Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure (14 page)

“I haven't gotten to the relevant part yet,” I interrupted. “Because
I take an interest in people, I also learned that Adam's parents work at the British Museum and that he hopes to work there after he gets his postgraduate degree. He knows a lot about the museum's collection of Anglo-Saxon treasures. He may know if something went missing from the collection a long time ago. With his family connections, he may even know of thefts that were hushed up. It's worth finding out.”

“You won't share your suspicions with
him
, will you?” Bill asked.

“Of course not,” I said. “Adam offered to give the boys and me a guided tour of the Sutton Hoo exhibition. I'll ask him to give me a preview tour—or you'll ask him for me—so I can decide whether Will and Rob will find it as riveting as he does. While he's pointing out his favorite pieces, I'll slip in a few questions about thefts and robberies and the pilfering of national treasures.”

“He'll think you're planning a heist,” said Bill.

“I'll be subtle,” I assured him. I sat back in my chair and frowned. “If I could find Badger, I'd ask him outright if he stole the bracelet.”

“An unusual conversation starter,” Bill observed.

“One I may never use,” I retorted. “Until Badger turns up—if he ever does—I'll have to rely on Adam Rivington. He's the only Anglo-Saxon expert I know.”

“I'll call Adam right now and convey your wishes to him,” said Bill. “Can you get to the British Museum on your own?”

“Piece of cake,” I said. “You don't mind another day of Daddy duty, do you?”

“Piece of cake,” he echoed airily.

As he reached for the phone, Bess stirred. I went to crouch beside her as she clenched and unclenched her tiny fingers, smacked her rosy lips, and opened her velvety brown eyes. It was a sight I never tired of seeing.

“Done,” Bill said a moment later. “Adam will meet you at ten o'clock tomorrow morning at the British Museum's south entrance.”

I had no idea which entrance was the British Museum's south entrance, but I would have eaten dirt before I admitted as much to my husband. If he could run our household without my help, I told myself, I could find the south entrance without his.

“Excellent,” I said as I checked Bess's diaper again.

“Adam refused to accept his usual fee,” Bill said.

“Pay him anyway,” I said, straightening. “He'd like to show me the exhibition out of the goodness of his heart, but he's working his way through school. He needs the money.”

“I'll see to it that he gets paid,” Bill promised.

“Thanks,” I said. “Now, come and kiss your daughter. She and I have to drop off a box of clothes at the vicarage, get dinner started, and fetch her brothers.”

“Good thing you had a nap,” Bill said to Bess as he bent over the pram.

I smiled as he nuzzled Bess's cheek and giggled when he rose to nuzzle mine, but I left Wysteria Lodge feeling as though I had the weight of the world on my shoulders.

Though I tried very hard to think levelheadedly about Badger and his potentially ill-gotten gains, I couldn't help wondering what I would do if Adam confirmed my suspicions about Aunt Dimity's bracelet.

“How can I tell her?” I asked Bess as I put her in her car seat. “How can I possibly tell Aunt Dimity that Badger is a crook?”

F
inch's glorious warm spell came with me to London the following morning. I arrived at Paddington Station to find its platforms dry and its vast glass-and-wrought-iron roof flooded with soft sunlight.

I left my umbrella in my shoulder bag, tucked snugly beside Badger's bracelet, unbuttoned my voluminous raincoat, and allowed myself to be carried along on a tide of travelers to the nearest cab stand, where I joined the fast-moving queue. I scarcely had time to check my watch before I was whisked away to the British Museum in a classic London taxi driven by a friendly, talkative gentleman who knew exactly where the south entrance was.

“Piece of cake,” I murmured smugly.

As it turned out, the south entrance was the only entrance my family and I had ever used. The imposing Greek Revival colonnade, the pediment depicting humankind's rise from ignorance to enlightenment, and the Union Jack fluttering from the white flagpole atop the pediment were pretty hard to forget. As I paid the cabdriver, I harbored uncharitable thoughts toward Bill for failing to inform me that I would recognize the south entrance as soon as I saw it.

I spotted Adam leaning against one of the colonnade's towering columns and ran up the wide stairs to greet him. His response was so muted that I pulled him aside to find out what was up with him. I detected clear signs of strain in his cornflower-blue eyes.

“Adam,” I said, “if you have to attend a lecture or work on a paper, we can easily reschedule today's outing.”

“Thanks, but I'd rather go ahead with it,” he said. “I'm hoping it'll distract me from . . .” He bowed his head and sighed sorrowfully.

