Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure (17 page)

L
ilian Bunting was scanning a swath of ground closer to the war memorial than the one that had produced Peggy's glittering hair clip, and she was moving the detector more slowly and methodically than Sally Cook had.

“Maybe Mrs. Bunting will discover the lost treasure of Finch beneath the village green,” I said to Bess. “I don't know if Finch has a lost treasure, mind you, but if it does, wouldn't it be exciting to be on the spot when someone discovers it?”

Bess agreed that it would be the thrill of a lifetime.

I doubted that Lilian Bunting was on a mission to recover missing hair clips, but I wasn't surprised that she was taking a turn with the metal detector. She was a gifted amateur historian with a special interest in village history. Mr. Barlow might rank a handful of tenpenny nails low on the index of desirable finds, but Lilian wouldn't. She'd regard them as hard evidence of a flourishing building trade in Finch.

“If Mrs. Bunting finds
anything
,” I murmured to Bess, “she'll cherish it.”

Mr. Barlow stood beside Lilian, his bowed head moving from side to side as he followed the detector's rhythmic motion. He wore knee pads over his twill trousers, and he'd tucked James Hobson's red-handled digger as well as the pinpointer into his utility belt. The grass stains on his knee pads suggested that he'd already done some digging.

“Where's James?” I called when Bess and I were within hailing distance.

“He and Felicity are visiting their grandchildren in Upper Deeping,” Lilian replied. “Mr. Barlow kindly offered to act as my mentor in his place.”

I parked the pram next to the war memorial, released Bess's harness, and sat her on the leaf-strewn grass with her teething shark. She promptly threw the shark aside and crawled through the rustling leaves to play with Mr. Barlow's shoelaces. I dutifully retrieved the shark and dropped it in the pram, then strolled over to stand beside Lilian.

“Has Elspeth been telling you about the unfortunate incident that occurred yesterday?” she asked.

“Chapter and verse,” I said, nodding. “She's very upset.”

“She has every right to be,” said Lilian. “Her friends should be ashamed of themselves.”

“Maybe they are,” I said. “It wouldn't help, though. Elspeth's not in a forgiving mood.”

“She'll get over it,” said Mr. Barlow. “She always does.”

“I hope you're right,” I said. “She'll be awfully lonely without Millicent, Opal, and Selena.” I nodded at the metal detector. “Any luck?”

“Lots!” Lilian replied, brightening.

Mr. Barlow tilted his head noncommittally.

“Before I show you my finds,” said Lilian, “let me show you my little project.”

She passed the detector to Mr. Barlow—who wisely held it out of Bess's reach—then took a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of her tweed jacket, unfolded it, and handed it to me.

“I've made a rudimentary map of the green,” she explained, “and I've marked the spots where various items have been discovered.” She drew her finger across the map as she continued, “Here are the places
where Mr. Barlow found his nails and his coins, and here's where he discovered Henry Cook's wedding ring. Here's where Opal Taylor found Elspeth's palette knife—but perhaps the less said about that the better,” she added, and hurried on. “Sally Cook found Piero Sciaparelli's lira here and Mr. Barlow's hammer—”

Mr. Barlow grunted irritably.

“—here,” Lilian went on without missing a beat. “I've used the letters of the alphabet to mark the spots. The letters correspond to a separate list I've made of the dates and the approximate times of the finds as well as the detectorists' names and a description of each item.”

“It's wonderful,” I said. “Absolutely wonderful.”

“It's merely a working copy,” she said modestly. “I intend to make a more accurate map of the green for future use. It will be a work in progress for quite some time, I expect, but when it's finished, I think it will look well above the display case.”

“If we ever lay our hands on one,” Mr. Barlow muttered.

“I've added a few letters of my own this morning,” Lilian said, pointing to a cluster of letters behind the circle she'd drawn to represent the war memorial. “K through M are mine.”

“Show and tell?” I requested.

While Lilian refolded her map and slipped it into her pocket, Mr. Barlow opened a pouch on his utility belt and pulled from it three rusty horseshoe nails and a silver coin.

“Mr. Barlow tells me that the horseshoe nails were hand-forged,” said Lilian. “Horseshoe nails are notoriously difficult to date, but I think it would be fair to say that they were made before the local blacksmith shut up shop in 1952.”

