Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince

by Nancy Atherton

  A man in a motorized wheelchair sat within arm’s reach of the bell, his folded hands resting calmly on the plaid blanket spread neatly over his lap. He wore a thick, oatmeal-colored cardigan buttoned up over a soft cotton shirt. The toes of his brown wingtip shoes and the cuffs of his tweed trousers peeked out from beneath the edge of the plaid blanket. He had a long nose, a bushy white mustache, and limpid brown eyes. His white hair stood out from his head in a disheveled cloud.

  “Albert Einstein,” Bree breathed.

  The old man chuckled.

  “The resemblance is only skin-deep, I’m afraid,” he said with the merest hint of a Russian accent. “I haven’t Einstein’s brains or his fame.” He made a small bow. “I am your humble servant, Mikhail Markov. You have, I believe, come to rescue me?”

  “Um,” I said.

  “Er,” said Bree.

  It wasn’t the climactic moment I’d envisaged.

  “When I’m at a loss for words,” said Mikhail, “I try to say nothing until I’ve found the right ones. Please, take off your coats, help yourselves to some tea, and come sit by the fire until the right words present themselves to you.”

  Bree and I exchanged mystified glances, then piled our jackets on a striped footstool, filled two tall glasses from the golden samovar, and sat side by side on a slender-legged antique sofa near the fire. With a touch of a joystick, Mikhail pivoted his wheelchair to face us.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” I said.

  “Yes, you do,” he responded gently.

  “Our names,” I said at once, coloring to my roots. “We haven’t introduced ourselves. I’m Lori Shepherd.”

  “And I’m Bree Pym,” said Bree.

  “And we’re very confused,” I said. “Are you the Mikhail Markov who came to England with your parents more than eighty years ago?”

  “And are you a prince?” Bree added.

  “There are no Russian princes,” said Mikhail, with a bemused smile. “And though my father’s workshop catered to the nobility, he wasn’t himself an aristocrat.”

  “Is that why he left Russia?” Bree asked. “Because he served the nobility?”

  “So you wish to discuss my family’s history,” Mikhail said, as though it made perfect sense for a pair of wild-eyed women to break into his house and grill him about his background. “Forgive me, I did not understand. I do, however, know where to begin.”

  He tented his fingers over the plaid blanket and commenced, “My father was a silversmith in St. Petersburg. When the Bolsheviks came to power, he feared that the leaders of the new regime would not regard him as an artist or as a skilled craftsman, but as a lackey of the imperialist oppressors. Papa also feared that his client base would vanish once private ownership was abolished. His fears led him to make a bold decision.”

  “He came to England,” said Bree.

  “He and my mother went to Poland first,” Mikhail informed her, “then to France, but neither of those countries proved satisfactory, so they came to England. I was born five months after they arrived.”

  “It must have been difficult for your parents to start over,” I said, “with a brand-new baby to feed.”

  “An immigrant’s life is never easy,” said Mikhail, “but my father was a clever man. He made the best of the situation life had handed him. He sold a few of the small treasures he’d brought with him from St. Petersburg. He used the money to re-create his workshop and he found a ready market for his wares. His silver was purchased not only by the English, but by fellow émigrés who wished to be reminded of the lives they’d left behind.”

  “How old were you when your father bought Mirfield?” I asked.

  “I was nine,” said Mikhail, “and the house he bought was not called Mirfield. My mother chose the name to celebrate our deliverance from strife. Mir, you see, is the Russian word for ‘peace.’”

  “Of course,” Bree said, clapping a hand to her forehead. “Like the Mir space station.”

  “Exactly like the Mir space station,” Mikhail confirmed. “And like the cosmonauts in the space station, we were surrounded by a hostile environment. We were foreigners and we were in trade, two sins our new neighbors found hard to forgive. Only one family welcomed us when we came to Mirfield, but my mother, like my father, made the best of things. She’d always felt more comfortable in kitchens than in drawing rooms, so she became friendly with our neighbors’ cooks.”

  “And she shared recipes with them,” I said as another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

  Mikhail regarded me with an air of mild surprise, but did not disagree with me.

