Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure (11 page)

I repeated my dinner table monologue, describing Queen Square Gardens, the Great Ormond Street Hospital, Lamb's Conduit Street, St. Megwen's Lane, and number 16 Northington Street, and reprising Adam's running commentary on each. By the time I finished, my voice was growing hoarse.

“I don't know why I'm telling you about Bloomsbury,” I concluded sheepishly. “You must be as familiar with it as Adam is.”

My Bloomsbury was quite different from the Bloomsbury you experienced, Lori. It wasn't bombed as badly as some parts of London, but even so, it had rubble-filled streets, shattered windows, brick dust in the air, and endless queues outside every shop. As for Sam the Cat . . . he came along after my time, so I never had the pleasure of meeting him. Thank you for allowing me to see my old neighborhood through your eyes.

“I hope to see a lot more of it,” I said. “The boys and I are planning a special family outing at Christmas—a walking tour of Bloomsbury.”

You've certainly changed your tune about London, my dear.

“London is overcrowded, noisy, and exhausting,” I said, “but there's magic around every corner.” I smiled wryly. “I still need a native guide, though. I'm not brave enough to take on the big scary city single-handed.”

Luckily, you have a native guide. Let's hope Adam Rivington's available when the Battle of Britain boys come through for us.

“If I hear from Carrie, I'll be in here like a shot to tell you about it,” I said. “Unless I have to make a quick getaway.”

Understood. What are your plans for tomorrow?

“James Hobson is giving a metal-detecting demonstration on the village green,” I said. “I think the entire population of Finch will be there.”

Including Sally Cook?

“She wouldn't miss it for the world,” I said. “It'll be the main topic of conversation in Finch for the next six months.”

Sally may wish to have a different conversation with you when she finds out that you've been gorging yourself on someone else's pastries. And she will find out. Will and Rob aren't known for their discretion.

“Oh, Lord,” I moaned, sinking back in the chair. “She'll probably ban me from the tearoom.”

I suggest feigning indifference to Carrie Osborne's culinary masterpieces and reminding Sally of how easily pleased little boys are when it comes to sweets.

“It's worth a try,” I said. I covered my mouth with my hand as I was ambushed by a monstrous yawn. “Sorry, Dimity. I've been running on adrenaline since I came home, but I think my adrenaline supply just ran dry.”

Of course it has. Time travel can be terribly fatiguing. I'm glad you're getting to know London better, Lori. It's an acquaintance worth cultivating.

“Adam's a good matchmaker,” I said. “Good night, Dimity.”

Good night, my dear. Sleep well.

I felt a quiet sense of satisfaction as I watched the curving lines of royal-blue ink fade from the page. I'd started the day with zero expectations of finding Badger and ended it with a flicker—three flickers—of hope. In between, I'd discovered a London I could grow to love.

“Don't look so worried, Reg,” I said as I closed the journal. “I like London better than I did before, but I don't want to live there. Aunt Dimity's cottage will always be our home.”

Reginald's black button eyes seemed to glimmer with relief as I returned the journal to its shelf, banked the fire, and switched off the mantel lamps.

“Look after Aunt Dimity's bracelet,” I told him.

I touched a reassuring fingertip to his snout, then headed for the living room to coax Bill into coming upstairs with me.

I had no ulterior motives. We'd both earned a good night's sleep.

T
he gray clouds shifted to a new location overnight, leaving a damp but sunlit world in their wake. Unless the weather changed its mind, which it did almost daily in England, it seemed willing to grant James Hobson the permission he needed to put on a show for the villagers.

When Bill volunteered to drive the boys to school, I didn't even try to talk him out of it. My tardy arrival at the moving van vigil had made me more determined than ever to show up at James's demonstration on time. I wasn't particularly interested in metal detecting, but I took a keen interest in Finch. As I'd told Aunt Dimity, James's hobby would be the talk of the village for the next six months. I wanted to be in on the conversation.

To avoid missing Carrie Osborne's call, I made doubly sure that my cell phone was fully charged before I put Bess and her all-terrain pram into the Range Rover. Though the clouds had moved out, the wind was still very much in residence, and it was a bit too brisk and breezy to take my baby girl for a stroll along the narrow, twisting lane that led to the village.

We cruised past Anscombe Manor, Bree Pym's redbrick house, my father-in-law's wrought-iron gates, and Ivy Cottage, then paused at the apex of the humpbacked bridge to take in the view of the village.

It was a sight that never failed to warm my heart. The village green lay before me, an elongated oval island of tussocky grass
separated by a cobbled lane from honey-hued buildings that had stood the test of time for several centuries. The Celtic cross that served as our war memorial seemed to glow in the morning light. Every window box on every cottage was filled to overflowing with chrysanthemums, and wood smoke curled from every crooked chimney, enfolding the village in a golden-gray haze. St. George's stumpy, square bell tower played peekaboo with me through the waving boughs of the churchyard's towering cedars, and a colorful patchwork of fallen leaves spangled the Little Deeping River.

I sighed contentedly.

“Your first autumn,” I said to Bess. “I hope all of them are as beautiful as this one—and less windy!”

