Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince (2 page)

I
didn’t shriek, grab the fire extinguisher, or race upstairs to rescue Will and Rob
because a second glance told me that the flames in question weren’t flames at all,
but the short, spiky locks of my nineteen-year-old neighbor, Bree Pym. It was an easy
mistake to make because Bree had, for reasons beyond my understanding, dyed her lovely,
lustrous dark-brown tresses a vivid, almost fluorescent, shade of red.

“Good grief,” I said. “What have you done to your hair?”

“Like it?” said Bree, turning her head to one side to show off her eye-popping new
look.

“It looks like your head is on fire,” I said.

“Brilliant,” she said happily. “Just the effect I was aiming for. I call it my portable
hearth. There’s nothing like red hair to take the edge off a cold snap.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help laughing when Bree was around. She was the breath of fresh
air that kept the rest of us from turning into stale windbags.

Aubrey Aroha Pym, more commonly known as Bree, was from New Zealand, but she’d inherited
a lovely old house as well as a bucket of money from her great-grandaunts, the late
and much-lamented Ruth and Louise Pym, who’d lived on the outskirts of Finch. Although
Bree had lived in her great-grandaunts’ house for nearly a year, a handful of villagers
still found her faintly alarming. They weren’t accustomed to sharing a church pew
with a vibrant young foreigner who sported multiple tattoos as well as a gleaming
ring in one nostril. They would, I thought, faint dead away when Bree strode into
St. George’s with flaming red hair.

“It’s . . . stunning,” I said sincerely. I tore my eyes away from her head long enough
to notice that she was carrying a suitcase. “Going somewhere?”

“Yes,” she said. “Here, I hope. I’ve come to throw myself on your mercy.”

“You want to stay here?” I said, my pulse quickening.

“If you’ll have me,” she replied diffidently.

“If I’ll have you?”
I stepped forward and threw my arms around her, crying, “Of course I’ll have you!
You’re the answer to my prayers!”

Bree allowed herself to be dragged across the threshold, looking thoroughly bemused.
She placed her suitcase on the floor, hung her puffy black jacket on the coatrack,
and stepped out of her pink polka-dotted snow boots to reveal a pair of bright purple
wool socks.

“Am I to understand that I’ve chosen a good moment to impose on you?” she asked, brushing
snow from the legs of her jeans.

“Your timing couldn’t be more perfect,” I told her. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll explain
everything over a pot of tea and a plateful of freshly baked cookies.”

Bree followed me up the hallway, took a seat at the kitchen table, and helped herself
to a cookie while we waited for the kettle to whistle.

“Nummy,” she declared, licking the crumbs from her fingers. “What was it?”

“They go by many names,” I replied, setting out the tea things, “but my mother called
them pecan balls. Here.” I tossed a napkin to her. “You’ve got powdered sugar on your
chin.”

“A small price to pay,” Bree said, wiping her chin while reaching for a second pecan
ball.

I finished making the tea, sat across the table from Bree, folded my hands, and said
gravely, “You’ve arrived in the nick of time to save me and my children from a toxic
case of cabin fever.”

“Cottage fever, surely,” she said, glancing around the kitchen. “What about Bill?
Is he immune?”

“Bill’s in
Majorca
,” I said bitterly, and went on to describe the preceding week in excruciating detail.
“With the stables closed,” I concluded, “I didn’t know how the boys and I would survive
the weekend, but you’ve put an end to my worries.”

“How?” said Bree, looking genuinely perplexed.

“Are you kidding?” I said. “You’re more interesting than a magician, an acrobat, and
a troupe of juggling chimpanzees all rolled into one. Will and Rob will go googly
when they find out you’re here.”

“I don’t know,” Bree said doubtfully. “I’m a pretty poor substitute for Thunder and
Storm.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” I said. “The boys think you’re the best thing since baled
hay.”

“I think they’re very nice, too,” said Bree, her eyes twinkling. She popped a third
pecan ball into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully before saying, “I guess it was meant
to be. I considered throwing myself on Peggy Taxman’s mercy, but since she doesn’t
have any, I came here instead.”

“Why throw yourself on anyone’s mercy?” I asked.

“Because I’m an idiot,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I decided to give my bedroom
walls a fresh lick of paint this morning.” She shook her head. “Bad idea. Fresh paint
requires ventilation, but if I open my windows, my pipes will go the same way as Emma’s.
I’ll have to wait for the weather to warm up a tad before I can give the place a proper
airing. In the meantime—”

“In the meantime,” I interrupted, “you’re staying here.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“The thanks are all mine.” I pushed the plate of cookies toward her and stood. “Have
another pecan ball. I’ll fetch the boys.”

