Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure (10 page)

“Enjoy your soup?” she asked, pulling a chair over to sit with us.

“Very much,” I said. “Thanks for suggesting it.”

“You'll like the tart, too,” she said. “Berries picked fresh from the hedgerows this morning.” She laid a finger alongside her nose. “I have countryside connections.”

Like Adam, I didn't know if she was joking or not, but the blackberries were as plump and juicy as any I'd ever picked, the custard was as smooth as silk, and the crust was a minor masterpiece of buttery flakiness. I'd never expected to meet a baker as skilled as Finch's own Sally Cook, but Carrie Osborne, I thought, could give Sally a run for her money.

“Good?” Carrie said, raising her eyebrows.

“Heavenly,” I mumbled through a forkful of perfection.

“I've told Lori about the leather chairs and your old gentlemen,” said Adam. “She'd like to ask you a few questions about them.”

“Why would a Yank take an interest in my boys?” Carrie asked, eyeing me narrowly. “Writing a book, are you?”

“No,” I said, forcing myself to put my fork down. “I live in the countryside, in a very small village not too far from Oxford. I had a friend there—a village woman—who lived in Bloomsbury for a short time after the war. She was very fond of the Rose Café, which was, as you probably know—”

“Right here, on this spot,” Carrie put in, nodding. “That's why my old boys come here. They're the last of the Rose Café crowd. There may be others out there, still in the land of the living, but they don't come here anymore. I know my regulars.”

Having heard her grill Adam about his girlfriend, I didn't doubt it.

“My friend had a friend,” I continued. “They used to meet at the Rose Café, but she lost track of him a long time ago, and she always regretted it. She asked me to find him and to give him a message. I hoped someone here might know him or know how I can contact him.”

“A dying wish, was it?” Carrie asked, echoing Adam's earlier query.

“Yes,” I said firmly. “It may sound odd, but my friend didn't know her friend's proper name. All I have to go on is his nickname.”

“It doesn't sound odd to me,” said Carrie. “All of my old dears have nicknames. If they weren't branded with them at boarding school, they picked them up in the RAF. There's Griff—Anthony Griffin-Hughes—a squadron leader by the tender age of nineteen. And Chocks—he was ground crew, a first-rate mechanic. And Ginger—he tells me his hair was as red as mine when he joined up. And Granddad—at twenty-three, the oldest man in his squadron. And Fish—he was plucked from the Channel by a trawler after he put his Spitfire into the drink. And Madge—”

“Madge?” Adam interrupted, looking perplexed.

“Short for Your Majesty,” Carrie explained. “Old Madge came from old money.” Her expression softened as she turned her head to gaze at the three leather chairs. “Madge is gone now, God rest his soul, along with Griff and Granddad. The only ones left are Chocks, Ginger, and Fish, and they're in their nineties.” She sighed. “I don't suppose they'll be around much longer.”

“But you'll look after them while you can,” Adam said kindly.

“That I will,” said Carrie, rousing herself. “It's the least I can do for my Battle of Britain boys.”

“Have you ever heard them speak of someone called Badger?” I asked.

“I don't believe I have,” said Carrie, frowning in concentration. “Doesn't mean they haven't spoken of him. I'm too busy to pay attention to everything my old boys say. I can run the name past them, if you like.”

“Would you?” I said.

“They won't be in today,” she warned, waving a hand through the air to indicate the rain dripping steadily from the striped awning. “Chocks roasted his hands when he pulled a pilot out of a burning Hurricane. Fish broke both kneecaps when his Spit went down. Ginger took a bullet in the shoulder from a passing Messerschmitt.” She shook her head. “Old war wounds don't mix well with wet weather.”

“I understand,” I said, “but if you could mention Badger to them the next time they drop in, I'd be incredibly grateful. If they ask for a description, you can tell them that Badger had a dark beard, dark curly hair, strong hands, and a deep tan.”