James Hobson was already on the scene, with Mr. Barlow acting as his assistant. Mr. Barlow's participation was crucial to the success of any event in Finch, not only because he was a willing worker but because he held the keys to the old schoolhouse, where the community's folding chairs and tables were stored. I watched the two men carry a rectangular folding table from the schoolhouse and set it up in the center of the green.

“We can't seem to get our timing right,” I told Bess. “We were late for the moving van vigil and now we're early for the demo. Shall we offer to give the men a hand?”

Bess was agreeable, so I bumped down the humpbacked bridge and drove past Sally Cook's tearoom, Bill's office, and the old schoolhouse to park in front of the vicarage, where there was more room for a car. I'd just finished placing Bess in her pram and tucking a blanket around her when Lilian Bunting opened her front door and came down the steps to say hello to Bess. The vicar's gray-haired, scholarly wife wore the tweed skirt suit she always wore when the temperature dipped, but she'd added brown leather gloves, a tweed
fishing hat, and a hand-knitted wool scarf to her outfit, to protect herself from the nippy breezes.

“Good morning, Lilian,” I said. “Will the vicar be joining us?”

“Teddy's at an ecclesiastical conference in Oxford,” she replied. “I promised that I'd memorize James Hobson's presentation for him.”

“If Mr. Bunting asks nicely, I'm sure James will give him a private lesson,” I said. “On the other hand, he may not have to ask. James is
very
enthusiastic about his hobby.”

“So I've heard,” said Lilian. “May I push Bess?”

“Be my guest,” I said, and relinquished the pram's handles.

We crossed to the folding table, where Mr. Barlow was placing bricks on piles of professionally printed brochures, presumably to keep them from blowing into the next county. While he greeted Bess and discussed the pamphlets with Lilian, I strolled over to speak with James, who was removing a curious device from the cargo area of his Fiat. The device bore a vague resemblance to a black metal broom handle with an L-shaped bend at the top and what appeared to be a black Frisbee at the bottom. I assumed it was his metal detector.

James Hobson was clearly dressed for fieldwork, in a wool turtleneck, a quilted vest, multipocketed hiking trousers, and hiking boots. He'd accessorized his ensemble with a stocking cap, gloves, kneepads, and a utility belt. A rather large red-handled knife hung in a sheath from the utility belt, as did a trowel and a Day-Glo-orange instrument that looked like a fireplace lighter.

“Hello, Lori,” he said as I approached. “Thanks for the blender. Felicity and I used it to make breakfast smoothies this morning.”

“Yummy,” I said. “Where is Felicity?”

“She's reorganizing our kitchen,” James replied sotto voce. “The villagers have been very helpful, but—”

“But they arrange things the way
they
like them,” I interjected,
nodding. “Opal Taylor rearranged my kitchen cupboards during a Christmas party a few years ago. It took me a week to find the baked beans.”

James began to laugh, then stopped short.

“Here they come,” he said, peering over my shoulder. “I'd better get in position.”

“Break a leg.” I gave him a double thumbs-up and returned to Lilian and the pram while James carried his device to the table.

My neighbors were emerging from their homes and businesses to gather around the folding table. Christine and Dick Peacock left the pub to fend for itself, Sally and Henry Cook turned their backs on the tearoom, and Charles Bellingham and Grant Tavistock abandoned their clients' artwork to join in the fun. Peggy Taxman, who was less easygoing about her cash box than the others, locked the Emporium's door before taking her husband's arm and striding majestically toward the table.

The Handmaidens behaved like a synchronized skating team, leaving their cottages individually, then coalescing smoothly into a shoulder-to-shoulder quartet as they crossed the cobbled lane. I couldn't quite envision Opal Taylor, Elspeth Binney, Millicent Scroggins, and Selena Buxton in skimpy skating costumes, but I had to admire their moves.

“Do you know if Bree and Jack are coming?” I asked Lilian. Finch's youngest couple seldom missed a village event.

“They're in Oxford, too,” said Lilian, “but unlike Teddy, they'll be there for the rest of the week. Jack's giving a series of lectures on environmental issues, and Bree went along to heckle him. Her words, not mine.”

“It sounds like Bree,” I said, laughing.

Everyone came over to chat with Bess. I lifted her and her blanket
from the pram, gave her a teething ring to gnaw, and held her close to me for warmth. She smiled and drooled and peered interestedly at her admirers' red noses.

George Wetherhead, a painfully shy man who lived in the old schoolmaster's house, was the last of the villagers to appear, nodding bashfully to his neighbors and studiously avoiding Peggy Taxman. George, like everyone else, was bundled up against the wind, but he was the only member of the audience to refrain from talking. The lively conversations slowly rose in volume, as they always did, until Mr. Barlow stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

“A bit of hush, if you please,” he said severely. “That includes you, Sally Cook.”

“Sorry,” said Sally, who'd been discussing the price of malt vinegar with Christine Peacock.

“We've all met James Hobson,” said Mr. Barlow, “and I'm sure we're grateful to him for coming out here on such a raw day to talk to us about his interesting hobby. Let's give him our full attention, shall we?” He glared at Sally, nodded cordially at James, and inserted himself into the audience.

