Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince (9 page)

“Disappeared?” Frances said, frowning. “When? How?”

I recounted everything Mrs. MacTavish and Madeleine Sturgess had told us about the
Pickerings’ abrupt departure, but I said nothing about Skeaping Manor or the charity
shop.

“We think the move took Daisy by surprise,” Bree added. “She was swept away before
she could show the sleigh to you.”

“Or return it to Mikhail,” I interjected.

Frances sighed deeply. “Felix will be sorry to hear about Daisy. I have to confess
that I’m sorry as well, not only because she’s an enchanting child, but because we
failed her. I would have liked to apologize to her for doubting her.”

“You don’t doubt her anymore?” asked Bree.

“I can’t argue with hard evidence.” Frances leaned back in her chair, clasped her
hands behind her head, and regarded us with an air of amused speculation. “You must
think Daisy met Mikhail in a house her mother cleaned. And you must have come here
today to find out if Felix and I were the culprits who robbed and imprisoned him.”

“Something like that,” I mumbled, blushing.

“If we’d known who you are,” Bree said earnestly, “we never would have suspected you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Frances said easily. “Once one accepts the basic premise, everyone
becomes a suspect.”

“Not quite everyone,” I said. “Amanda worked for six different employers. We’re hoping
to find one with a Russian connection. We tackled Hayewood House first because Madeleine
Sturgess’s husband is named Sergei, but he’s as English as a pint of ale. Are you
aware of a family or an individual of Russian descent living in the vicinity of Upper
Deeping?”

“No,” said Frances. “I believe I mentioned earlier that Felix and I aren’t particularly
sociable. As a result, I’m not as familiar with my neighbors as I should be.” Frances
pursed her lips for a moment, then asked, “Did Daisy’s mother work at Risingholme
by any chance?”

“Yes,” Bree and I chorused.

“If I were you, I’d make Risingholme my next stop,” Frances advised.

“Why?” asked Bree. “According to my research, Risingholme is owned by Lord and Lady
Boghwell. Boghwell doesn’t sound like a Russian name.”

“It’s pronounced ‘buffel,’” Frances informed her gently, “and it isn’t a Russian name.
I’m not suggesting that Lord and Lady Boghwell had anything to do with Mikhail’s alleged
kidnapping, but I think they might prove helpful nonetheless.” Frances grinned. “I’ve
met them only once, but they’ve lived in Risingholme forever and Madeleine Sturgess
tells me they’re the most frightful old gossips she’s ever met. If a Russian invaded
the neighborhood within the past hundred years, I expect they’ll know about it.”

“Brilliant.” I plucked the silver sleigh from the table and dropped it into my shoulder
bag. “We’ll attempt to wangle our way into Risingholme next.”

“If I might offer a word of advice?” said Frances, looking directly at Bree. “You
may want to tone down your appearance before you approach the Boghwells. They’re an
old-fashioned couple.”

“How old-fashioned?” Bree inquired.

“Your hair would scare them,” Frances stated flatly. “And you won’t be received at
Risingholme with a ring in your nostril.”

“Right,” said Bree. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Thanks for everything, Frances,” I said. “The meal, the conversation, your forbearance . . .”

“Each was given with great pleasure,” Frances assured me. “I don’t often say it, but
you’re welcome to stay for tea.”

“I wish we could,” I said, glancing at my watch, “but if we don’t leave right now,
my little boys will have to hitchhike home from school, which would give them a thrill
and me a stroke.”

“I understand,” said Frances. “Bring your boys with you next time. Children seem to
like it here.”

We all got up from the table. While Bree and I donned our coats, Frances excused herself
and went into her husband’s office. She reappeared a moment later holding a hardcover
book, which she handed to Bree.

“It’s a signed first edition of
Lark Landing
,” she explained. “Felix would want you to have it.”

Bree tried to speak, but the stifled croak she emitted expressed her gratitude more
eloquently than words.

“I’ve tucked one of Felix’s business cards into the book,” Frances said as she opened
the galvanized steel door. “If you do find Mikhail, please let us know.”

“We will,” I promised. “Good-bye for now, Frances.”

“Good-bye, Lori,” she said. “Be well, Bree.” Bree could do nothing but nod, and as
we strode into the late afternoon sunlight, she turned her head away from me, as though
she hoped to hide the tears tumbling down her face.

B
ree’s eyes were dry when we reached the Rover, but it took her awhile to find her
voice. We were more than halfway to Upper Deeping before she emerged from her cocoon
of introspection and shared her thoughts with me.

“I wasn’t joking when I told Frances that her husband’s books saved my life,” she
said.

“I didn’t think you were,” I said.

“They’re not . . . silly,” she went on. “You know right from the start that each story
will have a happy ending, but you can’t imagine how the characters will ever get there.”
She caressed the copy of
Lark Landing
Frances Wylton had given her. “When Dad would go on a bender, I’d shut myself up
in my room and disappear into a world where everything came right at the end. I didn’t
believe deep down I would find my own happy ending, but the books made it seem . . .
possible. So I held on.” She glanced shyly at me, looking much younger than her nineteen
years. “Then you turned up.”

