Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure (2 page)

Bess and I were accustomed to drawing a crowd in Finch, but the crowd we drew usually clamored for Bess's attention rather than mine. I was vaguely alarmed, therefore, when the oncoming horde ignored my darling daughter and addressed themselves exclusively to me.

“Lori!” Elspeth Binney cried. “At last!”

“Where have you been?” demanded Opal Taylor.

“We thought you'd never get here!” Charles Bellingham exclaimed.

“Bess and I had to take the boys to school—” I began.

“No time for explanations,” said Sally Cook, waving me to silence. She glanced furtively toward the moving van, then stepped closer to me and murmured, “We have a serious problem with our new neighbors, Lori. And you're the only one who can solve it.”

I
wasn't sure why Sally Cook had lowered her voice. Our little group of gawkers couldn't have been more conspicuous if we'd waved flags and shot off fireworks. Short, grandmother-shaped Sally wore a gray cardigan over a loose-fitting white blouse and an everyday pair of black stretch pants, and Mr. Barlow was dressed in his usual work shirt and twill trousers, but they were the only villagers whose attire might have gone unnoticed in a country lane.

The Handmaidens looked like a pastel rainbow in their flowing painters' smocks—soft pink for Selena Buxton, baby blue for Elspeth Binney, primrose yellow for Opal Taylor, and mint green for Millicent Scroggins—while Dick Peacock had chosen a blindingly bright paisley waistcoat from his collection of waistcoats, as if he wished to call attention to his massive girth.

Tall, portly Charles Bellingham had covered his balding pate with a rather dashing black fedora he'd adorned with a crimson hatband. Grant Tavistock, by contrast, had evidently decided to accentuate his healthy headful of salt-and-pepper hair by winding a long silvery scarf around his neck.

I'd worn faded blue jeans and a navy blue pullover for the express purpose of blending into the shadows, but it didn't seem to matter. The movers appeared to be too absorbed in their work to take any notice of my colorful neighbors.

“How on earth can you have a problem with the Hobsons?” I
demanded. “They haven't even finished moving in. Did they storm out of their new home and tell you to go away?”

“No,” Sally admitted. “None of us have spoken with them since they came to Finch to view the cottage.”

“We saw them arrive this morning,” Dick Peacock added helpfully. “They were here before the removals men.”

“Mr. Hobson drives an old Fiat Panda,” Grant Tavistock informed me.

“And Mrs. Hobson was in a blue hatchback,” said Charles Bellingham.

“They parked their cars in the garage,” said Elspeth Binney, “and we haven't seen them since.”

“It's hard to see anything through the hedgerow,” said Millicent Scroggins, with the disappointed air of one who'd tried.

The tall but tidy hedgerow that blocked our view of Ivy Cottage also blocked our view of the garage. The Hobsons could have bunny-hopped from their cars to their front door, and no one in the lane would have been any the wiser.

“If you've had only a glimpse of the Hobsons,” I said patiently, “and you haven't spoken with them recently, how can you have a problem with them?”

“We saw the boxes,” said Opal Taylor.

“What boxes?” I asked.

“The boxes marked
MUSEUM
,” Sally said, as if it were obvious. “The removals men carried dozens of them into the house.”

“No, they didn't,” countered Elspeth. “I saw no more than ten boxes labeled
MUSEUM
.”

“I saw twelve,” said Opal.

“That's odd,” said Grant. “Charles and I saw nine.”

“There were five museum boxes,” Mr. Barlow stated flatly and since he was as precise as the others were prone to exaggeration, no one contradicted him.

“Does it matter?” Sally said irritably. “The point is: The boxes prove that the Hobsons intend to open a museum.”

“A museum?” I said, bewildered. “What kind of museum would a pair of retired schoolteachers open?”

“Blackboards through the ages?” Charles suggested.

“A collection of inkwells might be interesting,” said Selena.

“I wouldn't mind looking at old copybooks,” Dick said thoughtfully. “Handwriting has changed a lot since we were in school.”

“It certainly has,” said Mr. Barlow. “It's become a lot less legible.”

Everyone laughed except Sally, who seemed to be distinctly out of sorts.

“There's no reason to suppose that the museum will have anything to do with the Hobsons' teaching careers,” said Grant. “They may have a collection of model airplanes or music boxes or exotic insects.”

“Will and Rob would go bananas over an insect museum,” I said. “My boys love bugs.”

Bess chose that moment to let out a squawk. I knew that she was agreeing with me about her brothers' entomomania, but the others seemed to think that she was reproaching them for ignoring her.

The discussion of museums was immediately put on hold while the villagers endeavored to redeem themselves. Bess was scooped up, passed around, cuddled, kissed, and lavishly praised until I returned her to the pram, where she promptly fell asleep. Adoration, however well deserved, could be exhausting for an almost-eight-month-old.

