see them right,” said Bree. “I doubt
they
do.”

She nodded at three ill-clad children playing in the garden next door. The dark-haired
girl appeared to be the same age as Daisy, but the two boys looked a bit younger.
The boys paid more attention to their soccer ball than they did to us, but the girl
stood at the cinder block wall to watch us open Number 53’s rickety gate and approach
the front door.

“Hi,” Bree said, lagging behind me to speak to the girl. “I’m Bree Pym. What’s your
name?”

“Coral,” said the girl. “Coral Bell.” She tilted her head toward the boys. “Those
are my brothers, Tom and Ben. Did you color your hair yourself?”

“I did,” said Bree. “Like it?”

“Daisy has ginger hair, too,” Coral said thoughtfully, “but hers is quiet. Yours is
like a . . . like a shout.”

“Just what I had in mind,” said Bree. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” said Coral.

“I don’t mean to pry,” said Bree, “but shouldn’t you and your brothers be in school?”

“The school nurse sent us home,” Coral explained. “We’re infectious. Mum had to take
the day off work to look after us, but she couldn’t stand the noise, so she sent us
outside to play. She says the fresh air will do us good.”

“What do you say?” Bree asked.

“I’m glad it’s warmer today than it was yesterday,” said Coral.

“Me, too,” said Bree, smiling. She waved good-bye to the girl, then hastened to join
me on the doorstep.

I’d already tried the doorbell several times without success, but three sharp raps
on the door brought a harassed call of “I’m coming! I’m coming!” from within. A short
time later the door was opened by a tall, angular woman in late middle age. She had
short, wiry, gray hair, a long bony face, and a pair of brown eyes that held not one
hint of softness. She was dressed in a buttoned-up gray cardigan, black trousers,
and fluffy blue bedroom slippers. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from the corner
of her mouth.

“Yes?” she said coldly.

“Good morning,” I said. “My name is Lori Shepherd.”

“And I’m Bree Pym,” Bree piped up. She put out her hand. “How do you do, Mrs. . . . ?”

“MacTavish,” the woman said in a clipped Scottish accent. Her eyes lingered on Bree’s
hair for a long moment before she deigned to shake Bree’s hand. “Mrs. Eileen MacTavish.
If you’ve come about the flat—”

“You rent apartments?” I said.

“I let one flat at the rear of the house, complete with kitchenette and en suite facilities,”
Mrs. MacTavish informed me haughtily. “Have done ever since Mr. MacTavish passed.
Would you care to see it?”

“I’m sorry,” said Bree, “but we haven’t come about the flat.”

“I didn’t think you had.” Mrs. MacTavish looked past us to survey the Range Rover.
“People who drive posh cars don’t look for accommodations in Addington Terrace.” She
took a long drag on her cigarette and blew a stream of smoke into the air. “Why have
you come, then? Is it your day to do charity work? Or are you writing a sensitive
article about the deserving poor?”

“Neither,” I said, ignoring the woman’s sarcastic tone. “We’d like to speak with Amanda
Pickering.”

“Visiting nurses, are you?” asked Mrs. MacTavish. “Come to see little Daisy?”

“No,” I said, faintly alarmed. “Why would Daisy need to see a nurse? She’s not sick,
is she?”

“She’s always sick,” Mrs. MacTavish replied. “Weak chest. Spends more time out of
school than in it.”

“Would you please tell Mrs. Pickering we’re here?” Bree said, with ill-concealed impatience.

“You’re too late,” said Mrs. MacTavish. “She’s gone, her and that queer little girl
of hers. No warning, no two-weeks’ notice, not even a note. Just packed their bags
and left.”

“When?” I said, taken aback. “When did they leave?”

“Yesterday,” Mrs. MacTavish replied. “And don’t ask me where they went because I don’t
know.” She eyed me shrewdly. “Did Mrs. Pickering work for you?”

“No,” I said. “I do my own housework.”

“How do you know her, then?” she asked.

“I don’t really know her,” I admitted. “I met her at Skeaping Manor on Saturday morning
and we had a brief conversation—”

“Did you?” Mrs. MacTavish cut in. “I’m surprised to hear it. Mrs. Pickering wasn’t
one for conversation.” She took another pull on her cigarette and exhaled a noxious
cloud of smoke that engulfed her whole head. “The woman lived here for nearly a year,
but I still don’t know where she came from or what happened to the girl’s father.”