“And the coin?” I queried.

“It's a 1965 English florin,” Lilian informed me.

“We called it a two-bob bit,” said Mr. Barlow.

“As you can see, it has the head of our present queen on the obverse,” said Lilian, “and the Tudor rose on the reverse, surrounded by shamrocks, thistles, and leeks, the symbols of the United Kingdom.”

“Another good coin lost to ruddy decimalization,” said Mr. Barlow.

“Your finds will be a fine addition to the museum,” I said to Lilian. “Are you done for the day?”

“Not at all,” she replied. “We were about to uncover another mysterious object when you and Bess arrived.”

Bess had finished dribbling on Mr. Barlow's shoes and taken off for parts unknown. I trotted after her, scooped her up, and held her while Lilian took charge of the metal detector. She moved it confidently over the patch of grass at her feet, and it immediately emitted its mournful wail.

“There, I think, Mr. Barlow,” she said unnecessarily.

Mr. Barlow was already on his knees. He cut out a neat square of turf and scanned it with the pinpointer, but the grassy plug was apparently metal free. The pinpointer responded, however, when he dipped it into the hole.

“There's something in there, all right,” he said.

He dug carefully with his hands until he uncovered a ragged bit of ribbon that appeared to be attached to a medal of some sort. He sat back on his heels and, having learned James Hobson's trick of the trade, withdrew a small squirt bottle from another pouch on his belt.

Mr. Barlow shielded the ragged ribbon in his fist while he rinsed the medal with water, then got to his feet and held it in his cupped palm for Lilian and me to see. The medal was bronze colored, with a raised image of a winged female figure on one side. Though the
ribbon had deteriorated badly, I could still make out the vestiges of its vertical rainbow stripes.

“It's a Wilfred,” Mr. Barlow announced.

“What's a Wilfred?” I asked.

“It's a sardonic nickname British soldiers gave to the Victory Medal they received at the end of the First World War,” Lilian explained, leaning in to look more closely at her find. “Three campaign medals were issued at the end of the Great War. Returning soldiers named them after characters in a comic strip that was popular at the time: Pip, Squeak, and Wilfred.”

“My uncle had all three,” said Mr. Barlow, “but this”—he nodded at the medal resting in his palm—“is a Wilfred. It should have a name impressed on it. Let me see. . . .” He pulled a magnifying glass from yet another pouch on his belt and used it to examine the Victory Medal's serrated rim.

“I hope the name is still legible,” said Lilian. “It would be a privilege to return the medal to the soldier's family. Can you see a name, Mr. Barlow? Mr. Barlow?” she repeated more sharply. “Is something wrong?”

Mr. Barlow had turned his head to one side, pursed his lips, and closed his eyes, as if reading the name on the medal had shaken him. He groaned softly, then slipped the magnifying glass back into its pouch and handed the medal to Lilian.

“It's Dave Dillehaye's,” he said. “Poor bloke must've buried it here, next to the memorial.”

“Who is Dave Dillehaye?” I asked.

“I've seen the surname on a headstone in the churchyard,” said Lilian, “but it isn't preceded by Dave or David. And there's no one by that name listed on the war memorial.”

“I need to sit,” Mr. Barlow said heavily.

He headed for the wooden bench in front of the memorial. Lilian laid the metal detector on the ground and scurried to catch up with him. Bess and I followed in their wake.

“Come to the vicarage,” Lilian urged Mr. Barlow as he lowered himself onto the bench. “Let me make a cup of tea for you. You've clearly had a shock.”

“I'll be fine in a minute,” he said. “It's a sad story, is all. Saddest one I know. I heard it from Mr. Whitelaw. He was the parish sexton before me.”

“Teddy and I never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Whitelaw,” said Lilian. “We came to St. George's after he'd passed away.”

“Mr. Whitelaw had the story from Mr. Meacham, the sexton he replaced.” Mr. Barlow rubbed the back of his neck, then let his hands rest limply in his lap. “Seems that Dave Dillehaye was the only child of a couple who'd come to Finch to work as farm laborers. They lived in a ramshackle cottage on the edge of the village, and no one had much to do with them because they weren't from around here. Dave quit school early and worked alongside his mum and dad until he went off to war.”

