Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince

by Nancy Atherton

  The girl was gripping the edge of the cinder block wall so tightly I thought her hands would bleed. I didn’t know what to make of her extraordinary recital, but I knew I had to calm her down before she injured herself.

  “Did Daisy tell you about Mikhail and the silver sleigh?” I asked.

  Coral nodded forlornly. “She told me over and over until I had it by heart. It was our biggest secret. But I don’t know what to do, now she’s gone.”

  “Do you know where she went?” Bree asked.

  Coral shook her head and a trickle of tears spattered the wall.

  “Don’t worry, Coral,” I said. “You don’t have to do a thing. Bree and I will take the sleigh to Mikhail.”

  “We will?” said Bree, looking startled.

  “Yes, we will,” I muttered, stepping on her foot.

  “Right,” she said, wincing. “Leave it to us, Coral. Lori and I will make sure the sleigh gets to the prince.”

  Coral peered at us questioningly.

  “Did Daisy give the sleigh to you?” she asked.

  “I met Daisy at Skeaping Manor on Saturday,” I told her, “and I found the sleigh in her pink parka yesterday. I work at Aunt Dimity’s Attic—the charity shop on the square. Daisy’s mother left the parka there without checking the pockets first.”

  “Oh,” said Coral. It was the drawn-out “oh” of comprehension dawning.

  I reached over to pry her hands gently from the wall. To my relief, they were frigid, but unscathed. Bree took a pair of green mittens from her jacket pocket and passed them to Coral. The girl looked at them in confusion, but when Bree nodded, she put them on.

  “Keep them,” said Bree. “I have lots more at home.”

  “I left mine at school,” said Coral. “Thanks.”

  “No worries,” said Bree nonchalantly.

  “Will you really take the sleigh to Mikhail?” Coral asked, drying her damp face on her new mittens.

  “We’d like to,” I said, “but we don’t know where Mikhail lives.”

  “He’s in one of the big houses,” Coral said eagerly. “One of the houses where Daisy’s mum worked. Daisy never told me which one.” She paused, bent closer to us, and murmured, “She said it would be dangerous for me to know.”

  “That’s okay,” I assured her. “Bree and I are pretty clever. We’ll figure it out.”

  “And we’re not afraid of anything,” Bree chimed in.

  Coral’s entire body relaxed, as if she’d shed a terrible weight, but she stiffened again when her brothers ran up to the wall to stare at us.

  “I’m Tom,” the taller boy said. He elbowed his brother in the ribs and added, “He’s Ben. Can we have a ride in your car?”

  “Not without your mother’s permission,” I replied.

  “Mum won’t let us get in a car with strangers,” Tom grumbled. “We’re not supposed to talk to strangers, either. Has Coral been telling you stories?”

  “We’ve been having a pleasant conversation with your sister,” I replied.

  “She’s always making up stories,” Tom scoffed. “Just like Crazy Daisy. None of it’s real.”

  Tom punched Coral in the shoulder, clipped Ben behind the ear, and took off, with Ben hot on his heels, howling for revenge. A wrestling match was already under way when a young woman with bleached blond hair put her head out of an upstairs window and called for the children to come in.

  The boys obeyed instantly, but Coral lingered long enough to defend her honor.

  “It’s not a story,” she whispered fiercely. “The lost prince is real.”

  • • •

  “I wonder where Daisy is?” I mused aloud.

  “Somewhere warm, I hope,” said Bree.

  Bree and I had stopped for lunch at the same café we’d patronized after our first visit to Skeaping Manor, but our conversation bore little resemblance to the one she’d had with Will and Rob that day. Instead of discussing bugs, bones, and blood, we spoke of two young girls and one fantastic tale.

  “I’m glad you gave Coral your mittens,” I said. “Her hands were like ice.”

  “I wanted to give her a new life,” said Bree, “but I didn’t have one in my pocket.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about her,” I advised. “If imagination is what you need to survive in a place like Addington Terrace, then Coral won’t merely survive, she’ll flourish.”

