Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure (13 page)

Sated by the morning's entertainment, the Handmaidens made their farewells to Bess and turned automatically toward the tearoom. When the
CLOSED
sign brought them up short, they executed a neat about-face and headed for the pub instead. I was sure that they would continue the debate about marital deception over their shepherd's pies and their fizzy lemonades, but I was also sure that Dick would change his tune in front of his wife.

I pushed the pram toward the Rover, then swung around when someone called my name. James Hobson waved to me from the pub's doorstep, then strode purposefully in my direction. He looked disturbed and slightly bewildered as he came to a halt in front of me.

“Lori,” he said, “what on earth is going on?”

S
ince it looked as though my conversation with James might be a lengthy one, I pulled Bess into my arms yet again.

“What happened?” he said. “I was having a swift half at the pub when Dick Peacock and—”

“The ladies,” I put in, to save him the trouble of remembering the Handmaidens' names.

“When Dick Peacock and the ladies,” he continued, with a grateful nod, “came storming in with some story about Mr. Barlow using my metal detector to unearth an appalling secret that would ruin a marriage and tear the village apart.”

“Yep,” I said. “That about sums it up.”

James blinked at me for a moment, then observed, “You don't seem concerned.”

“I'm not concerned,” I said, “and you shouldn't be, either. You'll soon learn to take most of what our neighbors say with a truckload of salt.”

Bess said hello to James. He gave her a preoccupied glance, then did a double take.

“Is your daughter chewing on a shark?” he asked.

“She is,” I said. “It was a gift from Will and Rob.”

“Better than a shark chewing on your daughter, I suppose.” He smiled, but quickly became serious again. “Then there's no truth to the story I heard in the pub?”

“There's a kernel of truth,” I replied, “in the shape of a wedding ring. . . .”

I told him about Mr. Barlow's unfortunate discovery, its impact on Sally and Henry Cook, and the argument it had spawned between Dick Peacock and the Handmaidens. When I finished, James looked more distressed than ever.

“The poor Cooks,” he said. “It must have been a painful revelation.”

“It's a tempest in a teapot,” I assured him. “Sally and Henry will kiss and make up, and the great debate about whether husbands are allowed to lie to their wives under special circumstances will go on until the end of time—or until another hot topic comes along to replace it. Spats are pretty common in Finch. It's a way of letting off steam.”

“Spats can lead to feuds, though,” James said. “I've seen it happen.” He glanced anxiously at the tearoom, then went on. “I was out detecting near my seaside village when I found a pocket watch. It had belonged to a local landowner who'd died the year before, and it had been a bone of contention in the family ever since, with one side accusing the other of hiding it before the will was read.”

“You proved that the pocket watch had been lost,” I said. “They must have been relieved to know that no one had hidden it.”

“You'd think so, wouldn't you?” said James. “In fact, my discovery only made things worse. The family had just begun to settle down when I turned up. It was like throwing fuel on a fire. The watch reignited all the old resentments, and the feud became more heated than ever. The watch was awarded to eldest son, but he had to go to court to get it. I wanted to sink through the floor every time he consulted it, which he did, ostentatiously, whenever his cousins were
around. As far as I know, the two sides of the family still aren't speaking to each other.”

“You can't blame yourself for their foolishness,” I said.

“I know,” said James, “but I should have told the story of the pocket watch during the demonstration on Wednesday. It should have been the first thing on my agenda. I should have warned the villagers to be careful when they dig up the past. Because it's not always pretty.”

“The villagers can handle it,” I said. “Quarrels are soon mended in Finch. Sally will give Henry what-for for a while, but they won't let a lost ring or a few little white lies come between them. Those two were made for each other. You'll see.”

“Their dirty linen was washed in a very public manner,” said James. “It must have been humiliating for them.”

“We've all had our dirty linen washed, dried, and folded in public at one time or another in Finch,” I said. “It can't be avoided in such a small village, but we've survived. If you ask me, Sally enjoyed her moment in the limelight. She'll be out and about again before you know it.”

