Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince (5 page)

T
he cold snap snapped in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, when a warm front swept
across the Midlands and sent Old Father Winter packing. Bree and I drove the boys
to school through streams of rapidly melting snow and dropped them off in a playground
flooded with puddles.

“Remind me to throw a few towels in the car when we get back to the cottage,” I said
resignedly as I pulled away from the curb. “And maybe a mop.”

“Will do,” said Bree. She hesitated, then said, “Uh, Lori? Where are we going?” She
hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Finch is that way.”

“We’re not going back to the cottage,” I said. “We’re going to Skeaping Manor. I would
have told you sooner, but if the twins had caught wind of my plans, they would have
wanted to skip school and come along with us.”

“We’re returning to the house of horrors?” said Bree, her eyebrows rising. “You astonish
me for two reasons. One: You can’t stand the place. And two: It’s not open on Tuesdays.”

“You’re right on both counts, but neither one matters,” I said. “I don’t have to enter
the museum to speak with Miles Craven—”

“Because he lives in a flat at the rear of the building,” Bree finished for me. “Curiouser
and curiouser. Am I allowed to know why you wish to speak with the creepy curator?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said. I pulled into a convenient parking space, switched off the
engine, and brought Bree into the circle of knowledge that surrounded the silver sleigh.

“So
that’s
the big mystery,” she said when I’d finished. “I wondered what it could be. You were
so preoccupied yesterday and you asked so many strange questions at the charity shop . . .”
She began to chuckle. “I thought one of the
twins
had pinched something from Skeaping Manor.”

“I almost wish one of them had,” I said. “I can discipline my own children, but when
it comes to someone else’s . . .”

“Not so easy,” said Bree. “Do you have the trinket with you?”

I opened my shoulder bag and lifted the silver sleigh into the sunlight, where it
glittered and gleamed as though it were studded with stars. Bree gazed at it in rapt
silence for a long time before she finally found her voice.

“Daisy Pickering has good taste,” she said. “It’s a saltcellar, isn’t it?”

“Trust you to know what a saltcellar is,” I grumbled.

“Amazing,” Bree murmured. “A troika saltcellar.”

“A
what
saltcellar?” I asked.

“A troika,” she said. “Your saltcellar is a troika.”

“I believe you,” I said, “but I don’t know what a troika is.”

“It’s a Russian sleigh,” Bree explained. “Troikas have been around for centuries.
They’re light, streamlined, and packed with horsepower.” She pointed to the three
prancing horses. “Just the ticket for racing along the rough, snow-packed roads of
the old Russian Empire. Plain old workaday troikas were used to deliver express mail,
but fancy ones were the playthings of aristocrats. Think sports car, not family sedan.
People who owned fancy troikas, like people who own fancy sports cars, tended to be
very well off. The saltcellar’s original owner must have been stinking rich.”

“Where did you learn about troikas?” I asked as I returned the silver sleigh to my
bag.

“Takapuna Grammar,” said Bree, referring to the school she’d attended in New Zealand.
“Some of my classmates were from Russia. They liked to talk about their country and
I liked to listen.” She frowned slightly. “Are you sure Creepy Craven is still in
the dark about the theft?”

“It wasn’t mentioned in this morning’s paper,” I said, “and I read every line in every
section, including the classifieds. Besides, the sleigh is one tiny artifact in the
midst of ten thousand. Unless Miles Craven carries out a thorough inventory every
day—”

“A shrunken-head count?” Bree put in. “Doubtful. If Florence Cheeseman is right about
Craven, he’s not the most conscientious curator in the world.”

“Even if he were,” I said, “the museum is so dark and overcrowded that it might take
him years to notice one small empty space in one display case. Which means that we
still have time to make an honest girl of Daisy. The trouble is, I don’t know where
she lives. Amanda Pickering isn’t listed in the phone book, but Miles Craven should
have her contact information on file.”

“Have you tried ringing him?” Bree asked

“Yes,” I said, “but I couldn’t get through. His phone must be on the blink.”

“Which explains our return to Skeaping Manor.” Bree nodded. “Let’s hope he’s at home.”

I gave her a sidelong look. “Are you sure you want to get mixed up in this? If not,
I’ll take you straight back to the cottage.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’d much rather help a weird little kid than sit on my
bum all day. Drive on!”