  “You don’t believe her story?” said Bree.

  “Do you?” I asked in return.

  “I asked first,” Bree rejoined.

  “Well . . .” I took a long sip of tea before continuing, “I can understand why Coral would believe it. Daisy Pickering is . . . mesmerizing. I hardly breathed while she was spinning her tale at the museum. She would have no trouble casting a spell over Coral.”

  “So you think Daisy invented the story of the lost prince to entertain her friend?” said Bree.

  “No,” I said. “I think Daisy believes in the lost prince, too. The last thing Coral said to us reminded me of something Daisy said to me at Skeaping Manor. When I asked her if she’d learned about the saltcellar from Miles Craven, Daisy said, ‘Mr. Craven just pretends. The dinners were real.’”

  “What if they were?” Bree said boldly. “The sleigh was probably made to order for a family wealthy enough to hold extravagant dinner parties.”

  “Parties where ladies wore necklaces worth a king’s ransom,” I said as more of Daisy’s monologue came back to me, “and gentlemen wore diamond studs in their stiff collars.”

  “That kind of thing, yes,” said Bree. “You wouldn’t find a silver troika saltcellar in a peasant’s cottage. It’s a quality piece made for quality people. It could even have been made for a Russian prince.”

  “How did Prince Mikhail get to England?” I asked.

  “Like Coral said, he sailed over the ocean.” Bree paused to flutter her eyelashes at an elderly woman who was staring unabashedly at her from the next table.

  “Love the color, dear,” the woman said with a rueful smile. “But you have to be young to wear it.”

  “You’re only as young as you feel,” Bree responded. She winked at the woman and returned to the subject at hand. “My classmates at Takapuna Grammar told me hair-raising stories about Russian aristocrats who came to England after the Russian Revolution. Most of them were running for their lives. The Bolsheviks took a dim view of fat cats.”

  “The Bolshevik uprising took place in 1917,” I pointed out. “If Mikhail was there when it happened, he’d be a hundred years old by now. It’s not the sort of age you’d expect a man to attain while imprisoned in a dungeon.”

  “I’m not saying Coral’s story is one hundred percent accurate,” Bree temporized. “But it’s not beyond the realms of possibility, is it?”

  “Not quite,” I said. I pushed my half-eaten quiche aside and rested my folded arms on the table. “That’s the trouble. I can barely . . . sort of . . . almost . . . believe that Daisy met an old man in one of the houses Amanda Pickering cleaned, that the old man told her a sad tale about a stolen heirloom, and that she tried to retrieve it for him.”

  “I nominate Miles Craven as the thief,” Bree said without a moment’s hesitation. “We’ve already decided he’s working some sort of fiddle at Skeaping Manor. He could be financing his expensive lifestyle by raiding the cupboards of defenseless old men.”

  “So we’re adding elder abuse and cat burglary to his rap sheet,” I said skeptically, “to go along with the embezzlement and the womanizing?”

  “I’m willing to acquit him of the womanizing,” Bree conceded.

  “But he didn’t use the silver sleigh to finance anything,” I argued. “He didn’t sell it on the black market or trade it in for a new smoking jacket. He displayed it in a public place. Even if Miles Craven is receiving stolen goods, he’d have to be totally bonkers to exhibit them in his own museum. If they were recognized, his whole scam would unravel and he’d more than likely end up in jail.”

 
“He is a bit eccentric,” Bree offered feebly.

  “Eccentric isn’t the same as totally bonkers,” I declared. “Sorry, Bree, but I don’t think we can pin the theft of Mikhail’s sleigh on Miles Craven.”

  “Mikhail’s sleigh?” Bree gave me a sly, sidelong look. “It sounds as though you’re beginning to fall for Coral’s story.”

  “Maybe I am.” I smiled sheepishly, but my smile faded quickly. “No matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the image of a frail old man asking for a young girl’s help. Call me gullible if you like, but I don’t think I’ll be able to rest until I find out for certain if the image is . . . real.”