“I hope so,” James said earnestly, “because she's the next person in my rota.”

“Your rota?” I said.

“As you predicted, I had quite a few knocks on my door after the demonstration,” said James. “Everyone who'd been there wanted to borrow my metal detector, so I made up a rota. Mr. Barlow was at the top of the list, of course.”

“And Sally is next?” I said.

“She was supposed to have her turn with the detector this afternoon,” said James, gazing worriedly at the tearoom, “but I'm not sure she'll be up for it now.”

“Don't give her place away too soon,” I cautioned. “Sally won't like it if the next person in the rota gets the jump on her. If I were you, I'd carry on as if nothing had happened. I can just about guarantee that Sally will.”

“In that case,” said James, “I'd best collect the detector from Mr. Barlow. I hear he found some interesting nails.”

“I'm sure he'll be happy to show them to you,” I said. “And I'm afraid I have to be going. Bess needs her lunch.”

“Sorry, Bess,” he said, patting her arm. “I didn't mean to hold you up. Thanks for clarifying the situation for me, Lori. Enjoy your lunch, Bess. I hope you haven't spoiled your appetite with that shark.”

James took off for Mr. Barlow's house, Bess went back into the pram, and I wheeled her into Wysteria Lodge, the lovely old building that served as Bill's place of work. I hadn't counted on having a picnic lunch with my husband, but I always packed extra provisions for Bess in the diaper bag, and Bill and I could improvise.

Bill was delighted to see us, not least because he was dying to know what had caused the ruckus on the village green. Although my husband pretended to avoid gossip, he never tired of hearing it from me. After running across to the pub to fetch an oversized ploughman's lunch for us to share, he sat back and listened while I filled him in on Mr. Barlow's sensational debut as a metal detectorist.

“Metal detecting is a hobby custom-made for Finch,” he said when he finished laughing. “It's just another form of snooping.”

Bill and I dug into our cheddar cheese, smoked ham, pickled onions, green salad, and crusty bread, undeterred by the sight of Bess feeding herself mashed butternut squash and puréed chicken. When she was finished, I cleaned her and her immediate surroundings, handed her over to her father, and crossed to the window to survey the village green.

“I knew it!” I exclaimed. “Sally Cook and James Hobson are out there right now with his metal detector. I knew Sally wouldn't give up her place in the rota.”

“I'll bet James stuck around to deliver his pocket watch speech,” said Bill, “should the need arise.”

“You're probably right,” I said, concentrating on Sally. “Oh, Bill, I think she's found something!”

“Go,” he urged. “I'll look after Bess.”

“Thanks,” I said, opening the door.

“And you can explain air pressure to the boys when they come home from school,” he added slyly.

“No problem,” I said. “If I know our sons, they'll have forgotten all about it by then.”

I glanced to my left as I left Wysteria Lodge, saw that the tearoom's
CLOSED
sign had been flipped to
OPEN
, and smiled. Sally was too canny a businesswoman to let private quarrels interfere with her bottom line.

I crossed the cobbled lane at a trot, then slowed to a walk as I approached Sally, who'd elected to scan a narrow section of green behind the war memorial. If she'd hoped to avoid drawing a crowd, she'd succeeded. James was the only one following her progress.

“Everything okay, Sally?” I asked when I was within earshot.

She favored me with a complacent smile.

“Everything's fine,” she said. “Henry's promised never to lie to me again.”

Knowing Sally as I did, I raised an eyebrow as I said, “And . . . ?”

“And he's agreed to clean the kitchen in the tearoom for the next month,” she said smugly, “while I have a lie-down.” She bent once more to her task. “Have I found something, James?”

Whatever James's intentions had been, Sally had evidently kept
him around to do the dirty work. While he went through the usual routine with the digger and the pinpointer, Lilian Bunting emerged from the vicarage and strolled over to see what we were doing.

“It looks as though I've arrived at an exciting moment,” she said after we'd exchanged greetings.