“Don’t build me up too much,” Bree called as I left the kitchen. “I can’t compete
with juggling chimpanzees!”

•   •   •

Will and Rob wilted visibly when I told them about the stables, but they revived instantly
when they saw who was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs.

“Breeeeeee!” they chorused, thundering downstairs and all but tackling Bree with simultaneous
bear hugs.

“Can we dye our hair, Mummy?” Will asked, standing back to take in Bree’s new look.

“I want blue,” Rob declared.

“No, you may not dye your hair,” I said firmly, “but you may take Bree’s luggage up
to the guest room.”

“Guest room?” said Will.

“Are you staying with us?” Rob asked, gazing wide-eyed at Bree. “Overnight?”

“Over the next few nights, I expect,” she replied. “If it’s all right with you.”

“It’s all right,” Will assured her fervently.

“It’s better than all right,” said Rob, reaching for Bree’s suitcase.

The rest of the day passed in a happy blur. Bree was, as it turned out, a magician,
an acrobat, and a juggler, all rolled into one. While I prepared lunch, she drilled
the boys on a disappearing-coin trick until they could perform it like seasoned pros.
After lunch, she taught them to stand on their heads with their legs folded, yoga-style.
While dinner was cooking, she began juggling lessons, using stuffed animals instead
of balls to keep furniture damage to a minimum. I played the part of an appreciative
audience and saw, to my relief, that my guest was having as much fun as Will and Rob.

During dinner, Bree proposed a cure for our claustrophobia.

“Let’s get out of the cottage and go somewhere really interesting,” she said. “I have
a place in mind. I’ve been meaning to go there on my own, but now we can go there
together.”

“What sort of place is it?” asked Will, looking up from his mashed potatoes.

“I thought we might visit Skeaping Manor,” Bree told him. “I’m sure you’ve been to
Skeaping Manor a thousand times, Will, but I’ve never been there. I think you and
Rob might enjoy showing it to me.”

“As a matter of fact,” I piped up, “we’ve never been to Skeaping Manor, either. I’ve
heard of it, but our expeditions always seem to end up at the Cotswold Farm Park or
the Cotswold Wildlife Park or the Cotswold Falconry Center or the Bibury Trout Farm
or the Prinknash Bird and Deer Park or . . .” I shrugged. “You get the general idea.
The boys like animals.”

“I like animals, too,” said Bree, “but if you want an indoor adventure on a cold winter’s
day, Skeaping Manor is the place to go.”

“It’s near Upper Deeping, isn’t it?” I asked.

“It’s on the edge of Skeaping village,” Bree replied, “about three miles south of
Upper Deeping. According to a brochure I found at the tourist office, Skeaping Manor
is”—she tilted her head back and recited as if from memory—“a Jacobean treasure house
featuring a collection of curiosities assembled by Sir Waverly Jephcott, noted Edwardian
physician, naturalist, archaeologist, anthropologist, historian, and philanthropist.”

“What’s Skeaping Manor?” Rob asked, looking bewildered. Bree’s description of the
place had evidently sailed over his head.

“It’s a museum,” Bree told him, and before his face could fall too far she added,
“But it’s not a boring old dusty museum. It has all sorts of cool stuff in it.”

“Does it have dinosaurs?” Rob asked hopefully.

“The brochure didn’t mention dinosaurs,” Bree conceded, “but it did mention a display
of shrunken heads.”

“Shrunken heads?” Will echoed, his face brightening.

“And skeletons,” Bree went on. “And mummies. And bugs. And an axe.” She paused, then
finished in a thrilling whisper, “A
bloodstained
axe.”

“May we go to Skeaping Manor, please, Mummy?” the boys clamored, turning their dark-brown
eyes on me.

If my children had been emotionally fragile or prone to nightmares, I would have nipped
the idea in the bud. Bree knew, however, that my sons weren’t easily cowed. They,
unlike their mother, found grotesque objects fascinating rather than frightening.
They might draw pictures of skeletons and shrunken heads for weeks to come, but they
wouldn’t be haunted by them.

“May we, Mummy?” said Rob.

“Please?” said Will.

“It’s open only three days a week during the winter,” Bree put in. “Thursdays, Fridays,
and Saturdays. If we don’t go tomorrow, I may not be around long enough to go with
you.”

“Please?”
the boys chorused imploringly.

“Yes, we’ll go,” I said, to avoid being badgered to death. “If—”

“We clear the table,” said Will.