“He walked out on them,” I told her, hoping that one tidbit of gossip would lead to
another.

“I thought so,” said Mrs. MacTavish, with a satisfied nod. “But Mrs. Pickering never
said. Too busy for idle chatter, I suppose. She worked all the hours God sent, except
on Sundays, when she took her precious Daisy on outings.”

“She worked six days a week at Skeaping Manor?” Bree said. “No wonder Daisy knows
the place so well.”

“Did I say she worked six days a week at Skeaping Manor?” Mrs. Mactavish asked tartly.
“She worked there on Saturdays.” She took a last pull on her cigarette and used it
to light another before tossing the glowing butt into a slush puddle. “I know where
she worked and when because she left contact numbers with me in case of emergencies.”
The landlady peered skyward as she recited, “Hayewood House—with an
e
in the middle, mind, to make it
extra
posh—Risingholme, Shangri-la, Tappan Hall, Mirfield, and Skeaping Manor. A different
place each day of the week and nothing but the best for our Mrs. Pickering. She claimed
to have a knack for polishing silver.”

“Silver?” I said weakly.

“I didn’t doubt her,” Mrs. MacTavish went on, with a careless shrug. “She kept her
rooms as neat as a pin, and as far as I know, she never lied to me. She didn’t say
very much at all. I had an earful from the women at Hayewood House and Risingholme
today, though.”

“About Mrs. Pickering?” I said.

“Who else?” Mrs. MacTavish snapped. “Apparently, Mrs. Pickering failed to show up
for work yesterday and today. Didn’t call in sick or give notice or anything. Simply
didn’t put in an appearance.” The landlady sucked on her cigarette and let the smoke
trickle through her nostrils. “I expect to hear from the rest of her employers once
they realize she’s left them in the lurch. They won’t be too happy with her. All that
lovely silver, tarnishing away.” She looked down her bony nose at me. “I suppose you
have a fine collection of silver.”

“Too much work,” I said. “I don’t have Amanda’s passion for polishing.”

Mrs. MacTavish allowed herself a grudging chuckle.

“Is there anything else you can tell us about Mrs. Pickering?” Bree asked.

“How could there be?” she asked in return. “She never told me anything about herself.”

“Thank you, Mrs. MacTavish,” I said. “You’ve been very patient with us. We won’t take
up any more of your valuable time.”

“Leaving already?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t blame you. If I could afford
to live somewhere else, I’d leave, too.” Mrs. MacTavish hollered at Tom and Ben to
keep the noise down, then retreated into her house and closed the door.

“Good grief,” I said, turning to Bree. “Amanda’s on the lam.”

“For all we know she could still be in Upper Deeping,” Bree protested. “She could
have found a nicer flat with a nicer landlady in a nicer neighborhood.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “If Amanda is still in Upper Deeping, she would have gone to
work as usual this week. At the very least, she would have telephoned her employers
to request a day off. She wouldn’t have taken an unannounced leave of absence, not
if she expected to go on working for them.”

“Maybe she found a better job,” Bree suggested.

“Without a reference? Not in this day and age.” I shook my head. “Amanda didn’t move
to another flat in Upper Deeping. She grabbed Daisy and vamoosed. And I think I know
why.” I walked a few steps away from the door, then stopped short, frowning in concentration
as a fresh scenario took shape in my mind. “What if
Amanda
’s the thief? What if she’s been pilfering silver from her multitudinous employers
for nearly a year in order to get her and her child away from Addington Terrace?”

“If she has, she’ll get no quarrel from me,” said Bree. “Living in a place like that
would make any child sick. Look at Coral. Look at Tom and Ben. Home from school because
they’re—”

“What if Daisy found out what her mother was up to?” I interrupted. “What if she saw
Amanda take the silver sleigh from the display case on Saturday?” I wheeled around
to face Bree. “What if Daisy decided to
take it back
?”

“Let me see if I have this straight,” Bree said slowly. She held up one finger. “First,
Amanda takes the sleigh from Skeaping Manor.” She raised a second finger. “Then Daisy
takes the sleigh from Amanda and tucks it into her pocket, intending to return it
to Skeaping Manor, where it belongs.”