“Let's hope it's not
too
exciting,” I murmured.

James pulled a small object out of the hole and sat back on his heels to examine it.

“What is it, James?” Sally asked.

“It's a coin,” he replied.

“An old one?” she asked hopefully.

“It's not particularly old,” said James, getting to his feet, “but it's unexpected.” He passed the coin to Sally. “It's an Italian coin. A 1951 one-lira piece.”

If he'd expected to astonish us, he must have been disappointed.

“Ah,” said Lilian, nodding.

“Piero,” said Sally.

“Must be,” I said.

“Who is Piero?” James asked.

“The late Piero Alessandro Sciaparelli was an Italian prisoner-of-war,” Lilian explained. “After the war he married a local girl and went on to sire one of the most powerful farming families in the county. There's no way to prove it, of course, but it's likely that Sally's lira once belonged to Piero.”

“His family will want it,” said Sally, pocketing the one-lira coin. “I'll make sure it gets to them.”

“You should record the time and date of your find,” I told her, “in case the Sciaparellis decide to donate Piero's lira to our museum.”

Three pairs of uncomprehending eyes turned to stare at me.

“What museum?” Sally asked suspiciously.

“Not the kind with a tearoom,” I said quickly. “Just a glass case in the schoolhouse where Finch's metal detectorists can display their finds. Elspeth, Opal, Millicent, and Selena came up with the idea.”

“It's a splendid one,” said Lilian. “Perhaps Mrs. Sciaparelli would donate a photograph of her father-in-law to go along with the lira.”

“I'll ask her,” said Sally. “But for now, I'd like to get on with my detecting.”

There was a new spring in James's step as he ambled along beside Sally, as if he were relieved that her find had produced concord rather than discord.

Our foursome more than doubled in size when Mr. Barlow, Dick Peacock, and the Handmaidens, having finished their respective lunches, succumbed to the lure of the metal detector and joined us. Lilian paused to speak with the Handmaidens about the proposed museum while the men and I followed James and Sally, but the ladies scrambled to catch up with us when the device wailed again.

James dropped to his knees and went to work with the digger. He left the pinpointer in his utility belt, however, because he didn't need it. He simply reached into the hole he'd created and pulled out a rusty hammer.

“That's my hammer!” Mr. Barlow exclaimed.

Sally sighed and moved on. She was clearly on the lookout for bigger game.

Mr. Barlow took the hammer from James and studied it closely.

“That's my hammer, all right,” he said, nodding.

“The hammer you accused me of stealing?” Dick inquired waspishly.

“I never accused you of stealing it,” Mr. Barlow retorted. “I just wondered when you planned to return it, is all. Seems a reasonable thing to wonder, seeing as you borrowed the ruddy thing five years ago.”

“You as good as called me a thief,” Dick persisted.

“No, I didn't,” Mr. Barlow said stoutly. “Must be your guilty conscience talking.”

“I don't have a guilty conscience,” Dick snapped, “because I'm not a thief.”

“What would you call a man who borrows things and doesn't return them?” Mr. Barlow shot back.

James plugged the hole in a somewhat slapdash manner and stood.

“Gentlemen,” he began, but before he could deliver his pocket watch speech, Sally cut him off.

“Stop your bickering, you two!” she hollered. “I've found something else!”

T
he men's raised voices had masked the metal detector's wail, but Sally's shout rang out loud and clear. Mr. Barlow and Dick Peacock put their argument on hold and joined the rest of us as we clustered around another seemingly innocuous patch of grass.

James was already at work with the digger. As he utilized the pinpointer and probed the soil with his fingers, I felt the same thrill of anticipation I'd felt during his demonstration. The small oblong object he extracted from the hole was grimier than his tatty brooch had been, but its anonymity only increased my sense of infinite possibilities.

“A trick of the trade,” James said, pulling a small squirt bottle from his utility belt. “Water reveals what mud conceals.”