“He won't have dark hair anymore,” Carrie commented, “but my boys might remember him from the old days.”

“I hope they do,” I said. I pulled a scrap of paper from my bag and scribbled my name and my phone number on it. “I'll leave my number with you, Carrie. If Chocks, Fish, or Ginger knows Badger or if they know anyone who knows Badger, please ring me. I'll be happy to meet them here or in their homes or wherever is most convenient for them.”

“Dying wishes must be honored,” Carrie said with a firm nod of approbation.

“I'd like to meet them for my own sake as much as my friend's,” I said. “As you say, they may not be around much longer. I'd like to thank them face-to-face while they're still in the land of the living.”

“They'll tell you not to be so soppy,” said Carrie, “but they'll like it all the same.” She took the scrap of paper from me and slipped it into her apron pocket. “Leave it to me, Lori. I'll put the word out.” She pushed herself to her feet. “But first I'll give Dizz a hand with the washing up. I've enjoyed meeting you, Lori. Eat up the rest of your tart.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said, but when her back was turned, I pushed the plate toward Adam and asked, “Would you finish it for me, please?”

“Why?” he said. “What's wrong?”

“Broken wrists, broken kneecaps, and bullet wounds,” I said bleakly. “It doesn't seem right to eat dessert after hearing about what those men went through—what they're still going through.”

“They'd disagree with you,” said Adam. “If Ginger, Chocks, and Fish were here, they'd tell you to enjoy every bite. They'd say they fought the war so that you could eat dessert in peace.”

“Is that what your granddad says to you?” I asked.

“All the time,” he replied.

“Well,” I said reluctantly, “if you insist . . .”

“I do,” Adam said, getting to his feet, “because I'm ordering a cream bun, for myself, and I don't plan to share it with you!”

As he returned to the counter for his cream bun, I lifted a forkful of blackberry tart in a toast to the three empty chairs.

A
dam was as good as his word. He didn't share so much as a crumb of his cream bun with me. I got even with him by buying a few to take home. Carrie's immortal buns were too rich for Bess, but they would, I was certain, be a big hit with my menfolk.

By the time we left the coffeehouse, the steady downpour had given way to intermittent showers. I opened my umbrella, Adam raised his hood, and we set out for the last stop on our Aunt Dimity–inspired walking tour.

Number 16 Northington Street turned out to be a major disappointment. I couldn't tell whether Aunt Dimity's borrowed flat had been in a charming Georgian row house or in a bland brown brick pile because every building on the block was covered from attic to cellar with scaffolding and draped in green safety netting. Even the chimney pots were shrouded in tarpaulins, presumably to protect them from the rain while they were being repaired or replaced.

“Gentrification,” Adam observed. “A developer is turning affordable housing into upscale, upmarket flats for the upwardly mobile. It's happening all over London. If I wanted to be a millionaire, I'd invest in travertine flooring and complicated taps.”

I tried bending over to peer under the safety netting, but it was like looking into a stalactite-filled cave.

“It's not much of an image to fix in my memory,” I said, straightening.

“It's London as it was, is, and ever shall be,” Adam intoned. “Like Great Ormond Street Hospital, London is always under construction. Your friend must have seen miles of scaffolding during the postwar building boom.”

“True,” I said. I almost added, “I'll ask her,” but I swallowed the treacherous words before they could escape. “Well, Adam, we found the Rose Café, and we identified three members of the old Rose Café crowd who might lead me to Badger. I think we've done as much as we can do today.”

“To Paddington?” he queried.

“To Paddington,” I replied. “I should be home in plenty of time for dinner.”

I could hardly believe how quickly we reached the tube station. With no sightseeing stops to delay us, we made it from Northington Street to Russell Square in ten minutes flat. The tube was less crowded than it had been in the morning, and I had to admit that it was nice to be out of the rain.

