Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince

by Nancy Atherton

  Bree and I chuckled politely, and though I felt a tiny stab of disappointment, I pressed on.

  “Do you have a full indoor and outdoor staff?” I asked. “Any retired retainers on the premises?”

  “Retired retainers?” Madeleine exclaimed, smiling. “No one has retired retainers anymore. Ernestine is our only full-time employee, and she has an apartment here in the house. The dailies come in from the surrounding villages or from Upper Deeping. I can’t think of anyone who has a full complement of live-in staff, apart from the royal family, of course. For the rest of us, the world of Upstairs, Downstairs is long gone. People are happier in their own homes nowadays than they would be in servants’ quarters.” She placed her empty teacup on the tray. “When you’ve finished, I’ll be happy to show you the guest rooms.”

  “We’d like to see the cellars,” Bree said firmly.

  “The cellars?” Madeleine’s brow wrinkled briefly, then smoothed. “Looking for signs of vermin. I understand. I can assure you that Hayewood House is completely pest-free, but of course you can’t take my word for it. The cellars shall be our first port of call.”

  Bree and I finished our tea as quickly as we could without actually slurping it and jumped up to trail behind Madeleine as she gave us the grand tour. The cellars were both immaculate and devoid of captives, as were the attics, the guest rooms, the reception rooms, and the rest of the rooms Bree decided to “inspect.” While I took random photographs, Bree took full and shameless advantage of Madeleine’s eagerness to please by peering into every wardrobe, cupboard, trunk, and storage space we passed, but she didn’t discover a bound and gagged Russian prince in any of them.

  Still Bree soldiered on, invading the kitchen for a peek at the receipt book. If she hoped to find Cyrillic writing in it, she was disappointed. The Russian tea cake recipe was unsigned, undated, and written in plain English.

  By the time we returned to our seats in the drawing room it was midday. I was hungry, tired, footsore, and ready to leave, but Bree was still fresh as a daisy.

  “Do you offer your customers guest cottages as well as guest rooms, Maddie?” she inquired craftily.

  Madeleine’s face fell. “We don’t have guest cottages, I’m afraid. There was a row of workmen’s cottages on the property, but according to our tenant, one was hit by a stray bomb during the war and the others were demolished after the war. Will it count against us, do you think? I realize that people enjoy staying in cottages, of course, but I rather thought staying in the main house would have its own special appeal. Bunny says it gives common folk a chance to live like Lord and Lady Muck.” She began to laugh, caught herself, and blushed charmingly. “I hope you won’t quote Bunny in your story. She meant it as a joke, but it might come across as . . . condescending. She’d be furious with me for talking out of turn.”

  “We’ll pretend we didn’t hear it,” Bree assured her. “We would like to hear more about your tenant, though.”

  “To be exact, we have two tenants,” said Madeleine, clearly welcoming the change of subject, “a married couple, but they live in a converted barn a half mile east of the main house, so neither they nor our guests will be inconvenienced.”

  “How long have they lived in your barn?” asked Bree.

  “Goodness knows,” Madeleine replied. “They’ve been here longer than we have. They came along with the house, so to speak, but they’re so quiet and retiring we sometimes forget they’re around.”

  “They sound like the perfect tenants,” I said, and made a mental note to “inspect” the converted barn before we left.

  “Do you mind if I ask how you heard about Hayewood House?” said Madeleine.

  “Not at all,” I answered. “My colleague and I were inspired to come here by a conversation I had with a woman named Amanda Pickering.”

  My just-about-truthful reply seemed to strike Madeleine like a thunderbolt.

  “When did you speak with Amanda?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  “On Saturday,” I said.