He stood, and his rapt audience leaned in as he washed away the soil clinging to Sally's most recent discovery. As the mellow autumn sunlight touched the object's glittering surface, I was struck by a dizzying wave of déjà vu. In an instant, I was back in my attic, gazing in horror at the gap behind Aunt Dimity's leather trunk, while a row of glittering bloodred eyes peered at me from the shadows.

“Aunt Dimity's bracelet,” I said under my breath.

“Pardon?” said Lilian.

“Nothing,” I said absently, and leaned in further.

I couldn't tell what the oblong object was, but I could see that it was gold colored and inset with tiny garnetlike gems in a pattern that looked startlingly familiar.

“W-what is it?” I asked unsteadily.

“A hair clip,” Sally answered, sounding bored to death. “A spring-loaded hair clip.”

I stared at her, taken aback by the speed of her reply.

“A hair clip?” I said. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure,” said Sally. “I must have seen it a hundred times. It's Peggy Taxman's. She won it at the fair in Upper Deeping years ago, when she was still Peggy Kitchen. You could win all sorts of cheap baubles at the fair. Peggy won most of hers at the coconut shies. No surprise there. She had arms on her like a stevedore.”

“It was a traveling fair,” said Mr. Barlow, as if Sally's words had stirred a distant memory. “Came to Upper Deeping once a year, in the spring. Madame Karela's Fair, it was called.”

“Best bull's-eyes on the planet,” said Dick, smacking his lips. “And the best candy floss.”

“I liked the rides,” said Opal. “The roundabout, the swing boats, the dodgems—”

“Don't forget the helter-skelter,” Millicent put in with a demure titter. “The boys always tried to look up our skirts when we slid down the helter-skelter.”

“I didn't,” said Mr. Barlow. “I was too busy winning my spurs at the Wild West shooting gallery.”

“I won a giant gorilla at the shooting gallery,” said Selena. “Don't look so surprised, Mr. Barlow. I was quite a good shot. I knew how to compensate for the misaligned sights.”

“I
knew
they tampered with the sights!” Mr. Barlow expostulated, looking chagrined.

A pleasant hum filled the air as my neighbors shared stories about Madame Karela's traveling fair. James seemed to relax as a flood of nostalgia overtook the hammer controversy.

“A fortune-teller told me I'd meet a tall, dark stranger,” said Sally. “She meant Henry, naturally.”

“She must have seen a long way into the future,” Millicent commented, giving Sally a skeptical glance.

“What do you mean by that?” Sally demanded.

“I mean that you and Henry met two years ago,” Millicent replied, “but the fair hasn't been to Upper Deeping in decades.”

“Fortune-tellers prey on the simple-minded,” said Dick. “It's a well-known fact.”

Sally bristled, and James, sensing another brouhaha brewing, held the hair clip out to her.

“It's not worth much, Mrs. Cook, but it's a pretty thing,” he said. “Some might say that the decoration was inspired by ancient Celtic jewelry, but the use of gold and red combined with the symmetrical, interlacing pattern of abstract zoomorphic forms reminds me of the Anglo-Saxon artifacts on display at the British Museum.”

He might as well have spoken in Anglo-Saxon. The villagers greeted his remarks with looks of polite incomprehension, then nodded amiably at him and resumed their reminiscences. I, on the other hand, heard an alarm bell ring in the back of my mind.

Aunt Dimity's bracelet was no cheap fairground prize. It seemed absurd to think that it could be a priceless Anglo-Saxon artifact, but I couldn't deny that James had described its characteristics with uncanny precision. If I closed my eyes, I could see the intricate, interlacing pattern of garnets gleaming in the gold setting. In retrospect, I could even see the “abstract zoomorphic forms” James had mentioned, writhing like stylized snakes across the bracelet's surface.

“James,” I said, as the alarm bell continued to ring, “are you referring to the Sutton Hoo ship burial exhibition?”