  “It amused Mama to think of her dishes finding favor with those who’d spurned us,” he said. “Unfortunately, her kitchen friendships were short-lived.” He spread his arms wide to indicate his wheelchair. “I was stricken by polio during our first summer at Mirfield and my mother devoted herself full time to my care. Eventually, I regained the use of my legs.”

  “And now?” Bree asked, glancing delicately at his chair.

  “A minor attack of post-polio syndrome,” he assured her, with a careless wave of his hand. “When I’m alone in the house, it’s safer for me to use the chair than to totter about on unreliable limbs. Please excuse me.” He turned his chair in a tight circle and rolled toward the table next to the door. “I crave a fresh glass of tea. The one I poured earlier has gone cold and all this talking has left me feeling rather parched.”

  I waited until he’d returned from the samovar, then placed my glass on a nearby table and leaned toward him.

  “Mr. Markov,” I said, “I can’t begin to imagine what you must think of us—”

  “Then I’ll tell you,” he cut in with a congenial smile. “I think you and your friend aren’t in the habit of sneaking into strange houses to rescue old men. I think you’ve both gone to a great deal of trouble out of concern for me, and for that I am grateful. I don’t know what prompted your concern, but I expect you’ll tell me.”

  “We will,” I said earnestly, “but before we do, I have to ask one more question: Have you spoken of your family’s history with anyone else recently?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, his smile widening. “I spoke of it a few weeks ago with a charming little girl named Daisy. She sat here with me while her mother polished the silver. Daisy was curious to know why I spoke with a funny accent and where my pretty ornaments came from. She was a good listener. Do you know her?”

  “I’ve met her,” I said. I cleared my throat. “You may not be aware of it, Mr. Markov—”

  “Come, Lori, we are old friends by now,” he said. “You must call me Misha.”

  “Okay,” I said hesitantly. I didn’t feel as though I deserved to be treated so graciously. “You may not be aware of it, Misha, but Daisy invented a story about you.”

  “Did she?” he said. “How delightful.”

  “It’s not a delightful story,” I said. “It’s an alarming one about a prince who was stripped of his treasures and locked in a dungeon by an evil man. There’s a lot more to it, but because of it, Bree and I spent the past week searching for someone who fit Daisy’s description of the lost prince.”

  “And you thought I fit it?” said Mikhail. He gave us a half apologetic, half pitying look. “I’m sorry, but you’ve been misinformed. As I said before, I’m not a prince. No one has stolen anything from me and as you can see, I’m not locked in a dungeon. What led you to believe that I was the person you were seeking?”

  I took the silver sleigh from my shoulder bag and handed it to Mikhail. His face softened as he received it. He ran a fingertip along the sleigh’s runners and over its curved back. He caressed the horses’ heads, their wild manes, their prancing hooves. He held the glittering creation in his palm to catch the firelight and heaved a deep sigh.

  “Yes,” he said, his gaze fixed on the sleigh. “It’s my father’s work. He made six of them for a client who fled Russia before she could collect them. He sold five to finance the building of
his London workshop, but he kept the last one for himself—a relic of a vanished age. I showed it to Daisy, explained to her what it was, how it should have been used, and by whom.” His gaze shifted from the sleigh to my face. “How did it come into your possession?”

  I told him about Skeaping Manor, the charity shop, and the pink parka. I repeated the story of the lost prince in full and I described the circuitous route Bree and I had followed in our quest to discover whether or not the story might be true. I was on the verge of explaining how our conversation with Gracie Thames had led us to Tappan Hall when I heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor.

  Mikhail heard them, too.

  “Am I to be rescued again?” he said, turning his wheelchair to face the door. “What an exciting evening this has turned out to be!”

  Twenty-four

  “And to think I intended to spend the evening alone with a good book,” Mikhail mused aloud as he tucked the silver sleigh beneath his blanket.

  Bree and I, still caught up in our roles as his protectors, placed ourselves between him and the door.

  “Did you leave the front door unlocked?” Bree murmured.

  “Probably,” I replied. “I was trying to locate a light switch at the time.”