“But the sleigh never reaches Skeaping Manor,” I said excitedly, “because Amanda accidentally
donates it, via the pink parka, to Aunt Dimity’s Attic.” I clapped a hand to my forehead.
“Amanda must have been lightening her load for the great escape. That’s why she took
Daisy’s old clothes to the charity shop.”

“No,” said a small urgent voice. “You’ve got it wrong. You’ve got it all wrong!”

We turned to see Coral Bell peering at us over the cinder block wall.

B
ree and I exchanged bemused glances, then strode over to stand before Coral, who was
clutching the cinder block wall as if her life depended on it.

“What have we gotten wrong?” Bree asked.

The girl bit her lip and ducked her head, as if overcome by shyness. Since Bree’s
direct approach seemed to intimidate her, I decided to take the long way round with
my questions.

“Are you and Daisy Pickering good friends?” I asked.

“Best friends,” Coral said in a voice so low it was barely audible. “She came to my
house to get her hair cut. My mum works at the New You salon, but she did Daisy’s
hair for free.”

“That was a very nice thing to do,” I said, “and your mother is very good at her job.
Daisy’s hairstyle frames her face beautifully. Did you and Daisy chat when she came
to your house?”

Coral nodded, but said nothing.

“When I chat with my best friend,” I said, “I like to share secrets. Did you and Daisy
share secrets?”

Coral slowly raised her head. She scanned our faces anxiously, then said, “You’re
foreign. I can tell by the way you talk.”

“You have a good ear for accents,” I told her. “And you’re right, neither Bree nor
I are English. I’m from America.”

“And I’m from New Zealand,” said Bree.

“Not Russia?” said Coral.

I blinked and promptly lost my train of thought. Thankfully, Bree kept her cool and
carried on as if it were perfectly natural for a little girl living in Addington Terrace
to bring up the subject of Russia shortly after a priceless Russian artifact had been
found in her best friend’s pocket.

“No,” said Bree, “we’re not from Russia. Are you interested in Russia?”

“Yes,” said Coral.

“It’s an interesting place,” said Bree. “What made you think we were from Russia?”

“Because you know about the silver sleigh and it’s Mikhail’s and he’s from Russia,
so I thought you might be, too,” Coral said in a rush. “Honestly, Daisy didn’t take
the sleigh for herself. She meant to bring it to Mikhail. It’s all he has left.”

“Who’s Mikhail?” I asked, bewildered.

“He’s the lost prince,” Coral answered.

“The lost prince?” I said uncertainly.

“The lost prince,” Coral repeated, and the repetition seemed to free her tongue because
she plunged on frantically. “He was driven from his kingdom by a band of wicked men
who stole his castle and his horses and nearly everything he owned, but a faithful
servant warned him of the brigands’ swift approach and he had time to pack a few things
in a bag before he fled. And he crossed the frozen rivers and he crept through frozen
woods and he sailed over the ocean to a safe place far away, but an evil man betrayed
him, threw him in a deep, dark dungeon, and took all his precious things and he’s
still there in the dungeon, without the least hope of escape.” She gulped air, then
raced on. “Daisy tried to rescue him, but he’s too old to move fast, so she tried
to fetch the sleigh for him instead.” Coral took a long, shuddering breath and her
dark eyes filled with tears. “And now it’s all gone wrong. Daisy had to go away too
soon. Mikhail will never see his silver sleigh again. And the lost prince will never
be found.”

The girl was gripping the edge of the cinder block wall so tightly I thought her hands
would bleed. I didn’t know what to make of her extraordinary recital, but I knew I
had to calm her down before she injured herself.

“Did Daisy tell you about Mikhail and the silver sleigh?” I asked.

Coral nodded forlornly. “She told me over and over until I had it by heart. It was
our biggest secret. But I don’t know what to do, now she’s gone.”

“Do you know where she went?” Bree asked.

Coral shook her head and a trickle of tears spattered the wall.

“Don’t worry, Coral,” I said. “You don’t have to do a thing. Bree and I will take
the sleigh to Mikhail.”

“We will?” said Bree, looking startled.

“Yes, we will,” I muttered, stepping on her foot.

“Right,” she said, wincing. “Leave it to us, Coral. Lori and I will make sure the
sleigh gets to the prince.”

Coral peered at us questioningly.

“Did Daisy give the sleigh to you?” she asked.

“I met Daisy at Skeaping Manor on Saturday,” I told her, “and I found the sleigh in
her pink parka yesterday. I work at Aunt Dimity’s Attic—the charity shop on the square.
Daisy’s mother left the parka there without checking the pockets first.”