  “Astonishing,” said Madeleine, shaking her head. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but Amanda Pickering and her daughter have disappeared without a trace. She was supposed to work here on Monday, but she didn’t show up. When I rang her landlady—a thoroughly disagreeable woman, by the way, with a voice like a cheese grater . . .” Madeleine frowned at the recollection, then went on. “At any rate, the landlady told me that Mrs. Pickering had cleared out her flat on Sunday and left for parts unknown. Do you know where she’s gone?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t,” I said. “She’s not a close friend. I met her only once, at Skeaping Manor.”

  “That horrible place.” Madeleine wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I’ll never understand how Amanda could take her daughter there. It seems like an unhealthy environment for a girl Daisy’s age.”

  “Did Amanda bring her daughter to Hayewood House as well?” Bree asked.

  “Yes,” Madeleine replied. “Daisy has respiratory problems that keep her away from school fairly often and Amanda doesn’t like to leave her at home with no one but the appalling landlady to look after her. Daisy’s such a well-behaved little thing that I didn’t mind having her around. To tell you the truth, I didn’t see much of her. She spent most of her time in the converted barn, visiting our tenants.”

  I felt Bree twitch beside me, like a hound scenting a hare, and decided it was time to move on. We’d plumbed Hayewood House’s depths and come up empty, but the converted barn seemed to offer us a fresh line of inquiry, so I dropped my camera into my shoulder bag and got to my feet.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Maddie,” I said. “You’ve been a delightful hostess and an incredibly patient guide. I believe we have all the material we need.”

  “We’ll let you know when the story comes out,” Bree added, rising.

  “Where will it be published?” Madeleine inquired as she escorted us to the entrance hall. “I meant to ask earlier, but it completely slipped my mind.”

  “We’re freelancers,” I said before Bree could open her mouth. “We’re not sure where our story will appear, but I can tell you right now that you deserve a rave review. Hayewood House has everything anyone could desire in an exclusive, high-end B and B.”

  “You’re too kind,” said Madeleine, beaming.

  She retrieved our coats and walked with us to the front door.

  “Would it be all right with you if we took a turn around the grounds, Maddie?” Bree asked. “We’d like to take pictures of the house from different angles.”

  “I’ll come with you, if you like,” Madeleine offered.

  “We wouldn’t dream of taking up any more of your valuable time,” I said. “Thanks again, Maddie. I’m sure the Graham sisters from Dundee will love every minute of their stay here.”

  “If you run into Amanda again,” Madeleine said as she opened the door, “would you please ask her to send me a forwarding address? I don’t know what to do with her last paycheck.”

  “If I run into her, I’ll tell her,” I said. “Good-bye, Maddie. I wish you the best of luck with your new venture.”

  Bree and I shook hands with Madeleine and trotted down the stairs. She paused on the threshold to wave to us before closing the door.

  “What a twit!” Bree exploded as we strode away from the house in an easterly direction. “She didn’t even ask to see our business cards. Can you imagine letting two reporters—reporters with foreign accents, no less—snoop around your house without asking them for some form of identification?”

  “I wouldn’t let a reporter snoop around my house, period,” I said, “but I wouldn’t call Madeleine Sturgess a twit. She was a little overexcited, that’s all. It was her first day on the job and there she was, faced with a golden opportunity to get some free publicity.”

  “It’s better than no publicity,” Bree scoffed. “How could she even consider breaking into the hospitality industry without a website?”

  “She’s new to the
game,” I said. “She’ll figure it out.”

  “Why did you tell her we were freelancers?” Bree demanded. “We work for Country House Monthly, don’t we?”

  I came to a halt and gave Bree a look that stopped her in her tracks.

  “Madeleine Sturgess is a nice woman,” I said sternly. “She may not be the canniest businesswoman on the planet, but she’s the sort of woman who worries about sending a paycheck to an employee who left her in the lurch. I won’t have her wasting her time searching the local newsstands for a magazine you invented.”

  “Right,” said Bree, looking chastened. “Sorry.”

  “No worries,” I said and walked on.

  “So much for our Russian connection, eh?” Bree said as she caught up with me. “The Russian tea cakes weren’t made for a Russian family because a Russian family never owned Hayewood House. And Sergei Sturgess is as Russian as I am.”

