The cream buns were a big hit. Bess was shocked by my refusal to share mine with her, but she made do with a bowl of applesauce.
Will, Rob, and I spent the rest of the evening poring over the map of Bloomsbury Bill had printed for me as well as a detailed street map of London. When unfolded, the street map took up so much of the living room’s floor space that Bill had to take Bess to the kitchen to keep her from crawling across Hyde Park or drooling on Buckingham Palace. The boys went to bed, still discussing ideas for our grand Christmas outing.
I carried Bess up to the nursery and rocked her to sleep. After settling her in her crib, I returned to the living room to find Super Dad sound asleep in his armchair, with Stanley curled into a contented black ball in his lap. I let them be and tiptoed up the hall to the study, where I closed the door behind me, lit the mantel lamps, and raised a finger to my lips.
“No loud parties tonight, Reginald,” I cautioned. “Bill is whacked.”
My pink flannel bunny signaled his understanding by remaining silent.
As I knelt to light a fire in the hearth, I noticed that it had been swept clean and laid with fresh logs. I tended to postpose hearth sweeping until the ash piles resembled a small mountain range, but my overachieving husband had evidently included the chore in his to-do list.
“That’s just showing off,” I muttered, striking a match with more force than was strictly necessary.
The tinder caught, the flames leaped, and the garnet bracelet in Reginald’s niche seemed to glitter with its own internal light. I took the blue journal from its shelf and sat with it in one of the tall leather armchairs that faced the hearth.
“Dimity?” I said as I opened the journal. “The Badger hunt is under way!”
I grinned as Aunt Dimity’s familiar handwriting began to curl and loop across the blank page.
I don’t understand, my dear. Did you go to London today?
“I did,” I said proudly. “I haven’t found Badger yet, but I found the Rose Café.”
It’s still there? On St. Megwen’s Lane? I’m astounded.
“The building’s still there,” I confirmed, “but it’s not the Rose Café anymore. According to Adam—”
Adam?
“Adam Rivington,” I explained. “He works as a driver for Bill’s firm, but Bill asked him to act as my guide today.”
Was Bill afraid you’d get lost on your own?
“I was afraid I’d get lost on my own,” I retorted. “But Adam made sure I didn’t. He was born and raised in Bloomsbury, and he knows it inside out. He told me that the Rose Café has changed hands quite a few times over the years. At the moment, it’s a coffeehouse.”
Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Lori. I know how much you dislike coffee.
“It wasn’t a problem,” I said. “The owner serves tea as well, and believe me, she makes a decent cuppa. She bakes her own bread and pastries, too. I had a baguette sandwich and a blackberry tart I won’t soon forget.”
No mock whipped cream? No eggless fruitcake?
I peered at the page uncertainly.
“What’s mock whipped cream?” I asked. “And how can you make a fruitcake without eggs?”
They’re wartime recipes, my dear. Cream was strictly rationed, even in rural areas where cows were abundant, but my mother learned to make a whipped cream substitute that required four simple ingredients: milk, margarine, corn flour, and a tablespoon of sugar.
“Forgive me, Dimity,” I said, “but it sounds revolting.”
It was revolting. My mother made it once and decided we could do without whipped cream for the duration. The eggless fruitcake wasn’t half bad, though, provided one could obtain the proper spices. You could try making it yourself. If you look in my old trunk, you’ll find a slim volume titled Rational Recipes. It was published in 1941 to help busy housewives cook nourishing meals under wartime restrictions.
“It sounds like an interesting experiment,” I said diplomatically, “but I think I’ll stick with Sally Cook’s five-egg fruitcake recipe.”
A wise choice. Moist and delicious are better than not half bad. What does the coffeehouse look like?
“It’s charming,” I said. “Bright and airy and filled with mouthwatering fragrances.”
Quite the opposite of what it was in my day. I’m afraid the Rose Café was rather dark and dank. Everyone there smelled of wet wool.
“Was it lit with candles?” I asked.