•   •   •

I heaved a sigh of relief when I pulled into the parking area at Skeaping Manor and
spotted the same shiny red Fiat I’d noticed there on Saturday morning.

“It has to be Miles Craven’s car,” I said. “It was here the other day and it’s the
only car parked here now.”

“We’ve struck lucky,” said Bree. “Unless our curator likes to trudge through slush,
he must be at home. Do you have a cover story, by the way? A good reason to ask for
Amanda Pickering’s address?”

“Of course I do,” I said confidently. “Cover stories are my specialty.”

“Then let’s do this and get out of here,” said Bree, climbing out of the Rover. “I
want to meet Daisy.”

We followed a slush-covered brick path to a door at the rear of the manor house, where
an elegantly engraved brass plaque confirmed Florence Cheeseman’s claim regarding
the curious location of Miles Craven’s residence. I rang the doorbell and stood back
to survey the curator as he opened the door.

He was a sight to behold, swathed in a red velvet smoking jacket and a paisley cravat
that billowed like a silken cloud from between his embroidered lapels. His brown trousers
were immaculately creased and cuffed, his socks matched his smoking jacket, and his
tasseled loafers were polished to a beautifully muted shine.

“My American friend,” he said, smiling down at me. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“I tried to call,” I began.

“But you couldn’t get through,” he said with a sympathetic nod. “It’s my fault, my
fault entirely. While the rest of the human race accepts mobile phones as the norm,
I cling stubbornly to my landline. I regret to say that our local service was disrupted
this morning by a plague of icicles. Repairs are under way as we speak, but until
they’re completed, I must depend on my computer to connect me to the outside world.”
He shrugged. “One must make some concessions to modernity. Won’t you come in?”

I didn’t dare meet Bree’s eyes as he ushered us through the doorway because one sidelong
look from her would have sent me into a prolonged and embarrassing giggle fit. I hadn’t
met someone as entertaining as Miles Craven in years and I was delighted to see that
his apartment was as flamboyant as he was.

The living room was a cheerful Edwardian mishmash of styles. The walls were hung with
vintage art nouveau advertising posters featuring sinuous and scantily clad women,
and the furniture ranged from a hefty Victorian armchair to a lighter-than-air neoclassical
divan. In one corner, a wicker chair with a broad back and curled arms sat before
a bamboo occasional table. The laptop computer on the bamboo table was the only visible
concession to modernity.

Our host motioned for us to be seated on the divan, but he remained standing.

“I hope you’ll overlook my louche garb,” he said, bending to close the laptop. “I
permit myself to dress informally when I work from home.”

“So do I,” I said, though my idea of informal attire—sweat pants and T-shirts—was
a lot less formal than his. “My name is Lori Shepherd, by the way, and this is my
friend, Bree Pym.”

“A pleasure,” he said, bowing to each of us in turn. “May I offer you a spot of tea?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “We don’t want to take up too much of your time. The fact
of the matter is, I’ve come to ask a favor of you.”

“How intriguing,” he said. He smiled winsomely, sat in the wicker armchair, crossed
his legs, and tented his long fingers over his smoking jacket. “Ask away, dear lady,
ask away.”

“I wonder if you might give me Amanda Pickering’s address?” I said.

Miles Craven’s smile vanished and his eyes flickered down to his fingertips before
shifting between my face and Bree’s.

“An unusual request,” he observed.

An uncomfortable silence ensued. I took it as my cue to trot out my cover story.

“I have two young and very lively sons,” I explained hastily, “so I don’t have much
time to spare for housekeeping. When I ran into Amanda on Saturday, she seemed like
an ideal candidate: a hardworking young woman who—”

“Ah,” he interrupted. “You need a char.”

“It would only be for a few hours a week,” I assured him. “I wouldn’t dream of luring
her away from the museum, but I thought, if she needed a little extra cash in the
kitty, she might be willing to work for me on a part-time basis. I’d like to discuss
the idea with her in person, but I couldn’t find a listing for her in the telephone
book.” I peered at him entreatingly. “So I came to you.”

“I wish I could oblige you, Mrs. Shepherd,” he said, smoothing his cravat.