“From what?” I asked.

“From Helena,” he replied.

My eyebrows rose. “Your girlfriend?”

“My ex-girlfriend,” he stated grimly. “Helena traded me in for a bloke who doesn't have to work for a living.”

“Good riddance,” I said without thinking and immediately regretted my words. “Forgive me, Adam. I'm truly sorry about Helena. Breakups are always tough.”

“Do you know what the worst part of it is?” he asked, scuffing the ground with his boot. “The worst part is that I'll have to tell Carrie Osborne that she was right about Helena.”

“If that's the worst part,” I said, “maybe it was time for a breakup.”

I could have kicked myself for making yet another thoughtless remark, but Adam responded with a rueful smile.

“Helena's change of heart was a blow but not a surprise,” he admitted. “I've seen it coming for a while. I just wish Carrie hadn't seen it first. Ah, well . . .” He lifted his chin, threw back his shoulders, and turned toward the nearest door. “Come on, Lori. Let me show you one of the most magnificent—”

He broke off as my cell phone rang. I pulled it from my shoulder bag, glanced at the name on the small screen, and looked apologetically at Adam.

“Speak of the devil,” I said, and raised the phone to my ear. “Hello, Carrie?”

“Lori!” she boomed. “Glad I caught you. Chocks, Ginger, and Fish
are here, and they've settled in for the day. How quickly can you get to London?”

“I'm already here,” I told her. “I'll be with you shortly. Thanks for the heads-up, Carrie.”

“Dying wishes must be honored,” she said. “I'll see you soon.”

I dropped the cell phone in my shoulder bag and turned to Adam.

“I'm afraid Sutton Hoo will have to wait,” I said.

“Are the Battle of Britain boys at the coffeehouse?” he asked.

“They are,” I said. “Would you mind becoming my Bloomsbury guide again? You know how to get to Carrie's Coffees from here and I don't.”

“We can be there in ten minutes,” he assured me.

“Are you ready to face Carrie?” I asked.

“She probably knows about Helena already,” he replied philosophically. “Bloomsbury is like a village. News travels fast among the locals.”

“I know what you mean,” I said feelingly, and followed him as he raced down the stairs.

I had no time to gawk at the buildings, gardens, and statues we passed on our way to Carrie's Coffees. I was too busy keeping up with Adam as he dodged in and out of foot traffic and dashed across streets without the aid of stoplights. By the time we reached the coffeehouse, I was winded but exhilarated.

The prospect of meeting three Battle of Britain veterans was thrilling all by itself. If one or more of my three lines of inquiry panned out, however, I'd also stand a very good chance of bringing my Badger hunt to a successful conclusion. If fortune continued to smile upon me, Aunt Dimity's long-lost admirer would be able to convince me that he'd acquired her bracelet legally.

Adam seemed to brace himself as we entered the coffeehouse, but Carrie greeted him with an understanding nod.

“I heard about Helena,” she said. “Here's hoping for better luck next time!”

“Thanks,” he said gratefully. He gave me a look of mingled disbelief and relief as he hung his jacket and my raincoat on the pegs near the door.

“Give me a minute, Lori,” Carrie went on, “and I'll introduce you to the chaps.”

The coffeehouse was more crowded than it had been during my previous visit, but I had no trouble picking out Carrie's boys. Not only were they sitting in the leather chairs reserved for them, they were far and away the oldest customers in the place. While I waited for Carrie to finish taking an order, I realized that I could identify the three men without her help.

Chocks, the mechanic who'd roasted his hands pulling a pilot from a burning Hurricane, sat to the left of the faux fireplace. He cradled his teacup in hands that looked as though they'd melted, then solidified in a mottled, puckered patchwork of skin grafts.

Fish, I was certain, sat across from Chocks. The kneecaps he'd broken when he'd ditched his Spitfire in the English Channel would account for the wheelchair parked against the wall behind his chair.

Ginger had his back to me, but the awkward way in which he lifted a scone from the plate on the low table in front of him suggested that the bullet he'd taken in the shoulder from a passing Messerschmitt had left him with a limited range of motion.

One thing was certain: The Battle of Britain boys hadn't been boys for a very long time. Their thinning hair was as white as snow, their faces were deeply creased, and their suits hung loosely from their diminished frames, but their eyes were full of life when Carrie brought Adam and me over to meet them.