“Oh,” said Coral. It was the drawn-out “oh” of comprehension dawning.

I reached over to pry her hands gently from the wall. To my relief, they were frigid,
but unscathed. Bree took a pair of green mittens from her jacket pocket and passed
them to Coral. The girl looked at them in confusion, but when Bree nodded, she put
them on.

“Keep them,” said Bree. “I have lots more at home.”

“I left mine at school,” said Coral. “Thanks.”

“No worries,” said Bree nonchalantly.

“Will you really take the sleigh to Mikhail?” Coral asked, drying her damp face on
her new mittens.

“We’d like to,” I said, “but we don’t know where Mikhail lives.”

“He’s in one of the big houses,” Coral said eagerly. “One of the houses where Daisy’s
mum worked. Daisy never told me which one.” She paused, bent closer to us, and murmured,
“She said it would be dangerous for me to know.”

“That’s okay,” I assured her. “Bree and I are pretty clever. We’ll figure it out.”

“And we’re not afraid of anything,” Bree chimed in.

Coral’s entire body relaxed, as if she’d shed a terrible weight, but she stiffened
again when her brothers ran up to the wall to stare at us.

“I’m Tom,” the taller boy said. He elbowed his brother in the ribs and added, “He’s
Ben. Can we have a ride in your car?”

“Not without your mother’s permission,” I replied.

“Mum won’t let us get in a car with strangers,” Tom grumbled. “We’re not supposed
to talk to strangers, either. Has Coral been telling you stories?”

“We’ve been having a pleasant conversation with your sister,” I replied.

“She’s always making up stories,” Tom scoffed. “Just like Crazy Daisy. None of it’s
real.”

Tom punched Coral in the shoulder, clipped Ben behind the ear, and took off, with
Ben hot on his heels, howling for revenge. A wrestling match was already under way
when a young woman with bleached blond hair put her head out of an upstairs window
and called for the children to come in.

The boys obeyed instantly, but Coral lingered long enough to defend her honor.

“It’s
not
a story,” she whispered fiercely. “The lost prince is
real
.”

•   •   •

“I wonder where Daisy is?” I mused aloud.

“Somewhere warm, I hope,” said Bree.

Bree and I had stopped for lunch at the same café we’d patronized after our first
visit to Skeaping Manor, but our conversation bore little resemblance to the one she’d
had with Will and Rob that day. Instead of discussing bugs, bones, and blood, we spoke
of two young girls and one fantastic tale.

“I’m glad you gave Coral your mittens,” I said. “Her hands were like ice.”

“I wanted to give her a new life,” said Bree, “but I didn’t have one in my pocket.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about her,” I advised. “If imagination is what you need
to survive in a place like Addington Terrace, then Coral won’t merely survive, she’ll
flourish.”

“You don’t believe her story?” said Bree.

“Do you?” I asked in return.

“I asked first,” Bree rejoined.

“Well . . .” I took a long sip of tea before continuing, “I can understand why Coral
would believe it. Daisy Pickering is . . . mesmerizing. I hardly breathed while she
was spinning her tale at the museum. She would have no trouble casting a spell over
Coral.”

“So you think Daisy invented the story of the lost prince to entertain her friend?”
said Bree.

“No,” I said. “I think Daisy believes in the lost prince, too. The last thing Coral
said to us reminded me of something Daisy said to me at Skeaping Manor. When I asked
her if she’d learned about the saltcellar from Miles Craven, Daisy said, ‘Mr. Craven
just pretends. The dinners were
real
.’”

“What if they were?” Bree said boldly. “The sleigh was probably made to order for
a family wealthy enough to hold extravagant dinner parties.”

“Parties where ladies wore necklaces worth a king’s ransom,” I said as more of Daisy’s
monologue came back to me, “and gentlemen wore diamond studs in their stiff collars.”

“That kind of thing, yes,” said Bree. “You wouldn’t find a silver troika saltcellar
in a peasant’s cottage. It’s a quality piece made for quality people. It could even
have been made for a Russian prince.”

“How did Prince Mikhail get to England?” I asked.

“Like Coral said, he sailed over the ocean.” Bree paused to flutter her eyelashes
at an elderly woman who was staring unabashedly at her from the next table.