“Lori, please,” I said, resisting the temptation to explain that, since I’d kept my
own last name when I married Bill, I was Ms., not Mrs., Shepherd. “Everyone calls
me Lori.”

“I wish I could oblige you, Lori,” he began again, plucking at his sleeve, “but the
one thing you ask of me is the one thing I am unable to provide. My staff’s personal
information is private and confidential. I cannot in good conscience—” He broke off
as the doorbell rang. “Dear me, I am popular today. Pray excuse me . . .” He rose
from the wicker chair and left the room.

Bree promptly jumped to her feet, darted over to the bamboo table, opened the laptop,
and began tapping away at the keys.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

“Finding Amanda’s address,” she muttered.

“And I was worried about involving you in a slightly illegal scheme,” I said, rolling
my eyes. “You’ve taken lawbreaking to a whole new level.”

“All in a good cause,” Bree murmured. “Here it is. Payroll records. There’s Les and
Al, the useless security guards, and . . . here’s Amanda.” She scanned the screen,
tapped a few more keys, closed the laptop, and flung herself onto the divan mere seconds
before Miles Craven reentered the room.

“The telephone repairman requires access to the museum,” he informed us. “Is there
anything else I can help you with?”

“No,” I said, getting to my feet. “I guess I’ll just have to find another cleaner.
Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Craven.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I’ll show you out.”

Our exit from the apartment was considerably more hurried than our entrance had been,
but neither Bree nor I commented on it until we were seated in the Rover.

“Is it my imagination or did he seem eager to get rid of us?” I asked.

“It’s not your imagination,” Bree replied. “If you ask me, he’s been up to no good
with Amanda Pickering.”

“He did react a bit oddly when I mentioned her,” I agreed.

“A bit oddly?” Bree scoffed. “He was Mr. Charming Chatterbox until her name came up.
Then he went all quiet and twitchy.” She did a passable imitation of Miles Craven
looking shifty-eyed while he smoothed his cravat and plucked at his sleeve.

“Okay,” I conceded, “his reaction was more than a bit odd. He doesn’t strike me as
a womanizer, though. Quite the contrary.”

“You can’t judge a book by its cover,” Bree reminded me.

“You can judge some things,” I countered. “His clothes didn’t come off a department
store rack and his furniture must be worth a fortune. I judge, therefore, that he
has expensive tastes, which means that the Jephcott Endowment must pay him a generous
salary. Either that, or . . .” I gave Bree a meaningful glance.

“Or,” she said, catching on, “he pays himself a generous salary without the endowment’s
knowledge.” She peered at the dummy camera facing the parking lot. “It would explain
why he hasn’t installed a proper security system in the museum. He doesn’t spend a
lot on guards, either. Les and Al earn a pittance.”

“Security systems and competent guards cost money,” I said, “money a refined gentleman
might prefer to spend on smoking jackets and period furniture.” I gazed thoughtfully
at the museum’s main entrance. “I wonder if my donation went into the endowment’s
coffers or into Miles Craven’s bank account?”

“Maybe Amanda knows where the donations go,” Bree said. “Maybe that’s why he wouldn’t
give us her address. He doesn’t want us to talk to her because he’s afraid she’ll
expose his little racket.”

I looked at Bree and started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“If jumping to conclusions were an Olympic sport,” I said, “we’d both be gold medalists.
We’ve classified Miles Craven as a womanizing embezzler in under a minute. Must be
a world record.”

“I’m having second thoughts about his womanizing,” said Bree, “but he must be up to
something shady. Why else would your interest in Amanda make him nervous? Why else
would he refuse to give us her address?”

“Maybe he just doesn’t want me to poach his cleaning woman,” I said reasonably. “Dependable
cleaning women are rarer than troika saltcellars these days. If Amanda worked for
me, I wouldn’t want to share her.” I put the key into the ignition. “All I know for
sure is that Miles Craven didn’t look, sound, or act like a worried curator. If you
ask me, he still doesn’t know that the silver sleigh is missing.”

“No blunderbuss,” said Bree, nodding.

“Not one shot fired over the parapet,” I agreed. “I say we stop speculating about
Miles Craven’s theoretical foibles and start solving Daisy Pickering’s very real dilemma.”