“Pull up a chair, young lady,” Ginger said after Carrie returned to the front counter. “You, too, young man.”

Adam and I borrowed chairs from neighboring tables and placed them on either side of the trompe l'oeil fireplace. Adam sat next to Chocks and I seated myself beside Fish, but the men directed their initial comments at Adam.

“Hear you're having a spot of woman trouble, young man,” said Ginger.

“If a woman's giving you trouble,” said Chocks, “she's more trouble than she's worth.”

“Best to move on,” Fish advised.

“Oh, I will,” said Adam, “but maybe not today.”

The three old friends chuckled sympathetically, and Chocks patted Adam's knee with a clawlike hand. I thought of the enormous sacrifices he and his brothers-in-arms had made and wondered if the rest of Carrie's customers would be willing to do the same. Most of them, I told myself, looked as if they wouldn't have the courage to dress in nondesigner clothing.

“Penny for your thoughts, young lady,” said Ginger.

His words brought me out of my reverie.

“I'm not sure my thoughts are worth a penny,” I told him, “but since you asked . . .” I let my gaze rove over the young men and women sipping their espressos and savoring their quiches. “If Britain went to war today, I'm not sure this lot would be up to it.”

“They're braver than you think,” said Ginger. “If their backs were to the wall, as ours were, they'd do their bit. I know what Carrie's told you about us—she tells everyone the same nonsense—but don't mistake my chums and me for heroes. We're ordinary blokes, just like them”—he hooked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the café's stylish patrons—“but you'd be surprised by what ordinary blokes can do when they're pushed hard enough.”

“We were gobsmacked by what we did,” said Chocks, and he laughed again with his friends, who nodded their agreement.

“Carrie tells us you're looking for one of the old crowd,” said Fish, after the laughter faded. “A chap who used to come to the Rose Café.”

“That's right,” I said. “He had dark, curly hair and a dark beard, and he called himself Badger.”

“I remember the beard,” said Chocks. “Not many chaps wore beards round here in those days. He stood out.”

“I remember the beard, too,” said Fish, “and the pretty girl he met here.”

“We all remember the pretty girl,” said Chocks.

“Why do you remember the girl?” I asked. “It was an awfully long time ago.”

“She was an awfully pretty girl,” said Fish, grinning. “And she came here every day for weeks on end, asking about the bearded chap. Seems they'd had a tiff.”

“She wanted to know where the bearded fellow lived,” said Ginger. “She went from table to table, asking everyone in the café. It's not the sort of thing a chap forgets.”

“The pretty girl was my friend,” I said. “Before she died, she asked me to find the bearded fellow.”

“Why?” Ginger asked bluntly.

“She wanted me to give him a message,” I explained.

“She left it a bit late,” Ginger commented.

“Better late than never,” said Chocks.

“Did your friend ever tell you why things didn't work out between her and . . . Badger, did you call him?” Ginger asked. “A blind man could see he was mad about her, and she seemed to like him well enough.”

“She did like him,” I said. “She liked him very much, but she'd lost her fiancé in the war, and—”

“Ah,” Fish interrupted, nodding. “Couldn't move on, eh?”

“No, I'm afraid she couldn't,” I said. “I don't suppose you've heard about Badger since then, have you?”

“We haven't heard about him,” Chocks replied, “but we've caught glimpses of him from time to time.”

My heart seemed to skip a beat, and I leaned forward in my chair. To my utter amazement, my three lines of inquiry seemed to be on the verge of panning out big-time.

“Do you know where he lives?” I asked, on the edge of my seat in more ways than one.

The three men shook their heads.

“Sorry,” said Chocks.

“Not a clue,” said Fish.

“When Carrie told us about you,” said Ginger, “we had a think about this Badger chap. We came to the conclusion that we didn't know the first thing about him.” He looked from Chocks to Fish, then turned to me with a maddeningly mischievous smirk. “But we know someone who does.”

“Who?” I asked, restraining the urge to stamp my foot.

“Her name is Sarah Hanover,” said Ginger. “She's the great-granddaughter of Nigel Hanover, the chap who owned the Rose Café. I rang her yesterday, and I learned a few things that surprised me.”

“Carrie rang her after you arrived,” Chocks said to me, “and asked her to come along.”

“Here she is now,” Fish announced, looking toward the door.

My heart began to pound as the answer to Aunt Dimity's prayers entered the coffeehouse, said hello to Carrie, and strode purposefully toward the Battle of Britain boys.