  “Great,” Bree said, rolling her eyes.

  “You’re the one who wanted to play spies,” I retorted, stung. “Now’s your chance to show off your karate.”

  The door opened and we braced ourselves for battle, but the two men who gazed at us from the doorway didn’t appear to be armed or dangerous. The one on the left was probably in his early thirties, handsome, tall, and broad-shouldered, with short, tightly curled black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a well-tailored three-piece suit and carried a black leather briefcase.

  The other man was Miles Craven. He, too, wore a three-piece suit, but his was a vintage 1940s pinstripe in immaculate condition. His mouth fell open when he saw us, but his eyes registered surprise rather than alarm.

  “Good evening, Dedushka,” the bearded man said, looking past us at Mikhail. Though the exotic word tripped lightly off his tongue, his overall accent was that of an educated Englishman. “Forgive me for intruding. I didn’t realize you had”—he eyed us perplexedly—“guests.”

  “My social life is picking up,” Mikhail told him. “May I introduce Lori Shepherd and Bree Pym? Lori and Bree, I believe you know Mr. Miles Craven, the curator of the Skeaping Manor museum, but I don’t believe you’ve met my grandson, Alexei.”

  “You’re Al Markham?” I said to the bearded man, remembering the dire accusations Lady Barbara had leveled at him.

  “Alexei Markov, please,” he said, his eyes flickering toward his grandfather. “I no longer use the name Al Markham.”

  “Take a seat, all of you,” said Mikhail, motioning for the rest of us to follow him as he moved his wheelchair back to its spot near the fire. “I’m getting a stiff neck from looking up. There’s tea if you want it.”

  The five of us sat in a half circle before the hearth, Mikhail in his wheelchair, Bree and I on the sofa, Alexei and Miles in a pair of Louis XV armchairs. Alexei put his briefcase on the floor beside his chair and looked expectantly at his grandfather.

  “You cut your stay in London short,” Mikhail observed conversationally.

  “Mr. Roublov has a cold,” Alexei explained. “When he canceled tomorrow’s meeting, I decided to come home. I didn’t want to waste money on a hotel room.”

  “My grandson,” said Mikhail, turning to Bree and me, “is learning the family business after a few years spent exploring other options.”

  “You’re not a financial adviser anymore?” I asked Alexei.

  He seemed reluctant to reply, but after his grandfather gave him a small nod, he said, “I left the profession two years ago.”

  “Tell them why,” Mikhail said gently.

  “Dedushka,” Alexei protested, looking mortified.

  “Tell them why,” Mikhail repeated in the same gentle tone. “Tell them all of it. Confession is good for the soul, Alyosha, and in this case, it may clear up one or two unfortunate misunderstandings. Go on,” he prodded.

  Alexei looked confused as well as embarrassed, but he squared his shoulders and obeyed his grandfather’s instructions with as much dignity as he could muster.

  “My career as a financial adviser was a complete cock-up from start to finish,” he said, gazing stoically into the fire. “I was an overconfident young idiot, a showoff who thought impressing his friends was more important than keeping faith with his family.”

  “His late mother—may she rest in peace—spoiled him,” Mikhail interjected.

  “I always had more money than sense,” Alexei acknowledged, “and I was raised to believe I was too good to go into trade. When I turned twenty-one, I put Alexei Markov behind me and became Al Markham. I set out to make a name for myself in the City, got in over my head, and fell flat on my face. By the time I recompensed my clients, I was broke.”

  “We all make mistakes,” said Mikhail, with a casual shrug.

  “My mistake was to place style above substance,” said Alexei. “My so-called friends turned their backs on me at the first sign of trouble, but Grandfather stuck by me, as solid as a rock. He gave me a chance to start over.”

  “When your grandson’s in trouble, you help him,” Mikhail said nonchalantly. “It’s what grandfathers do.”