“Sent by your great-grandaunts,” I reminded her.

“They were my fairy godmothers, and you were their wand,” Bree said, with a watery
smile. “Sometimes, just sometimes, life is even better than books.”

She clutched the first edition to her chest and said nothing more until Will and Rob
were bouncing impatiently in the backseat. Their high spirits couldn’t help but lift
hers.

“Spies!” Rob shouted.

“Invisible ink!” bellowed Will.

“I’m on it!” Bree exclaimed. “Unless your mum is out of lemon juice . . .”

Fortunately, I had sufficient quantities of lemon juice on hand at the cottage to
keep Bree and the boys entertained for hours. While I fielded telephone calls from
Emma, Bill, and Willis, Sr., my spies-in-training dipped toothpicks in the juice,
wrote their names carefully on a sheet of paper, and watched in amazement as the juice
dried and the writing vanished. They waited on tenterhooks while Bree held the sheet
of paper over a warm lightbulb and they went bananas when their names “magically”
reappeared.

Once they got the hang of it, Rob and Will were off and running. They drew invisible
pictures of their ponies, made an invisible sign for their bedroom door, wrote an
invisible letter to their father, and scribbled invisible notes, which they passed
to me and to Bree covertly during supper. By bedtime their fingers were as puckered
as prunes.

Bree seemed indisposed to talk when we finally had the living room to ourselves, so
I settled on the couch with a basket of clean laundry and folded clothes while she
stared into the fire. I was examining a jagged tear in Will’s newest pair of school
trousers and wondering how long it would take me to mend it when Bree broke the silence.

“Lori?” she said. “I think it would be better if you tackled Lord and Lady Boghwell
on your own. They won’t let you in the house if I’m with you.” She pointed at her
hair and made a goofy face. “I’ll only frighten them.”

“Fair enough,” I said, turning Will’s trousers inside out to inspect the tear from
another angle. “I’ll be
Country House Monthly
’s sole representative at Risingholme.”

Bree lapsed into silence again, but a short time later she said, “I also think it
may be time for me to go home.”

“Now you’ve gone too far,” I said with mock severity. “You can abandon me to my fate
at Risingholme, but not here.”

“I’ve been parked in your guest room for nearly a week,” she protested. “I don’t want
to outstay my welcome.”

“You couldn’t possibly outstay your welcome.” I decided the trousers were salvageable,
tossed them aside, and gave Bree my full attention. “If you want to go home because
you want to go home, fine. But if you want to go home because you think the twins
and I are sick of the sight of you, you’re out of your cotton-picking mind. We love
you, Bree, and we love having you around.”

Bree’s chin quivered and her eyes began to glisten.

“But we secretly hate you,” I added hastily, “and we hope you’ll never darken our
doorstep again. There. Will that keep you from blubbering?”

Much to my relief, Bree gave a shaky laugh, wiped her eyes, and got to her feet.

“I secretly hate you, too,” she declared, “and I’d like nothing more than to make
your life a misery. So I’ll stay awhile longer.”

She bent down to give me a quick hug—something she’d never done before—then pounded
up the stairs to her room. I thought it likely that the guest room pillows would soak
up a few tears before morning, but since they would be happy tears, they didn’t worry
me.

I left Will’s trousers and the basket of clean clothes on the couch and went to the
study, where I touched a finger to Reginald’s pink flannel snout and took the blue
journal with me to one of the tall leather armchairs before the hearth. I didn’t bother
to light a fire because I didn’t think I’d be in the study long enough to make lighting
a fire worthwhile.

“Dimity?” I said as I opened the journal. “I bring you the latest bulletins from the
home front: Willis, Sr., will be well enough to attend church on Sunday, Emma will
reopen the stables on Friday, and Bill will remain in Majorca for at least another
week, the dirty dog.”

I looked down and smiled as Aunt Dimity’s handwriting began to flow across the page.

Thank you, my dear. I do like to keep abreast of local news, though I am, of course,
eager to hear news from farther afield as well. How did you and Bree fare today?

“I wish I could give you a progress report,” I said, “but we didn’t make any progress.”

Was Sergei a dead end?

I snorted mirthlessly. “Sergei Sturgess doesn’t have a drop of Russian blood in him.
He was named after Sergei Diaghilev by a thoroughly English mother who adores Russian
ballet. He lives in London during the week and comes home only on weekends, so we
didn’t even get to meet him.”

Who told you about his mother?

“His wife, Madeleine,” I replied. “She’s a peach. She let us crawl all over Hayewood
House, but we didn’t find Mikhail. And before you ask, the Sturgesses have no retired
retainers living on the property because they have no retired retainers, and even
if they did, there’d be no place for them to live. The workmen’s cottages that might
have housed them were demolished after the war.”

A pity.

“Bree and I did, however, visit the Sturgesses’ converted barn,” I continued, “where
we made a significant discovery.”

Did you find Mikhail trussed up in the hayloft?

“We did not,” I said. “We didn’t search the hayloft or any other part of the barn
because it happens to be the home of Bree’s favorite living author, Felix Chesterton.”

How extraordinary.