  “I must be gullible, too,” said Bree, “because I’m as curious as you are to find out if Mikhail exists.”

  She pulled a pen from her pocket and began to scribble on her napkin.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m making a list of the houses Mrs. MacTavish mentioned,” she replied. “Amanda Pickering’s workplaces. We may have to visit them all.”

  “I can’t believe you remember them all,” I said, trying to read the list upside down. “The only one I remember is Skeaping Manor.”

  “I’m good at remembering things,” said Bree. “I had to be, to get through Takapuna Grammar on a full scholarship.” She finished writing and held the napkin out to me. “There you are.”

  I took the napkin from her and read the list of workplaces aloud, “‘Hayewood House, Risingholme, Shangri-la, Tappan Hall, Mirfield, Skeaping Manor.’ Well done,” I said, reaching across the table to pat her arm. “A house for every day of the week, except Sunday.”

  “How will we get inside to search for Mikhail?” Bree asked. “We can’t very well knock on the front door and say, ‘Good morning. Do you by any chance have a Russian prince locked in your cellar?’”

  I turned the problem over in my mind, then slapped the table and laughed out loud as a solution came to me from an unexpected source.

  “We’ll take a leaf from dear old Mrs. MacTavish’s book,” I said, recalling the landlady’s sneering comments about our reason for visiting Addington Terrace. “We’ll be journalists writing a sensitive story about the rich.”

  “Brilliant,” Bree exclaimed. “Rich people can’t resist seeing their names in print. You really are good at coming up with cover stories.”

  “I’ve had a lot of practice,” I admitted.

  “So I’ve heard.” Bree grinned, raised her teacup, and said, “To Daisy and her lost prince.”

  I tapped my cup against hers, but even as I repeated the toast I couldn’t help wondering whether the scheme Bree and I were about to hatch was eccentric or just plain nuts.

  Ten

  I knew what Bill would say if I told him that Bree and I planned to disguise ourselves as journalists and scour the English countryside for a dungeon containing a Russian prince who’d been driven into exile by a marauding band of Bolsheviks.

  So I didn’t tell him.

  I did, however, tell Aunt Dimity. Her reaction was much more sympathetic than Bill’s would have been.

  Well. You and Bree have had quite a day.

  Stanley, the twins, and our house guest were asleep upstairs. I was in the study and the silver sleigh was sitting in Reginald’s special niche on the bookshelves, where I’d placed it after everyone else had gone to bed. Reginald sat beside it, a soft silver gleam in his black button eyes.

  I had no intention of leaving the tiny masterpiece in such a highly visible spot, but I needed to see it plainly while I spoke with Aunt Dimity. The sleigh was the only tangible evidence I had to tie what seemed like a fabulous fairy tale to something approximating the truth. I regarded it speculatively while the flames crackled in the hearth, the mantel clock chimed the midnight hour, and Aunt Dimity’s elegant copperplate unfurled silently across the blue journal’s blank pages.

  It sounds as though you’ve set yourselves quite a tall task as well, but first things first: Is William feeling better?

  “Sorry?” I said, dragging my gaze away from the sleigh and peering distractedly at the journal.

  When last we spoke, your father-in-law was suffering from a severe head cold. Has his condition improved?

  “He’s over the worst of it,” I said, “but Deirdre won’t let him leave the house or receive visitors until Dr. Finisterre gives him the all-clear. If he’s a good boy and does what he’s told, she may allow him to attend church on Sunday.” I chuckled. “I don’t think William knew what he was getting into when he hired Deirdre as his housekeeper.”

  Deirdre may be a tyrant, but she’s a sensible and good-hearted tyrant. William would be wise to heed her advice.

  “I doubt he has much choice,” I said. “Deirdre’s a lot stronger than he is, even when he isn’t recuperating from an illness.”

  Any word on when Bill will return from Majorca?

  “None,” I replied. “He claims to have a dithering client, but I think he’s just waiting to see if our warm spell will last until spring.”