  “I sold my Lamborghini,” Alexei continued, “got rid of my flat in London, and sacked the high-priced toadies my mother had hired to work at Mirfield. I put my nose to the grindstone and immersed myself in all aspects of the silver trade, from the work floor to the auction room.” He sounded like a young man determined to prove his worth as he met his grandfather’s gaze and said, “When I take the helm of Markov & Son it won’t be because I’m the heir apparent, but because I’m the best man for the job.”

  “I believe you,” Mikhail said. “We all make mistakes, Alyosha, but hardly any of us learn from them. I believe you are one of the few who has, and I salute you for it.”

  “Spasibo, Dedushka,” Alexei said quietly.

  “And now,” Mikhail said, turning his attention to Bree and me, “let us unravel the misunderstandings that brought you here tonight. It seems to me that little Daisy blended my story with my father’s and added a few dramatic flourishes of her own. I became a prince because only a royal personage could live as I do, in a big house filled with pretty things. I, not my father, was driven from my homeland by a band of wicked men. In Daisy’s mind, my wheelchair became a dungeon and I, its prisoner. When the saltcellar I’d shown her turned up at Skeaping Manor, she assumed an evil man had stolen it from me.”

  “What?” exclaimed Alexei, jerking upright in his chair.

  “Patience, Alyosha. I’ll explain later.” Mikhail gestured for his grandson to be silent and said to me, “I hope my grandson and I have convinced you and young Bree that you have no cause to be concerned about my well-being or about the custodianship of my possessions.”

  “What about the silver sleigh?” I asked, frowning. “How did it find its way to Skeaping Manor?”

  “I didn’t steal it from my grandfather,” Alexei burst out indignantly. “I lent it to the museum a month ago, with my grandfather’s permission, as a way of thanking Miles for taking time out of his busy schedule to tutor me in Edwardian silversmithing techniques.”

  Miles Craven stirred himself to speak. “I don’t pretend to understand what’s going on here, but I believe I’ve been accused of receiving stolen goods. If so, I must protest my innocence.”

  “You didn’t behave like an innocent man when we spoke with you in your flat on Tuesday,” said Bree. “You were all sweetness and light until we asked you for Amanda Pickering’s address. Then you went all twitchy and furtive and showed us to the door as quickly as you could.”

  “You also live a bit high on the hog for a museum curator,” I added defensively. “It looks as though you’ve spent more money on
your flat than on the museum.”

  “So I’m . . . I’m an embezzler as well as a . . . a fence?” Miles sputtered. He crossed his arms tightly across his chest and looked away from us, his nose in the air. “I refuse to dignify such utter nonsense with a reply.”

  “I would, if I were you,” Mikhail murmured. “They’re a pair of terriers, these two. They’ll hang on to your coattails until you shake them off.”

  “We’re not stupid,” Bree asserted. “We know the museum’s security system is a joke. Dummy cameras, invisible security guards . . .” She gave a derisory laugh. “If you’re not spending the endowment’s money to improve the security system, Mr. Craven, what are you spending it on?”

  “You may not be stupid,” Miles said in clipped tones, “but you are colossally ignorant.” He unfolded his arms, touched a finger to his tie, and regarded us with complete disdain. “The Jephcott Endowment is funded by a combination of investments, government grants, and private donations, all of which have dwindled to a trickle over the past few years.”

  “As a rule,” said Alexei, “cultural institutions suffer greatly during times of economic stagnation. Miles’s museum has suffered more than most.”

  “It has,” Miles agreed. “Skeaping Manor is a minor museum in an out-of-the-way location and, as you yourself pointed out to me, Mrs. Shepherd, most of its collections don’t appeal to a mainstream audience.”

  “There’s been talk of closing the museum permanently,” Alexei put in.

  “Talk which I have done my utmost to combat,” Miles said passionately. “If I have been unable to maintain the museum’s security system at a level you deem adequate, Mrs. Shepherd, it’s because I’ve been forced to spend every available penny on keeping its doors open to the public.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Miles cut me off before I could utter a single syllable.

  “Furthermore,” he said acidly, “I receive no salary from the endowment. I am allowed to live in the manor rent-free, but my work at the museum is done on a purely voluntary basis.”

  “How do you make a—” Bree began, but Miles cut her off as well.