“I am,” he replied, looking pleased. “Have you seen it?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“I've seen it,” said Lilian, “and I agree with you, James. Whoever designed Peggy Taxman's hair clip must have been inspired, albeit remotely, by Anglo-Saxon design.”

“Did the Anglo-Saxons make jewelry?” I asked.

“Anglo-Saxon hoards and burial sites almost always contain jewelry,” said James. “Their craftsmen made pendants, rings, bracelets, brooches . . .” He smirked slightly as he held the hair clip at arm's length. “As far as I'm aware, however, they did not make spring-loaded hair clips.”

Lilian chuckled, and I forced a smile.

“What would happen,” I said, keeping my voice light, “if we discovered an Anglo-Saxon hoard?”

“You'll find a detailed answer in the brochures I brought along to the demonstration,” said James, “but the simple answer is: You'd have to report your find to the proper authorities or risk receiving a severe penalty. Treasure found on English soil belongs to the Crown, you see. If you pocketed an ancient artifact made of gold or silver, you'd be nothing more than a common thief.”

Mr. Barlow's voice broke through my tangled thoughts.

“Someone'll have to return the hair clip to Peggy,” he said.

“I'll take it to her,” Elspeth said bravely. “She might be willing to donate her glass case to our museum if she has something to display in it.”

“Good luck,” said Mr. Barlow, without sounding the least bit hopeful.

As Elspeth sallied forth on what the rest of us regarded as a suicide mission, Sally handed the metal detector to James.

“Done for the day?” he inquired.

“I'd better be,” she said, “or there won't be anything left for the
next person to find. Thank you, James. I've enjoyed my little poke-about.”

“Don't forget to bring Piero's lira to Mrs. Sciaparelli,” said Lilian.

“Piero's lira?” Millicent said alertly.

“The first item I detected this afternoon,” Sally informed her. “Come to the tearoom, and I'll show it to you.”

Our metal-detecting party dispersed. Mr. Barlow, Dick Peacock, and the remaining Handmaidens followed Sally to the reopened tearoom. James, Lilian, and I, having witnessed the discovery of Piero's lira, went our separate ways, James to Ivy Cottage, Lilian to the vicarage, and I, my thoughts racing, to my husband's office.

I entered Wysteria Lodge to find Bess asleep in her pram and Bill on a conference call with a pair of quarrelsome clients in Andorra. I checked Bess's diaper automatically, then sat on the leather sofa Bill used primarily for power naps and fidgeted restlessly until he ended the call.

“What's wrong?” he asked, studying my pensive expression. “Did Sally find my
real
wedding ring buried in the village green?”

“I almost wish she had,” I said, and rose resolutely to my feet. “I need to see the Sutton Hoo exhibition at the British Museum, Bill, and I need to see it now. Would you please bring it up on your computer?”

“No problem,” he said, looking intrigued.

I crossed to stand behind him while he tapped a few keys on his desktop, then watched in dismay as he scrolled through the striking images that popped up on the screen.

“Do those Anglo-Saxon trinkets remind you of anything?” I asked.

His eyes widened as comprehension dawned.

“They remind me of the bracelet you found in the attic,” he said. “The bracelet Badger gave to Aunt Dimity. Similar materials, colors, decorations . . .” He craned his neck to look up at me. “You're not
suggesting that Aunt Dimity's bracelet came from an Anglo-Saxon burial mound, are you?”

“I may be suggesting just that,” I said, and before he could make fun of me for going off the deep end, I added firmly, “Hear me out.”

I walked around to the front of the desk, sat in the chair reserved for clients, and began to assemble the thoughts that had triggered my alarm bell.

“Dimity told me that Badger looked like a man who did outdoor work,” I said. “Her exact words were: ‘He was fit and trim and very brown, and he had a gardener's strong, rough hands.'”

Bill rested his forearms on the desk and nodded for me to go on.

“Dimity was deeply impressed by Badger's intelligence,” I continued. “She didn't think he could be an ordinary jobbing gardener because, and I quote, ‘He had the accent and the vocabulary of a well-educated young man.'”