Certainly not. There was a small electric lamp on each table. Candles would have been a fire hazard, though I suppose the jury-rigged wiring wasn’t much safer. But all of London was jury-rigged in those days. Its buildings were as war weary as its people.
“There’s a fake fireplace there now,” I said. “Not an electric-fire fake fireplace, but an expertly rendered trompe l’oeil painting. Carrie Osborne—the coffeehouse’s proprietor—keeps three leather chairs in front of the painting. They’re used exclusively by her three oldest customers—Chocks, Ginger, and Fish. Carrie calls them her Battle of Britain boys because they served in the RAF during the war. After the war, they were regulars at the Rose Café.”
Good heavens. I wonder if I crossed paths with them?
“I’m hoping they crossed paths with Badger,” I said. “The rotten weather kept them at home today, but Carrie promised to mention Badger to them the next time they come to the coffeehouse. If the name rings a bell with any or all of them, she’ll telephone me.”
Palpable progress! On your first day out! How splendid! I must admit that I felt rather guilty after speaking with you last night. I felt as if I’d sent you on a wild goose chase, and I fully intended to release you from any obligation you might have felt to pursue it.
“It may still be a wild goose chase,” I said frankly, “but I wish I’d been able to pursue it further.”
Nonsense. You’ve established a line of inquiry—three lines of inquiry, to be precise.
“Chocks, Ginger, and Fish?” I said.
Who else? If we’re lucky, they’ll remember someone who knows Badger. If we’re extraordinarily lucky, he’ll be one of their oldest, dearest chums. We shall simply have to await developments. You have no reason to feel frustrated, Lori. You’ve done very well indeed.
“I enjoyed it,” I said. “I wasn’t looking forward to wandering around Bloomsbury with one of Bill’s drivers, but I had a fantastic time.”
Is Adam Rivington handsome?
I gave Reginald a meaningful look and suppressed an exasperated sigh. I had, in the past, on a few rare occasions, allowed myself to fall under the spell of a handsome man who was not my husband. I’d never fallen very far, and I’d long since put those days behind me, but Aunt Dimity was always ready to sound the handsome-man alarm.
“Adam’s a nice-looking boy,” I said, “but his looks have nothing to do with why I enjoyed his company. He opened my eyes to a London I’d never seen before, Dimity. The place is like a time machine—every step takes you into a different era. Adam and I traveled from 1775 to 1997 by crossing from one end of a park to another. We even caught a glimpse of the future, though it was covered in scaffolding . . .”
I repeated my dinner table monologue, describing Queen Square Gardens, the Great Ormond Street Hospital, Lamb’s Conduit Street, St. Megwen’s Lane, and number 16 Northington Street, and reprising Adam’s running commentary on each. By the time I finished, my voice was growing hoarse.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you about Bloomsbury,” I concluded sheepishly. “You must be as familiar with it as Adam is.”
My Bloomsbury was quite different from the Bloomsbury you experienced, Lori. It wasn’t bombed as badly as some parts of London, but even so, it had rubble-filled streets, shattered windows, brick dust in the air, and endless queues outside every shop. As for Sam the Cat . . . he came along after my time, so I never had the pleasure of meeting him
. Thank you for allowing me to see my old neighborhood through your eyes.
“I hope to see a lot more of it,” I said. “The boys and I are planning a special family outing at Christmas—a walking tour of Bloomsbury.”
You’ve certainly changed your tune about London, my dear.
“London is overcrowded, noisy, and exhausting,” I said, “but there’s magic around every corner.” I smiled wryly. “I still need a native guide, though. I’m not brave enough to take on the big scary city single-handed.”
Luckily, you have a native guide. Let’s hope Adam Rivington’s available when the Battle of Britain boys come through for us.
“If I hear from Carrie, I’ll be in here like a shot to tell you about it,” I said. “Unless I have to make a quick getaway.”
Understood. What are your plans for tomorrow?
“James Hobson is giving a metal-detecting demonstration on the village green,” I said. “I think the entire population of Finch will be there.”
Including Sally Cook?