“And load the dishwasher,” said Rob.

“And play nicely until bedtime,” said Will.

“And go to bed without arguing,” said Rob.

“And promise to behave ourselves in the car,” Will concluded.

“How quickly they learn,” I said, laughing.

The boys made polite but pressing attempts to wrangle more information about Skeaping
Manor from Bree, but she refused to be drawn.

“If I tell you too much, I’ll spoil too many surprises,” she said. “And Skeaping Manor
is full of surprises.”

Bree must have been thinking of my sons’ unquenchable thirst for all things gruesome
when she uttered those fateful words. She could not have known that a delicate object
of great beauty would deliver the biggest surprise of all.

T
he temperature soared to just below freezing on Saturday morning and the brutal wind
became a slightly less brutal breeze. Bree, declaring it balmy, dressed lightly in
a black turtleneck, a pair of jeans, and her polka-dotted boots. She donned her puffy
black jacket, but refused to wear a hat or gloves.

She was made of tougher stuff than I. While I was willing to concede that the weather
had taken a turn for the better, I refused to describe it as
balmy
. After making a substantial breakfast for the troops, I bundled the boys and myself
up to the eyeballs, making sure mittens, hats, scarves, and winter boots were securely
in place before we left the cottage. As a result, we waddled out to my canary-yellow
Range Rover like three overstuffed teddy bears while Bree strode nimbly ahead of us,
as sure-footed as an arctic hare.

It was a beautiful day for a drive through the countryside. The sun shone brightly
in a crisp blue sky, snowflakes clung to the hedgerows in twinkling clusters, and
the snow-covered fields looked as tidy as freshly made beds. Will and Rob played word
games with Bree as we passed the Anscombe Riding Center’s curving drive, Bree’s mellow
redbrick house, and the wrought-iron gates that guarded the entrance to the Fairworth
estate.

I stopped the car briefly at the top of the humpbacked bridge to savor the sight of
Finch in its winter finery. Freed from its heavy burden of Christmas regalia, Finch
looked like a gingerbread village come to life, with smoke curling from each snowcapped
chimney and curtains twitching behind each frosty pane.

Upper Deeping, with its whirl of traffic, was grimier than Finch, but it was also
much livelier and its businesses, buildings, and residents were a great deal more
varied. I took a slight detour to allow the boys the pleasure of showing Bree their
school before heading south on the main road to find the turnoff for Skeaping village.

Bree spotted the sign heralding our destination, and a ten-minute drive down a winding
lane ended at a second sign directing us to the parking lot at Skeaping Manor. As
Bree’s brochure had foretold, the building was a classic Jacobean edifice, three stories
tall, half-timbered, and bristling with porches, bays, gables, dormers, and a trailing
cluster of additions. It sprawled haphazardly across a low prominence overlooking
the village, which appeared to be larger than Finch, but equally sleepy.

The manor had many windows, but they all seemed to be covered in heavy drapes or blocked
by large pieces of furniture. The darkened windows made the place seem a bit unwelcoming,
like a fortress under siege. An overhanging bay supported by massive oak beams sheltered
an iron-banded door, which was conveniently labeled MAIN ENTRANCE.

“We beat the crowds,” Bree observed as I parked the Rover between a dented old blue
Ford Fiesta and a gleaming red Fiat. “Only four cars in the lot and they probably
belong to the staff.”

“Maybe we’ll get a private tour,” I said.

“The brochure didn’t mention tours,” Bree informed me. “Besides, tours are for ninnies.
I’d rather explore the place on my own.”

“Me, too,” Will and Rob asserted emphatically.

I caught the scent of heroine-worship in the air and resigned myself to spending the
next few hours wandering aimlessly from one repulsive exhibit to the next.

“I’d hate to pay the museum’s heating bills,” Bree commented as we clambered out of
the Rover and crunched across icy snow to the oak door. “And it would cost a fortune
to replace the roof.”

“You’re too practical for your own good,” I said. “Think of how wonderful it would
be to have so many rooms all to yourself.”

“But you wouldn’t have them all to yourself,” Bree countered. “You’d need an army
of servants to keep them clean.”

“An army of servants,” I murmured dreamily, recalling the baskets of laundry awaiting
me at the cottage. “Sounds good to me.”

Bree gave me an amused but doubtful glance, opened the oak door, and strode into the
manor. The boys darted in after her and I followed close upon their heels, but we
all came to a stumbling halt a few steps beyond the threshold. After the dazzling
brightness of the sunlit, snowy parking lot, the museum’s entrance hall seemed as
dark as a cave. I felt as if I’d gone blind.