There was a smattering of applause as our featured speaker took center stage.

“Thank you, Mr. Barlow,” said James. “And thank you, everyone, for allowing me to talk to you about one of my favorite subjects. I put in an order for perfect weather, by the way, but the delivery was delayed.”

The villagers chuckled and would have broken into speech if Mr. Barlow hadn't cleared his throat threateningly.

“If you become involved in metal detecting,” James continued, “you'll soon discover that weather doesn't matter. You'll go out on
the nastiest days—though possibly not on the snowiest—because your natural curiosity won't allow you to stay at home.”

Lilian and I exchanged amused glances, and I knew that we were thinking the same thought: A hobby that rewarded curiosity was guaranteed to find followers in Finch.

“I brought some brochures that give a detailed explanation of how a metal detector works,” James said, gesturing to the table. “They also spell out the rules and regulations that govern my hobby. Please feel free to take one with you at the end of the program.”

An appreciative murmur ran through the assembled throng, but it was quickly stifled.

“You didn't come here to read pamphlets, though,” James went on, smiling, “and you didn't really come here to listen to me. You came here to see a demonstration, so I won't try your patience any longer. Before I start, however, I must emphasize the first rule of metal detecting: Do not trespass. Obtain a landowner's permission, preferably in writing, before you set foot on private property. The village green is communal property, so you can scan it to your heart's content, but private property is off limits without the owner's permission. And now, on with the show!”

The villagers shifted their positions and craned their necks to get a better view of the bent-broom-handle device as James lifted it from the table.

“Here we have a basic metal detector,” he said. “It has four parts: the shaft, the stabilizer, the control box, and the search coil. The shaft is self-explanatory. The stabilizer”—he strapped his forearm into a plastic cradle at the top of the shaft—“keeps the unit steady as you sweep the detector back and forth over the ground. The control box”—he pointed to a small black plastic box affixed to the bottom of the shaft's L-shaped curve—“contains the detector's microprocessor,
speaker, and batteries. The search coil”—he pointed to the Frisbee at the bottom of the shaft—“is the part that senses metal.” He looked every inch the schoolteacher as he lifted his gaze to survey his informal classroom. “All clear?”

My neighbors and I behaved like typical students and nodded, whether it was clear to us or not.

“When the search coil detects a metal object underground,” James continued, “it sends an electronic signal up to the control box. The control box then emits an audible signal, to let you know that you've found something. Any questions?”

“What does the audible signal sound like?” asked Charles Bellingham.

“I'd describe it as the mournful wail of a brokenhearted robot,” said James, “but I'll let you decide for yourself.”

He pressed a button on the control box and swept the coil from side to side a few inches above the ground in front of him. Nothing happened. He looked up and shrugged, then walked slowly forward, moving the coil back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm. Bess and I followed the coil's movement intently, then flinched along with everyone else when the control box gave a mournful wail.

“Sounds as though we've found something,” said James.

The wail grew louder and softer as he continued to move the detector over one particular spot in the tufty grass.

“The louder the signal, the closer you are to an object,” he explained.

He passed the detector to Mr. Barlow, knelt on the damp ground, and pulled the red-handled knife from its sheath. The blade had one straight edge and one deeply notched serrated edge.

“My digger,” said James. “I use it to cut through turf so I can replace the plug neatly when I'm finished. Always replace the turf. If
you don't, there will be an outbreak of twisted ankles, and Finch will begin to look like a gopher hotel.”

The villagers chuckled distractedly, and I could only manage a tense smile. My heart began to beat faster as the suspense built. It suddenly seemed as if anything were possible. James might uncover gold doubloons or a glittering tiara or the Treasure of the Sierra Madre, though the last find was the least likely, since it was fictional.

James carefully removed the square plug of moist, grass-covered soil he'd cut from the green, then pulled the fire-lighter-like instrument from his utility belt.

“My pinpointer,” he explained. “It's a miniature metal detector. It zeros in on an object so I won't have to dig around blindly.”

He moved the pinpointer over the plug of dirt, then stuck it inside the hole. Bess and I flinched again as a high-pitched beep rent the air. James returned the pinpointer to his belt, reached into the hole, and clasped something in his fingers. I could almost feel my neighbors holding their breath as he withdrew his hand and held his find high in the air for all to see.

It was a round brooch made of pearls inset in gold to mimic a daisy's petals.

Dick Peacock gave a shout of laughter. “It's the same brooch!” he exclaimed. “The same tatty brooch you showed us the other day in your back garden!”

The laughter spread as the others caught on to James's trick.

“I thought the turf came away too easily,” said Henry Cook, smiling ruefully. “You'd cut it already, hadn't you?”

“I cut it first thing this morning,” said Mr. Barlow, stepping forward to stand beside James. “And I buried the brooch. James and I reckoned you wouldn't take much notice if I was mucking about on the green, seeing as I look after it.”

“You'd make a fine magician's assistant,” said Lilian Bunting.

James replaced the plug of soil and grass, returned his digger to its sheath, and got to his feet.