“She wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said. “It’ll be the main topic of conversation in Finch for the next six months.”
Sally may wish to have a different conversation with you when she finds out that you’ve been gorging yourself on someone else’s pastries. And she will find out. Will and Rob aren’t known for their discretion.
“Oh, Lord,” I moaned, sinking back in the chair. “She’ll probably ban me from the tearoom.”
I suggest feigning indifference to Carrie Osborne’s culinary masterpieces and reminding Sally of how easily pleased little boys are when it comes to sweets.
“It’s worth a try,” I said. I covered my mouth with my hand as I was ambushed by a monstrous yawn. “Sorry, Dimity. I’ve been running on adrenaline since I came home, but I think my adrenaline supply just ran dry.”
Of course it has. Time travel can be terribly fatiguing. I’m glad you’re getting to know London better, Lori. It’s an acquaintance worth cultivating.
“Adam’s a good matchmaker,” I said. “Good night, Dimity.”
Good night, my dear. Sleep well.
I felt a quiet sense of satisfaction as I watched the curving lines of royal-blue ink fade from the page. I’d started the day with zero expectations of finding Badger and ended it with a flicker—three flickers—of hope. In between, I’d discovered a London I could grow to love.
“Don’t look so worried, Reg,” I said as I closed the journal. “I like London better than I did before, but I don’t want to live there. Aunt Dimity’s cottage will always be our home.”
Reginald’s black button eyes seemed to glimmer with relief as I returned the journal to its shelf, banked the fire, and switched off the mantel lamps.
“Look after Aunt Dimity’s bracelet,” I told him.
I touched a reassuring fingertip to his snout, then headed for the living room to coax Bill into coming upstairs with me.
I had no ulterior motives. We’d both earned a good night’s sleep.
Twelve
The gray clouds shifted to a new location overnight, leaving a damp but sunlit world in their wake. Unless the weather changed its mind, which it did almost daily in England, it seemed willing to grant James Hobson the permission he needed to put on a show for the villagers.
When Bill volunteered to drive the boys to school, I didn’t even try to talk him out of it. My tardy arrival at the moving van vigil had made me more determined than ever to show up at James’s demonstration on time. I wasn’t particularly interested in metal detecting, but I took a keen interest in Finch. As I’d told Aunt Dimity, James’s hobby would be the talk of the village for the next six months. I wanted to be in on the conversation.
To avoid missing Carrie Osborne’s call, I made doubly sure that my cell phone was fully charged before I put Bess and her all-terrain pram into the Range Rover. Though the clouds had moved out, the wind was still very much in residence, and it was a bit too brisk and breezy to take my baby girl for a stroll along the narrow, twisting lane that led to the village.
We cruised past Anscombe Manor, Bree Pym’s redbrick house, my father-in-law’s wrought-iron gates, and Ivy Cottage, then paused at the apex of the humpbacked bridge to take in the view of the village.
It was a sight that never failed to warm my heart. The village green lay before me, an elongated oval island of tussocky grass separated by a cobbled lane from honey-hued buildings that had stood the test of time for several centuries. The Celtic cross that served as our war memorial seemed to glow in the morning light. Every window box on every cottage was filled to overflowing with chrysanthemums, and wood smoke curled from every crooked chimney, enfolding the village in a golden-gray haze. St. George’s stumpy, square bell tower played peekaboo with me through the waving boughs of the churchyard’s towering cedars, and a colorful patchwork of fallen leaves spangled the Little Deeping River.
I sighed contentedly.
“Your first autumn,” I said to Bess. “I hope all of them are as beautiful as this one—and less windy!”
James Hobson was already on the scene, with Mr. Barlow acting as his assistant. Mr. Barlow’s participation was crucial to the success of any event in Finch, not only because he was a willing worker but because he held the keys to the old schoolhouse, where the community’s folding chairs and tables were stored. I watched the two men carry a rectangular folding table from the schoolhouse and set it up in the center of the green.
“We can’t seem to get our timing right,” I told Bess. “We were late for the moving van vigil and now we’re early for the demo. Shall we offer to give the men a hand?”