“You can say that again,” I said. “We didn’t meet Mr. Chesterton because he’d gone
to London to see his editor, but we spent the afternoon with his wife, Frances Wylton.”

Frances Wylton? The romance writer?

“Not exactly,” I said. “Felix Chesterton writes romance novels under his wife’s name.”

I am astonished, and if I’m astonished, Bree must have been bowled over.

“She was gobsmacked,” I confirmed. “She couldn’t bring herself to tell fibs in Felix
Chesterton’s sacred writing space, so we dropped the journalist disguise and came
clean with Frances. It turns out that she and Felix are familiar with Prince Mikhail’s
story because Daisy Pickering started telling it to them about a month ago. They thought
she’d made it up.”

Understandable.

“Bree decided to make a believer of Frances by showing her the silver sleigh,” I said.
“The gambit worked. Frances is now willing to admit that Mikhail might not be a figment
of Daisy’s lively imagination.”

Is Frances willing to join in the hunt for Mikhail?

“Not really,” I said. “She and her husband are pretty reclusive. I came away with
the impression that they don’t leave the Hayewood estate unless they have to.”

Even the most confirmed recluses hear rumors, and the right sort of gossip could lead
you directly to Mikhail’s prison door.

“Frances doesn’t seem to pay too much attention to the rumor mill,” I said.

The poor woman. What a lonely life she must lead.

“She seems completely content with her life,” I countered. “And she pointed us toward
a couple Madeleine Sturgess rates as the most frightful old gossips she’s ever met.
They’ve lived in the neighborhood for a very long time, apparently, and they know
everything about everyone. I plan to visit them tomorrow.”

You plan to visit them? On your own? Without Bree?

“According to Frances Wylton,” I said, “they have old-fashioned notions about young
women who pierce their nostrils and dye their hair fire-engine red, so Bree has decided
to lie low for the day.”

Who is this quaint couple?

“Lord and Lady Boghwell of Risingholme,” I said, rather grandly.

The boorish Boghwells? Good grief. Are they still alive? They must be a thousand years
old by now.

“The boorish Boghwells?” I said. “Did you know them?”

Peripherally. We met from time to time at charitable events, but they were a bit too
old-fashioned for my taste. They’re the sort who want to abolish the National Health
Service and reinstate feudal law. We didn’t have much in common.

“I’m happy to hear it,” I stated firmly.

They could be useful, though, so heed Frances Wylton’s advice. Do not wear loud colors
or trousers tomorrow, and make sure the hemline of your dress or skirt falls well
below your knees. And for pity’s sake, don’t mispronounce “Boghwell”!

“Shall I tug my forelock when I meet them?” I teased. “Or will a deep curtsy suffice?”

Don’t be facetious, Lori. Lord and Lady Boghwell may be not be the brightest pennies
in the piggy bank, but they’ll know if they’re being mocked. Simply treat them with
the deference they feel they deserve. Sprinkle lots of “my lords” and “my ladies”
into your speech. They’ll lap it up.

“Noted,” I said, “though I doubt I’ll have the opportunity to speak to them. People
like the Boghwells tend to look askance at journalists. Their snooty butler will probably
slam the door in my face.”

He probably will. I have great faith in your ability to pull the wool over people’s
eyes, however, so we must hope for the best. By the way, I disagree with you on a
point you made earlier.

“Which one?” I asked.

At the commencement of our conversation, you claimed you’d made no progress today.
You were wrong. You may not have located Mikhail, but you eliminated Hayewood House
from your inquiries and you learned where to go to commune with the neighborhood’s
most experienced gossips. In addition, Bree had the chance encounter of a lifetime.

“When you put it that way,” I said, “I guess we did make some progress.” I paused
before adding with a wry smile, “I must admit that I didn’t have Bree pegged as a
romance fan.”

A well-written book is a well-written book, regardless of the label a publisher slaps
on it, and
Lark Landing
happens to be an extremely well-written book.

“Frances gave Bree a signed first edition of
Lark Landing
before we left,” I said. “It revived some tough memories for her.”

Have you read
Lark Landing?

“No,” I said.

You should. I read it when it was first published and it left an indelible impression
on me. Its main character is the troubled daughter of an alcoholic reprobate.

I stared at Aunt Dimity’s words in stunned silence, then closed my eyes and released
a heartfelt groan. “How stupid can I be, Dimity? Bree tried to tell me about Felix
Chesterton’s writing, but I didn’t listen. I assumed he wrote sentimental stories
for teenagers.”

Wrong again.

“I’ll find a copy of
Lark Landing
that isn’t a precious first edition,” I promised, “and I’ll read it.”

I’m glad Bree is staying at the cottage just now. It’s a good place to be when tough
memories surface. Sleep well, my dear. And remember what I said about your hemline!

I watched the curving lines of royal-blue ink fade from the page, then closed the
journal and looked up at Reginald, who peered down at me from the shadowy recesses
of his special niche on the bookshelves.

“If Bree comes in here tomorrow, while I’m away,” I said, “do your best to make her
feel loved, will you?”

My bunny made no reply. I smiled at my own foolishness and went up to bed, wondering
what I would wear for my interview with the Boghwells.