I allowed Adam to lead me to the correct platform in Paddington Station, and I didn't object when he offered to wait with me. I was coming down with a bad case of sensory overload, so I was grateful to have someone on hand to keep me from boarding the Outer Hebrides Express.

“Thank you, Adam,” I said as my train pulled into the station. “I would have been lost without you—and I'm speaking literally. Shall we team up again the next time I'm in London?”

“I'd like that,” said Adam. “Your husband has my contact information. And don't forget our day at the British Museum. If your sons like arms and armor, they'll love the Sutton Hoo exhibition. Once you've seen it, you'll realize that the early Anglo-Saxons weren't simple-minded barbarians.”

“I never thought they were,” I protested. “To be perfectly honest, I never thought about them at all,” I continued, adding hastily, “but I'm willing to learn.”

“You'll love it,” Adam stated firmly.

“Until next time, then,” I said, and boarded the train.

A train journey can offer a splendid opportunity for reflection. I'd planned to review the day's adventures while London's far-reaching tentacles slipped past me. I'd intended to contemplate the remarkable sights I'd seen and the stories I'd heard, but my overstuffed brain refused to cooperate. Instead of using my travel time to think deeply about my experiences, I fell asleep as my train left Paddington, and I stayed asleep until it reached Oxford.

Refreshed, I drove home without incident.

The cottage hadn't fallen down in my absence, and my family was gratifyingly pleased to see me. Will and Rob showed me the stories they'd written at school, which involved dinosaurs, race cars, and champion cricketers, and Bess informed me that she was considering a career as a timpanist. Bill had his doubts about my interpretation of her words—he doubted that they were words—but I understood her perfectly.

Bill's lentil stew filled the cottage with a savory aroma that reminded me of autumn leaves and bonfires. To my relief, it tasted even better than it smelled. While the boys set the table, their talented father stowed my box of cream buns in the refrigerator, made a green salad, and sliced a loaf of crusty brown bread.

Feeling pleasantly superfluous, I returned the garnet bracelet to Reginald's niche in the study, brought Bess upstairs with me, and swapped my big-city clothes for a soft flannel shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers.

We sat down to eat at our usual time, but our dinner table
conversation was highly unusual, in that it was more of a monologue than a discussion. I simply couldn't stop talking about my day in London. I didn't mention the Badger hunt in front of the boys, but I prattled on about everything else. My newfound enthusiasm for the metropolis must have been contagious because Will, Rob, and Bill listened intently rather than patiently.

“The next time you go to London,” Will said when I finally ran out of steam, “can we come with you?”

“We want to see the little queen,” said Rob. “And Sam the Cat.”

“And the air raid shelter,” added Will.

“You can't see the air raid shelter,” I explained, “because it's underground.”

“We could see Carrie's coffeehouse,” Rob pointed out.

“And we could have a blackberry tart each,” said Will.

“Carrie may not have blackberry tarts all the time,” I warned, “but I'm sure she'll have something you'll like just as well.”

“I wouldn't mind an eclair,” Rob conceded.

“Or a jam doughnut,” Will chimed in.

“Maybe
two
puddings each,” Rob reconsidered, using the British word for dessert. He had, after all, been raised in England.

“I'll tell you what,” I said. “Daddy and I will take you to London during your Christmas break.” I looked at Bill. “The museums will be jam-packed, but the parks and the backstreets won't be too crowded, and they're just as interesting as museums. In some ways, they're more interesting.”

“I'll ask Adam to design a walking tour for us,” said Bill.

“Ask Adam to come along,” Will suggested.

“We'd like to meet him,” said Rob. “And see Sutton Hoo.”

“Hoo!” Bess crowed from her high chair.

“Okay,” I said, laughing. “We'll fit one museum into our schedule
and we'll definitely ask Adam to join us there. I can give you a treat from Carrie's coffeehouse right now, though. Sit,” I ordered as Bill started to get to his feet. “You made dinner. The boys will clear the table, and I'll get the dessert.”

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 . . .”