I grabbed the boys to keep them from blundering into Bree and tightened my grip when
the oak door closed behind us with a thud.

“Welcome to Skeaping Manor,” said a sepulchral voice.

I shut my eyes briefly to allow them to adjust to the gloom. When I opened them again,
I could see that we were in a windowless, low-ceilinged foyer lined with carved oak
panels so blackened with age that they looked as though they’d been charred. An old-fashioned
wooden swivel chair sat behind a large wooden desk to my left, next to a wall rack
filled with colorful brochures advertising local attractions. An elaborately carved
oak door straight ahead of us appeared to be the primary point of access to the rest
of the museum, but since it was shut, I couldn’t see what lay beyond it.

The foyer was dimly but adequately lit by a green-shaded banker’s lamp on the desk
and a stained glass chandelier on the ceiling. The ceiling fixture cast an eerie glow
over the room’s most remarkable feature: a tall, thin, clean-shaven gentleman dressed
in formal Edwardian garb.

“By jove!” Bree exclaimed. “It’s the ghost of Sir Waverly Jephcott!”

“Cool,”
chorused the boys.

“Very droll, madam,” said the man, smoothing his embroidered waistcoat. “I fear I
must disappoint you, however, for I am no ghost. My attire is intended to entertain
and to educate those interested in Sir Waverly’s era.” He bowed gracefully. “I am
Miles Craven, curator and caretaker of Skeaping Manor, and I am at your service. May
I place your outerwear in our cloakroom?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, glad to be relieved of parental coat-lugging duties.

We handed our jackets, hats, scarves, and mittens to the curator, who disappeared
with them through a door hidden in the paneling behind the desk, then reappeared,
holding a numbered slip of paper.

“Your cloakroom ticket, madam,” he said, handing the slip of paper to me. “You may
not need it, as I do not expect many visitors today, but one never knows. Is this
your first visit to Skeaping Manor?”

“It is,” I replied.

“We want to see the bloodstained axe,” Rob declared.

“And the mummies,” Will put in.

“And the bugs,” said Bree. “And the skeletons.”

“I can, for a nominal sum, provide you with a guidebook,” Mr. Craven offered.

“No, thanks,” Bree said firmly. “We’re on a voyage of discovery.”

“You will not be disappointed,” Mr. Craven assured her. “There is much to discover
at Skeaping Manor.”

He began to walk toward the carved oak door, but stopped in midstride when I cleared
my throat.

“We haven’t paid the admission fee,” I reminded him.

“Admission is free during the winter months,” he informed me. “Donations are, however,
gratefully accepted throughout the year.”

“Go ahead,” I told Bree as Will and Rob began to fidget. “I’ll take care of the donation
and catch up with you.”

“Onward, explorers!” said Bree.

“Onward!” the twins echoed.

“Bon voyage,” Mr. Craven said genially.

He opened the door and the three adventurers sailed through it as eagerly as racehorses
released from a starting gate. It warmed my heart to see Will and Rob looking so bright-eyed
and bushy-tailed, and as I dug through my shoulder bag for my wallet I thanked Bree
silently for proposing such a splendid expedition.

“Is Skeaping Manor affiliated with the National Trust?” I asked Mr. Craven, referring
to the conservation group that owned hundreds of historic houses throughout England.

“It is not,” he replied. “Skeaping Manor is a private institution funded by the Jephcott
Endowment and by the munificence of our patrons.”

I handed him what I hoped was a munificent donation, turned to face the open door,
and hesitated.

“Do I detect in you a certain reluctance to enter the museum?” Mr. Craven inquired.

“I’m afraid you do,” I admitted sheepishly. “To be perfectly honest, Mr. Craven, I’m
not a big fan of bloodstained axes and shrunken heads. If you ever repeat it to my
sons, I’ll deny it, but the truth is: I’m pathetically squeamish.”

“Fear not, madam,” he said. “Your secret is safe with me. And you need not spend your
entire visit wishing you were elsewhere. Our brochure may paint a lurid picture of
Skeaping Manor, but it does not tell the whole story. Though Sir Waverly Jephcott
was a connoisseur of oddities, he also amassed fine collections of porcelain, silver,
and jade as well as woodcuts and musical instruments. Indeed, it is possible to spend
many hours in the museum concentrating on those collections alone.” He studied me
in silence, then ventured, “May I deduce from your accent that you are an American?”

“Yes,” I said. “Why? Is it important?”

