Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince

by Nancy Atherton

  • • •

  The shop was unusually busy all day. Florence blamed it on the cold spell, saying that people were eager to get out and about after being trapped indoors for a week. Whatever the reason, I was glad to have Bree on hand to help because my mind wasn’t on the job.

  When I wasn’t gazing distractedly into the middle distance, I was asking customers if they’d heard rumors about a burglary at Skeaping Manor. The responses were uniformly negative, and since Upper Deeping’s gossip grapevine was almost as efficient as Finch’s, I concluded with some confidence that Miles Craven hadn’t yet noticed the theft.

  The thought of his ignorance filled me with hope because I knew what I wanted to do with the silver sleigh. And what I wanted to do was a tiny bit illegal.

  • • •

  “Dimity?”

  Four hours had passed since dinnertime. Bree, Will, and Rob were asleep in their respective beds, Stanley was asleep in mine, and I was seated in one of the tall leather armchairs in the study, with a fire burning merrily in the hearth and the blue journal open in my lap. I’d decided that it might be a good idea to explain my plan of action to Aunt Dimity before I followed through on it.

  “Dimity?” I repeated. “Something really strange happened today.”

  Aunt Dimity’s handwriting appeared, curling lazily across the page, as if she couldn’t quite work herself into a froth of excitement over my announcement.

  I hope today’s strange event was stranger than yesterday’s because, frankly, yesterday’s wasn’t very strange at all.

  “Today’s will knock your socks off,” I promised. “Remember the silver sleigh I told you about, the one I saw at Skeaping Manor?”

  The twinkling trinket that entranced young Daisy Pickering? How could I forget it?

  “What would you say if I told you it was in my shoulder bag?” I asked.

  I’d say: Bravo! You’ve piqued my curiosity! Have you embarked on a life of crime, my dear?

  “No, but I’m about to,” I said. I took a deep breath and launched into a highly detailed account of my day at the charity shop. I told Aunt Dimity about my discovery of the silver sleigh, my belief in Daisy’s guilt, and my conviction that Miles Craven was unaware of the crime. I was about to reveal my slightly illegal scheme to her when she asked a question that hadn’t even occurred to me.

  Why would Amanda Pickering donate her child’s winter coat to the charity shop? The pink parka didn’t appear to be too small for Daisy when you saw her wearing it, did it?

  “No,” I said. “If anything, it seemed to swallow her up. As I said, she’s a little wisp of a thing.”

  Why, then, would a woman in Amanda’s precarious financial position give away a perfectly good winter coat?

  “Because it isn’t perfectly good?” I ventured. “The parka is miles too big for Daisy and it’s too tatty to sell at the charity shop. Amanda must have found a nicer jacket for her daughter.”

  I hope so, for Daisy’s sake. I don’t yet see how your life of crime comes into the picture, my dear, but I’m sure you’ll make it clear to me before dawn.

  “I will,” I said, eager to move on from a digression that held no interest for me. “It could be argued that I broke the law when I put the silver sleigh into my shoulder bag. I should have reported the theft to the police immediately, but I didn’t, and I don’t intend to.”

  You intend to return the sleigh to the museum before anyone notices it’s missing because you wish to keep Daisy from getting into trouble and because you’re afraid Amanda Pickering will lose her job if her daughter’s misdeed comes to light.

  “I . . . uh . . . yes,” I faltered. It was disconcerting to have Aunt Dimity describe my plan to me before I’d described it to her. “That’s what I intend to do. How did you know?”

  I know you, my dear, and it’s just the sort of noble, selfless, and completely wrongheaded thing you would do.

  “How is it wrongheaded?” I demanded.

  The answer is perfectly obvious, my dear. Daisy can’t be allowed to wander through life taking things that don’t belong to her. She must learn the difference between right and wrong and she must learn to take responsibility for her actions. You must, therefore, give her the opportunity to return the sleigh herself.

  “I can’t do that,” I protested. “What if Miles Craven blames Amanda Pickering for the theft? What if he fires her? Daisy’s father has already walked out on her, Dimity. What will happen to her if her mother can’t find another job?”

  If you insist on playing the “what if” game, why not take a more positive approach? What if Miles Craven isn’t the ogre you imagine him to be? What if he knows Daisy better than you do? What if he’s aware of her fascination with the sleigh and forgives her for taking it? What if he accepts some responsibility for the incident and guards his domain more securely from now on?

  I began to sputter, but Aunt Dimity’s handwriting continued as if I hadn’t made a sound.

  You don’t know how Miles Craven will react, Lori. You do know, however, that the sleigh must go back to the museum. After a moment’s calm reflection, I’m sure you’ll agree that Daisy must be the one to bring it back.

  I stopped sputtering, clamped my lips together, and with great reluctance began to reconsider my position. Though I hated to admit it, Aunt Dimity had a point. If I’d found a mummified hand in Will’s or Rob’s pocket on Saturday afternoon, I would have marched the offender back to Skeaping Manor to make a confession, an apology, and an offer of restitution to Miles Craven. Why would I bend the rules for Daisy Pickering?

  “She’s a waif,” I said helplessly. “She’s a scrawny little waif dressed in cast-off clothing, yet she sees the world as a magical place filled with glittering people. I know she shouldn’t have taken the sleigh, Dimity, but I can understand why she did.”

  Poverty is no excuse for crime, Lori. Your pity won’t help Daisy to learn the lessons all children must learn if they are to become honest and trustworthy adults.

  “All right,” I said with a heavy sigh. “I’ll find out where Daisy lives, go to her, and persuade her to make a clean breast of things.”

  If Amanda Pickering loses her job at the museum because of her daughter’s mistake, you can always offer her a position at the charity shop.

  “What a good idea,” I said, feeling as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. “You’re a genius, Dimity. I’ll give Amanda a job if she needs one and I’ll invite Daisy over to meet the boys. With her imagination, she’ll fit right in.”

  And you’ll have a chance to fatten her up.

  “I’ll do my best,” I said.

  You always do.

  “I’ll have to tell Bree what’s going on,” I continued. “I can’t leave her to twiddle her thumbs while I deal with Daisy.”

  She may not wish to be involved.

  “I’ll leave the choice to her,” I said, “but she doesn’t strike me as much of a thumb-twiddler.”

  I agree.

  “I won’t tell her until after we take the boys to school,” I said.

  Very wise. Will and Rob have highly developed eavesdropping skills. Heaven knows what tales they’d tell their teacher if they overheard you. The handwriting paused for a moment before recommencing at a slower than usual pace. Lori? I hope you don’t think I’m being too hard on Daisy.

  “I don’t,” I said gently. “I think you have her best interests at heart. And I think I needed a refresher course in Parenting 101.”

  It would have come back to you eventually. But I’m always happy to help!

  “I know you are,” I said, smiling. “Good night, Dimity.”

  Good night, my dear. And good luck with Daisy.

  I waited until the graceful lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, then closed the journal and returned it to its shelf. Reginald’s black button eyes gleamed encouragingly as I curled up in the tall leather armchair and revised my scheme for the silver sleigh’s return.

  Se
ven

  The 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.