“He must have survived,” said Lilian, giving the Victory Medal a puzzled glance.

“He came back in one piece,” Mr. Barlow allowed grudgingly, “but he was broken inside—inside his head, I mean. Post-traumatic stress, they call it nowadays. Back then, it was called shell shock, and Dave never got over it. He lived with his parents until they died, then stayed on alone in their cottage.”

Bess stretched her arms out to Mr. Barlow, and he took her from me, holding her to his shoulder and patting her back as he spoke, as if he found comfort in comforting her.

“A neighbor looked in on Dave not too long after his mum died,” Mr. Barlow said wearily. “Found him hanging from a rafter in his bedroom. The vicar refused to bury him in the churchyard with his mum and dad, but Mr. Meacham put him as close to them as he could.”

“Are you saying that there's a grave beyond the churchyard's boundaries?” Lilian asked, looking nonplussed.

“I can take you to it, if you like,” said Mr. Barlow.

“Please do,” said Lilian.

Mr. Barlow showed no signs of wanting to be rid of Bess, so I pushed the pram after him as he led Lilian and me to St. George's churchyard. He turned left when he reached the lych-gate, followed the churchyard's low stone wall around the corner, and stopped a few yards short of the next corner. The weed-covered spot where he stopped was indistinguishable from the rest of the rough pasture that bordered the wall.

“Dave's buried here.” Mr. Barlow jutted his chin at the ground, then pointed to a weathered headstone just inside the wall. “His mum and dad are over there.”

He passed Bess to me, bent low, and separated the weeds to reveal a stumpy, square block of lichen-covered stone.

“Vicar wouldn't let him have a proper headstone,” said Mr. Barlow, “but Mr. Meacham put the block there anyway and carved Dave's dates in it.” He touched the stone, then straightened. “The villagers wouldn't put his name on the war memorial, on account of the way he died. But Mr. Meacham reckoned that Dave gave his life for his country, same as those who were shot dead on the battlefield. And I reckon he was right.”

For a moment there was no sound, save for the whisper of wind in the cedars. Lilian bowed her head, and Mr. Barlow gazed grimly
at the weed-covered grave. Bess, as if sensing the somber mood that had settled over the grown-ups, nestled her head against my neck and remained quiet. I thought of the Battle of Britain boys and their visible scars and said a silent prayer for those whose war wounds could not be seen.

“Were Mr. Dillehaye's next of kin notified of his death?” Lilian asked.

“He put down his mum and his dad as his next of kin on his enlistment papers,” said Mr. Barlow, “and they were already dead. The police looked into it, but they couldn't find anyone else. So he was buried here”—he shook his head—“like this.”

“Mr. Barlow,” said Lilian, “why didn't you tell Teddy or me about Mr. Dillehaye's grave?”

“Nothing much you or the vicar can do about it,” Mr. Barlow said reasonably. “Didn't want to upset you.”

Lilian's lips compressed into a thin line as she stared at the lichen-covered block of stone. She took the map from her pocket and folded it reverently over the Victory Medal. She tucked the little packet into her pocket, then swung her leg back and gave the wall a vicious kick. Mr. Barlow and I fell back a step in surprise.

Lilian paused to watch a gentle shower of stone flakes tumble from the wall, then rounded on Mr. Barlow.

“I
am
upset,” she said. “I'm upset with
you
, Mr. Barlow.” She kicked the wall again, releasing a few more flakes. “You are our sexton. The upkeep of church property is your responsibility, yet you've allowed this section of wall to fall into disrepair. Look at it. A sharp breeze would knock it over.”

Mr. Barlow and I turned our attention to the section of wall Lilian had kicked. It seemed perfectly sound to me.

“The wall will have to be relaid, Mr. Barlow,” Lilian stated
authoritatively. “It will have to be torn down and reconstructed from the ground up. Since the wall must be rebuilt, it may as well be moved. I'm sure I can persuade the Hodges to donate a sliver of their farm to St. George's. I see no reason why the wall can't be moved five or even ten feet from its present position.”

Mr. Barlow's gaze shifted from Lilian to the wall, then came to rest on the grave. A small smile played about his lips, but when he looked at Lilian again, he was all business.