  I’m sure he misses the boys and you as much as you and the boys miss him.

  I snorted derisively.

  What’s happening at Emma’s riding school? Has Derek repaired the damaged pipes?

  “He decided to replace them,” I said. “He and his crew finished digging up the old pipes yesterday and plan to connect the new ones tomorrow. The stables should be open for business by Friday.”

  Have you delivered the happy news to Will and Rob?

  “Not yet,” I said. “I don’t want them to get their hopes up too soon. If the repairs are finished on time, I’ll take them to the stables at the crack of dawn on Friday, so they can spend a couple of hours communing with Thunder and Storm before school.”

  They’ll be tickled pink.

  “They’ll be over the moon,” I agreed, “though having Bree around has almost made them forget how much they miss their ponies.”

  Have the fumes in Bree’s house dissipated?

  “Not completely,” I said. “She went home to crack a few windows after we got back from Upper Deeping, but she had to close them again before nightfall to keep her pipes from freezing. According to her, the place is still uninhabitable. I can’t say I’m disappointed. She did me a huge favor when she threw herself on my mercy.”

  I suspect you are doing her an even bigger favor.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Has it not occurred to you that Bree might get lonely, living in Ruth and Louise’s big house all by herself?

  I stared at Aunt Dimity’s words, nonplussed.

  “It never crossed my mind,” I admitted. “She’s so independent, so upbeat . . .”

  She’s also a teen-ager and she’s a long way from home. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn that her house is perfectly habitable, but that she prefers to stay with you regardless. I imagine she finds the bustle of family life both refreshing and stimulating after the silence and the solitude of her own home.

  “She’s fantastic with Will and Rob,” I acknowledged. “And they’re crazy about her.”

  I’d venture to say that she values your company as much if not more than she values the boys’. You’re the only person in the Northern Hemisphere who saw firsthand what her life was like in New Zealand. You may be the only person in the world with whom she can discuss the bad old days.

  “She alluded to her old life several times today,” I said thoughtfully. “Fifty-three Addington Terrace seemed to remind her of the dump her father rented in Takapuna. I don’t think she’s mentioned it since we left New Zealand.”

  If she does so again, be a good listener. Even the freest spirits need to lean on a friendly shoulder from time to time.

  “She can lean on mine for as long as she likes,” I said. “Anyone who talks back to Peggy Taxman is aces in my book.”

  Mine, too. Now, about your remarkable day . . . I find it astonishing that neither Mrs. MacTavish nor Coral Bell know where Amanda and Daisy Pickering went
. I would have expected Amanda to leave a forwarding address with her landlady, and Daisy to confide in her best friend.

  “It’s strange, all right,” I said, nodding. “They took off without a word to anyone. I’d like to know why they left so abruptly.”

  I’m not convinced that Amanda’s departure was as precipitous as Mrs. MacTavish seems to think it was. Some planning must have gone into it. If it had been a spur-of-the moment decision, Amanda wouldn’t have taken Daisy’s old clothes to the charity shop. She would have dropped them into a handy rubbish bin on her way out of town.

  “If Amanda knew in advance that she’d be leaving Upper Deeping,” I countered, “why didn’t she notify her employers?”

  I don’t know. Aunt Dimity’s handwriting paused briefly, then continued. There’s quite a lot we don’t know about Amanda Pickering. We don’t know where she came from, for example, and we don’t know where she went. She appears to be a woman of mystery.

  “A trait she passed on to her daughter,” I said, with a wry smile. “I hope Daisy isn’t tying herself into knots over the silver sleigh. She must have been seriously rattled when she realized that it had gone astray. If I knew how to contact her, I’d tell her not to fret. As it is, there’s not much I can do to ease her mind.”

  It seems I may have been mistaken about Daisy’s motivation for removing the sleigh from Skeaping Manor. If it was stolen in the first place, she can hardly be blamed for making an effort to restore it to its rightful owner.

  “Do you believe Mikhail is the rightful owner?” I asked.