  “I’m holding out hopes for the tenants,” I told her.

  “Me, too,” she said. “If Daisy spent time with them, she might have told them about Mikhail.”

  “Or they might be hiding him.” With those words I forgot about my fatigue, my sore feet, and my grumbling tummy and hurried forward, muttering, “C’mon, Bree. Let’s find the converted barn.”

  Twelve

  Bree and I soon stumbled upon a dirt road leading east from Hayewood House. Snowmelt had turned much of the dirt into mud and the mud bore the imprint of fresh tire tracks.

  “I hope Maddie’s tenants haven’t gone out for the day,” I said as we picked our way along the road’s less muddy margins.

  “If they have,” said Bree, “you can keep a lookout while I slip inside for a shufti.”

  “How will you get inside?” I asked. “Did you bring a set of picklocks with you?”

  “People who live in the country don’t lock their doors,” she said authoritatively.

  I couldn’t argue with her—my doors were never locked—but it seemed like an opportune moment to remind my young friend of the difference between resourcefulness and criminality.

  “Even if you enter a house through an unlocked door,” I said, “it’s still trespassing.”

  “With the best of intentions,” Bree retorted. “You’re the one who came up with the haunting image of a frail old man begging for help. Do you want to help Mikhail or not?”

  “Let’s see what we find when we get there,” I counseled.

  What we found when we got there was a building lofty enough to hold a winter’s worth of grain, though signs of its conversion were everywhere. Six skylights had been set into its slate roof, a dozen or more windows inserted in its rough stone walls, and the square gap through which farm carts had once rolled had been filled with a sliding door made of galvanized steel.

  Smoke rising from the chimney suggested that someone was at home.

  “Disappointed?” I said, nodding at the smoke.

  “A little,” Bree admitted. “I’ve always wanted to risk arrest for a worthy cause. Can we at least scope out the place before we announce our presence?”

  “Lead the way,” I said. Circumnavigating the converted barn might be less daring than breaking and entering, but it was also less likely to land us in jail.

  We looked through each window we passed as we crept stealthily around the side of the building, but since the windows we passed were curtained, we couldn’t see very much. We could, however, see into the large solarium protruding from the barn’s rear wall. A tall, rawboned woman stood before an easel in the glass-enclosed room, paintbrush in hand. She was older than Madeleine Sturgess. Her short, dark hair was shot through with gray and her face was beautifully lined. She wore an oversized white shirt, liberally spattered with paint, and a pair of khaki trousers.

  Since we were silent, motionless, and half hidden by a leafless shrub, Bree’s red hair must have caught the woman’s eye because she looked up from her canvas suddenly, squinted in our direction, and signaled for us to meet her at the solarium’s back door.

  “Have you lost yourselves?” she asked when we arrived. She had soft gray eyes and an extremely pleasant voice.

  “No,” said Bree. “We’re journalists. We were up at the big house, interviewing Madeleine Sturgess, and we thought we might have a word with you as well.”

  “About what?” she asked.

  “About living in a converted barn,” I said on the spur of the moment. “We’re sure our readers would love to hear about your home, Mrs. . . um . . .”

  “Wylton,” she said. “Frances Wylton, but Frances will do.”

  “Lori Shepherd,” I said in turn and when Bree remained unaccountably mute I added, “and Bree Pym.”

  “Come in,” said Frances.

  She led us through the solarium and into an open-plan great room with a kitchen at one end, a sitting room at the other, and a dining area in between. An intricate web of elm beams supported the roof, a thick layer of whitewashed plaster concealed the stone walls, and a spiral staircase beside the front door led to a high-ceilinged loft that might once have been used to store hay bales.