Bess was agreeable, so I bumped down the humpbacked bridge and drove past Sally Cook’s tearoom, Bill’s office, and the old schoolhouse to park in front of the vicarage, where there was more room for a car. I’d just finished placing Bess in her pram and tucking a blanket around her when Lilian Bunting opened her front door and came down the steps to say hello to Bess. The vicar’s gray-haired, scholarly wife wore the tweed skirt suit she always wore when the temperature dipped, but she’d added brown leather gloves, a tweed fishing hat, and a hand-knitted wool scarf to her outfit, to protect herself from the nippy breezes.
“Good morning, Lilian,” I said. “Will the vicar be joining us?”
“Teddy’s at an ecclesiastical conference in Oxford,” she replied. “I promised that I’d memorize James Hobson’s presentation for him.”
“If Mr. Bunting asks nicely, I’m sure James will give him a private lesson,” I said. “On the other hand, he may not have to ask. James is very enthusiastic about his hobby.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Lilian. “May I push Bess?”
“Be my guest,” I said, and relinquished the pram’s handles.
We crossed to the folding table, where Mr. Barlow was placing bricks on piles of professionally printed brochures, presumably to keep them from blowing into the next county. While he greeted Bess and discussed the pamphlets with Lilian, I strolled over to speak with James, who was removing a curious device from the cargo area of his Fiat. The device bore a vague resemblance to a black metal broom handle with an L-shaped bend at the top and what appeared to be a black Frisbee at the bottom. I assumed it was his metal detector.
James Hobson was clearly dressed for fieldwork, in a wool turtleneck, a quilted vest, multipocketed hiking trousers, and hiking boots. He’d accessorized his ensemble with a stocking cap, gloves, kneepads, and a utility belt. A rather large red-handled knife hung in a sheath from the utility belt, as did a trowel and a Day-Glo-orange instrument that looked like a fireplace lighter.
“Hello, Lori,” he said as I approached. “Thanks for the blender. Felicity and I used it to make breakfast smoothies this morning.”
“Yummy,” I said. “Where is Felicity?”
“She’s reorganizing our kitchen,” James replie
d sotto voce. “The villagers have been very helpful, but—”
“But they arrange things the way they like them,” I interjected, nodding. “Opal Taylor rearranged my kitchen cupboards during a Christmas party a few years ago. It took me a week to find the baked beans.”
James began to laugh, then stopped short.
“Here they come,” he said, peering over my shoulder. “I’d better get in position.”
“Break a leg.” I gave him a double thumbs-up and returned to Lilian and the pram while James carried his device to the table.
My neighbors were emerging from their homes and businesses to gather around the folding table. Christine and Dick Peacock left the pub to fend for itself, Sally and Henry Cook turned their backs on the tearoom, and Charles Bellingham and Grant Tavistock abandoned their clients’ artwork to join in the fun. Peggy Taxman, who was less easygoing about her cash box than the others, locked the Emporium’s door before taking her husband’s arm and striding majestically toward the table.
The Handmaidens behaved like a synchronized skating team, leaving their cottages individually, then coalescing smoothly into a shoulder-to-shoulder quartet as they crossed the cobbled lane. I couldn’t quite envision Opal Taylor, Elspeth Binney, Millicent Scroggins, and Selena Buxton in skimpy skating costumes, but I had to admire their moves.
“Do you know if Bree and Jack are coming?” I asked Lilian. Finch’s youngest couple seldom missed a village event.
“They’re in Oxford, too,” said Lilian, “but unlike Teddy, they’ll be there for the rest of the week. Jack’s giving a series of lectures on environmental issues, and Bree went along to heckle him. Her words, not mine.”
“It sounds like Bree,” I said, laughing.
Everyone came over to chat with Bess. I lifted her and her blanket from the pram, gave her a teething ring to gnaw, and held her close to me for warmth. She smiled and drooled and peered interestedly at her admirers’ red noses.
Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure Page 11