“Possibly,” he said. “If you were English, I would direct you to the first floor—”

“Which, in America, is considered the second floor,” I broke in, nodding. “I’ve lived
in England for nearly ten years, Mr. Craven. I understand that we’re on the ground
floor, and that the first floor”—I pointed to the ceiling—“is upstairs.”

“Excellent.” He withdrew a gold pen from the inner recesses of his frock coat and
a booklet from the wall rack. “I shall mark a route for you in the guidebook that
will take you as directly as possible to the first-floor exhibits. I’m certain you
will enjoy them.”

“You’re very kind,” I said, and reached into my shoulder bag again. “How much do I
owe you for the guidebook?”

“It shall be my gift to you,” he said, placing the annotated booklet in my hands.
“Please accept it as a small token of my gratitude.”

“Gratitude?” I said, puzzled.

“The vast majority of our visitors focus on the museum’s grislier aspects,” he explained,
smiling. “It’s refreshing to meet one who appreciates the finer things in life.”

•   •   •

I’m sure Miles Craven did his best, but there was no avoiding the grisly in Skeaping
Manor. The dark, labyrinthine corridors opened without warning into rooms lined with
dimly lit glass cases displaying barbaric surgical instruments or deformed human skulls
or the mounted corpses of long-deceased beasts whose unblinking eyes seemed to follow
me reproachfully as I swept past them to touch base with Bree.

I didn’t see another living soul as I scurried along, which was just as well. A random
visitor might have been annoyed by the boys’—and Bree’s—unrestrained chatter, but
I used the noise as a tracking device and quickly found the explorers clustered around
a particularly distressing display of spiny, long-legged insects skewered on pins.
I had no idea what kind of insects they were, but they were bigger and nastier looking
than any I’d ever encountered.

“Giant weta,” said Bree, pointing proudly to the display. “They’re New Zealand natives,
like me. Never thought I’d see weta here in England.”

“Some weta get to be as big as sparrows,” Rob informed me importantly.

“They can bite and hiss and scratch,” said Will with relish.

“Only when threatened,” Bree interjected. “Weta are harmless vegetarians who like
the dark. They’d rather hide than fight.”

“Charming,” I said, averting my gaze from the loathsome bugs. “Would you mind looking
after Will and Rob while I run upstairs?” I asked Bree. “I’d like to take a peek at
the porcelain.”

Bree smiled knowingly, as though she could sense my skin crawling, but assured me
that she and the boys would survive without me.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll check in with you in an hour.”

“No hurry,” said Bree. “We haven’t even gotten to the best bits yet.”

The mere thought of “the best bits” made me shudder, so I planted hasty kisses on
the twins’ heads and retraced my steps to a stone staircase Miles Craven had flagged
in the guidebook. If my sons had been present, I would have walked upstairs at a sedate
pace, but since they were too far away to be influenced by my bad behavior, I took
the stairs two at a time and heaved a sigh of relief when I reached the first floor.

The lighting upstairs was just as murky as it had been downstairs, but to my delight
the glass cases held objects that stimulated my sense of beauty rather than my gag
reflex. The jade room was a joy, the porcelain room a pleasure, the woodcuts were
wonderful, and the musical instruments were nothing short of magnificent.

I drifted blissfully from one collection to the next, enjoying the brief respite from
a week of high-octane mothering, and feeling a powerful sense of gratitude to Sir
Waverly Jephcott for planting an oasis of loveliness above his little shop of horrors.
I was convinced that I had the oasis to myself until I stepped into the silver room
and saw that someone else had gotten there before me.

A girl not much older than Will and Rob stood motionless in the center of the room.
Her hair was the color of burnished copper, her eyes were emerald green, and her fine-featured
face was as pale as a porcelain doll’s. She was an exceptionally beautiful child,
but compared to my robust boys, she seemed painfully thin.

Though her hair was neatly styled in a sweet, face-framing bob, she appeared to be
wearing secondhand clothes—droopy black woolen tights, scruffy brown ankle boots,
a too-short purple skirt, and a pale pink winter parka that was far too big for her.
The parka was a sad little jacket, worn and faded, its pink hood trimmed with a matted
strip of gray polyester fur, but I was glad she had it on; she looked like a child
who would always feel cold.

She seemed unaware of my presence. Her expression was somber, as if she were lost
in thought, and though the room contained a gleaming hoard of platters, centerpieces,
goblets, vases, and jewel boxes, her gaze was fixed unwaveringly on one small but
beautiful object: a horse-drawn sleigh made entirely of silver.