  The furniture was old, solid, and comfortable looking. Overstuffed chairs and sofas clustered companionably around a wood-burning stove at the far end of the great room and a large wooden desk piled high with papers sat beneath a window overlooking a sodden meadow. The polished flagstone floor was strewn with an assortment of vintage rugs ranging in style from Turkish to French and the air was redolent with a savory aroma that made my mouth water.

  “Toss your coats anywhere,” Frances said. “I was about to break for lunch. Will you join me?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” I said as my stomach gave an embarrassing rumble.

  “I made the bread first thing this morning and the soup is simmering on the cooker,” said Frances. “It couldn’t be much less trouble.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “We’d love to join you.” I dropped my coat on an armchair and asked, “How long have you lived here, Frances?”

  “Almost forty years,” she replied, throwing cloth napkins onto the oak dining table. “My husband and I moved in a year after we were married. We’ve never wanted to live anywhere else.”

  “I can see why,” I said, peering up at the elm beams. “Your home is charming.”

  “The location suits us,” said Frances. “We’re not the most sociable of creatures. We prefer living in splendid isolation.”

  Bree hadn’t said a single word since we’d entered the barn, nor had she removed her trench coat. She stood midway between the desk and Frances, looking from one to the other with an intensely perplexed expression on her face.

  “Are you the Frances Wylton?” she blurted suddenly. “The romance writer?”

  “Yes and no,” said Frances. The crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes crinkled into a thousand splintery wrinkles as she smiled. “Take off your coat and have a seat, Bree. I’ll explain while we eat.”

  I didn’t know what Bree was talking about or what explanation Frances had in store for her and I was too hungry to care. The soup Frances ladled into three earthenware bowls was a pottage rich and thick enough to serve as a complete meal, but she buttered thick slices of her homemade bread for us as well. While she and Bree conversed, I ate like a ravening beast.

  “I am Frances Wylton,” Frances began, “but I’m not the romance writer. That would be my husband, Felix.”

  “Felix?” Bree echoed blankly, ignoring her food.

  “Felix Chesterton,” said Frances. “Felix borrowed my name when he wrote his first novel because he was convinced that a romance written by a woman would sell better than one written by a man. I don’t know if he was right or not, but the book was such a hit he went on using my name.”

  “You husband wrote Lark Landing?” Bree said, looking staggered.

  “I’m afraid so,” Frances said gently.

  “And Sundown Mountain?” said Bree.

  “He wrote each and every one of them,” Frances said. “Have a
bite to eat, Bree. You’ll feel better.”

  Bree reached for a slice of bread, as though she didn’t trust herself to handle a soup spoon.

  “I’m sorry it’s come as such a shock to you,” Frances continued. “I thought all of my husband’s fans were in on his secret.”

  “I don’t pry into my favorite authors’ private lives,” Bree told her seriously. “Knowing too much about them might change the way I feel about their books.”

  “I wish more readers were like you,” said Frances. “Unfortunately, they’re not. Felix was outed several years ago by a prying, spying fan. He thought it spelled the end of his career, but it had the opposite effect: His sales numbers soared. Which simply proves what I’ve said all along: Predicting what book buyers will like or dislike is as pointless as throwing darts at jelly. I’m glad to know that Felix is one of your favorite authors.”

  “He’s right up there with Tolkien,” Bree said passionately. “If it weren’t for their stories, I don’t think I’d be alive today.”

  Frances’s eyes flickered toward mine and I gave a small nod. It was true. Immersing herself in her favorite books had helped Bree to survive a childhood blighted by her father’s dissolute habits.

  “I don’t know how many times I’ve read Lark Landing,” Bree went on, as if she hadn’t noticed the looks that had passed between Frances and me. “People who knock romances have never read your husband’s books.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Frances said softly. “You have no idea how much it will mean to him.” She gazed down at her bowl for a moment, as if to collect herself, then continued lightly, “I wish you could tell him yourself, but he’s gone down to London to meet with his editor and he won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  “No worries,” said Bree. “I don’t really want to meet him.”