“If he hadn't been well educated,” Bill reasoned, “he wouldn't have been able to converse knowledgeably about so many subjects.”

“That's right,” I said. “He talked about all kinds of things with Dimity—art, music, literature, architecture. He helped her to broaden her cultural horizons, and he couldn't have done that unless his own cultural horizons were pretty broad to begin with.”

“Makes sense,” said Bill. “Go on.”

“Badger was a regular at the Rose Café,” I said, “so he must have lived or worked or lived
and
worked in Bloomsbury. What's the biggest attraction in Bloomsbury?”

Bill glanced at his computer screen, then looked at me.

“The British Museum,” he said.

“The repository of the world's greatest collection of Anglo-Saxon artifacts,” I said as emphatically as I could without waking Bess. “What if Badger wasn't a gardener, Bill? What if he was an
archaeologist
?”

Bill pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“Archaeologists tend to work outdoors,” he acknowledged. “I imagine they have strong hands, and they'd have to be well educated. The British Museum sponsors excavations, and Badger would be an apt nickname for a man who's involved in excavations.”

“An archaeologist would oversee the stuff that came out of his excavations, wouldn't he?” I said. “He'd make sure it was being processed properly, and he'd probably have a say in how it was displayed. So he'd be in and out of the museum all the time.”

“I suppose so,” said Bill.

“What if Badger worked for the British Museum?” I said urgently. “What if . . .” I took a steadying breath, then went on in a stage whisper, as if I were afraid of being overheard by the museum police. “What if Badger
stole
Aunt Dimity's bracelet from the British Museum?”

“It's a big leap,” Bill said slowly, “but young men in love have been known to do crazier things.”

“The bracelet could be the tip of the iceberg,” I said. “Who knows how many irreplaceable treasures Badger took home with him?”

“I suspect someone at the museum would have noticed if he'd emptied a storage room into his briefcase,” Bill said dryly.

“Okay,” I said, backing down. “Let's stick with the bracelet. If it was found on English soil, it belongs to the Crown. Taking it from the British Museum would be like picking the queen's pocket!”

“I doubt that Her Majesty would have him drawn and quartered,” said Bill.

“He could end up in jail, though,” I said earnestly. I looked down, then shook my head. “To tell you the truth, I don't much care about what happens to Badger.”

“I know,” Bill said gently. “You care about Dimity.”

“She respected and admired Badger,” I said. “In her own way, she
loved him. She still thinks of him as the kind, wise man who gave her a sense of direction when she was rudderless. By tarnishing his name, I'll be tarnishing one of her most precious memories.” I clasped my hands together tightly and leaned forward on the desk. “If I'm right, then the man who helped Aunt Dimity to find her purpose in life was nothing more than a common thief.”

There was a pause during which my words seemed to linger in the air. Bess made a snuffling noise, Bill gazed into the middle distance, and I wished more fervently than ever that I'd left the garnet bracelet in the attic.

“Are you going to share your suspicions with Dimity?” Bill asked.

“No,” I said. “Not until I have something more substantial to tell her. That's why I have to speak with Adam.”

“Adam Rivington?” said Bill, looking confused. “My driver?”

“Your driver,” I said, “is studying Anglo-Saxon archaeology.”

“Is he?” said Bill.

“Typical,” I said scornfully. “You don't know the first thing about Adam, do you?”

“I know that he's honest, clean, polite, punctual, levelheaded, and able to find his way around London,” Bill replied. “What else should I know?”

“It's lucky that one of us takes an interest in people,” I said, rolling my eyes. “For your information, four generations of Adam's family have lived in Bloomsbury. His great-grandfather witnessed the zeppelin raids, and his grandfather was an air raid warden during the Blitz. Furthermore, he takes his coffee black, he doesn't like to share his desserts, and he has a girlfriend named Helena.”

“I'll burn it into my memory,” said Bill. “Especially the part about desserts. I'm not sure how it relates to the subject at hand, but—”