“Love the color, dear,” the woman said with a rueful smile. “But you have to be young
to wear it.”

“You’re only as young as you feel,” Bree responded. She winked at the woman and returned
to the subject at hand. “My classmates at Takapuna Grammar told me hair-raising stories
about Russian aristocrats who came to England after the Russian Revolution. Most of
them were running for their lives. The Bolsheviks took a dim view of fat cats.”

“The Bolshevik uprising took place in 1917,” I pointed out. “If Mikhail was there
when it happened, he’d be a hundred years old by now. It’s not the sort of age you’d
expect a man to attain while imprisoned in a dungeon.”

“I’m not saying Coral’s story is one hundred percent accurate,” Bree temporized. “But
it’s not beyond the realms of possibility, is it?”

“Not quite,” I said. I pushed my half-eaten quiche aside and rested my folded arms
on the table. “That’s the trouble. I can barely . . . sort of . . . almost . . . believe
that Daisy met an old man in one of the houses Amanda Pickering cleaned, that the
old man told her a sad tale about a stolen heirloom, and that she tried to retrieve
it for him.”

“I nominate Miles Craven as the thief,” Bree said without a moment’s hesitation. “We’ve
already decided he’s working some sort of fiddle at Skeaping Manor. He could be financing
his expensive lifestyle by raiding the cupboards of defenseless old men.”

“So we’re adding elder abuse and cat burglary to his rap sheet,” I said skeptically,
“to go along with the embezzlement and the womanizing?”

“I’m willing to acquit him of the womanizing,” Bree conceded.

“But he didn’t use the silver sleigh to finance anything,” I argued. “He didn’t sell
it on the black market or trade it in for a new smoking jacket. He displayed it in
a public place. Even if Miles Craven is receiving stolen goods, he’d have to be totally
bonkers to exhibit them in his own museum. If they were recognized, his whole scam
would unravel and he’d more than likely end up in jail.”

“He is a bit eccentric,” Bree offered feebly.

“Eccentric isn’t the same as totally bonkers,” I declared. “Sorry, Bree, but I don’t
think we can pin the theft of Mikhail’s sleigh on Miles Craven.”

“Mikhail’s sleigh?” Bree gave me a sly, sidelong look. “It sounds as though you’re
beginning to fall for Coral’s story.”

“Maybe I am.” I smiled sheepishly, but my smile faded quickly. “No matter how hard
I try, I can’t shake the image of a frail old man asking for a young girl’s help.
Call me gullible if you like, but I don’t think I’ll be able to rest until I find
out for certain if the image is . . .
real
.”

“I must be gullible, too,” said Bree, “because I’m as curious as you are to find out
if Mikhail exists.”

She pulled a pen from her pocket and began to scribble on her napkin.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m making a list of the houses Mrs. MacTavish mentioned,” she replied. “Amanda Pickering’s
workplaces. We may have to visit them all.”

“I can’t believe you remember them all,” I said, trying to read the list upside down.
“The only one I remember is Skeaping Manor.”

“I’m good at remembering things,” said Bree. “I had to be, to get through Takapuna
Grammar on a full scholarship.” She finished writing and held the napkin out to me.
“There you are.”

I took the napkin from her and read the list of workplaces aloud, “‘Hayewood House,
Risingholme, Shangri-la, Tappan Hall, Mirfield, Skeaping Manor.’ Well done,” I said,
reaching across the table to pat her arm. “A house for every day of the week, except
Sunday.”

“How will we get inside to search for Mikhail?” Bree asked. “We can’t very well knock
on the front door and say, ‘Good morning. Do you by any chance have a Russian prince
locked in your cellar?’”

I turned the problem over in my mind, then slapped the table and laughed out loud
as a solution came to me from an unexpected source.

“We’ll take a leaf from dear old Mrs. MacTavish’s book,” I said, recalling the landlady’s
sneering comments about our reason for visiting Addington Terrace. “We’ll be journalists
writing a sensitive story about the rich.”

“Brilliant,” Bree exclaimed. “Rich people can’t resist seeing their names in print.
You really are good at coming up with cover stories.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” I admitted.

“So I’ve heard.” Bree grinned, raised her teacup, and said, “To Daisy and her lost
prince.”

I tapped my cup against hers, but even as I repeated the toast I couldn’t help wondering
whether the scheme Bree and I were about to hatch was eccentric or just plain nuts.