“All right,” I said, once order was restored. “You saw the movers carry five boxes labeled
MUSEUM
into Ivy Cottage. You assume, therefore, that the Hobsons intend to open a museum of some sort.” I raised my hands, palms upward. “I still don't see what the problem is.”

A deafening wave of noise reverberated through the lane as everyone spoke at once. The burly movers glanced in our direction, rolled their eyes, and got on with their work.

“Pipe down!” Sally barked. “You'll wake the baby!”

My neighbors peered at Bess contritely, and the clamor was replaced by a whispered chorus of apologies. Since I wanted to get to the bottom of their issue with the Hobsons, I didn't tell them that my clever daughter could sleep through a brass band concert.

“Let's talk one at a time, shall we?” Elspeth proposed primly.

“I'll go first,” said Sally, and the glint in her eye warned the others to back off. “Ivy Cottage is in a residential zone, Lori. The Hobsons would have to get a special permit and all sorts of special licenses from the county to run a business from their place of residence.”

“If they do get the permit and the licenses,” said Opal, “where will the museum visitors park?” She swept an arm through the air to indicate the narrow lane. “You can see for yourself that there's no space for parked cars here. Mark my words: We'll have cars parked helter-skelter on the village green.”

“They'll ruin the grass,” said Grant. “If it rains, the green won't be a green anymore. It'll be a muddy mess.”

“Goya and Matisse don't care for mud,” said Charles, gazing indulgently from his Golden Pomeranian to his partner's Maltese.

“I don't care for mud, either,” Millicent chimed in.

“Nor do I,” said Elspeth. “No one cares for mud.”

“They'll drop sandwich wrappers and soda cans all over the village,” Selena said with a disapproving sniff. “I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't wish to spend my spare time picking up after a pack of strangers.”

“A museum might be good for business,” Dick pointed out. “I wouldn't mind seeing a few more seats filled in the pub.”

“It won't be good for
my
business,” Sally grumbled, finally revealing the reason for her ill humor.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Museums
always
have tearooms, Lori,” she replied. “My tearoom barely turns a profit as it is. A second tearoom in the village could wipe me out.”

Mr. Barlow, ever the voice of reason in Finch, spoke up again.

“If you ask me,” he said, “you're getting yourselves wound up over something that might never happen. We don't really know what those boxes mean, do we?”

The villagers fell silent as they turned his question over in their minds. Elspeth Binney was the first to concede that he might be on to something.

“You're quite right,” she said. “Perhaps the Hobsons bought the boxes
from
a museum.”

“Or they could be storing them
for
a museum,” said Millicent.

“Or they might be taking them
to
a museum,” said Opal. “After they settle into their new home, of course.”

“Or we might be right,” Sally said darkly. “The Hobsons may be planning to run a museum of their own, with a tearoom, in Ivy Cottage.”

“Only one way to find out,” Mr. Barlow said briskly. “Ask them. Go in there right now and ask them straight out: Do you intend to open a museum?”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Sally. She turned to me. “That's where you come in, Lori.”

The rest of the villagers nodded encouragingly.

“Sorry?” I said, baffled. “Where do I come in?”

“We'd like you to ask the Hobsons if they intend to open a
museum in Ivy Cottage,” Elspeth explained. “And we'd like you to ask them as soon as possible.”

“Within the next five minutes would suit me,” said Sally, tapping her foot impatiently.

I gaped at Sally and Elspeth, as if they'd made a subversive suggestion. In a way, they had. It was customary in Finch to allow newcomers three days to recover from the initial shock of moving. To knock on the Hobsons' door any sooner would be considered extremely impolite, as it would put undue pressure on them to be hospitable in the midst of chaos. To intrude on the Hobsons on the very day of their arrival, while their moving van was still being emptied, would, under normal circumstances, be seen as a descent into barbarism.

“B-but what about the three-day rule?” I stammered.

“We're willing to waive the three-day rule,” Sally replied.

“We
have
to waive it,” said Mr. Barlow. “If we don't, certain people”—he gave Sally a sidelong glance—“will let their imaginations run away with them. Before you know it, those five boxes will become hundreds, and Ivy Cottage will become the Finch branch of the British Museum.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Sally snapped, having caught Mr. Barlow's glance. “No one said a word about the British Museum. But even a
small
museum, with a
small
tearoom—”

“You've made your concerns perfectly clear, Sally,” Grant interrupted gently. “You won't get a wink of sleep until you know what the Hobsons intend to do with Ivy Cottage.”

“We'd all like to know,” said Millicent. She raised her eyebrows, then added portentously, “We wouldn't want alarming rumors to reach Peggy Taxman's ears, would we?”

The villagers' eyes widened in dismay, and I had no trouble
understanding why. Peggy Taxman was a broad-shouldered, buxom bossyboots, a natural commander who ruled the village with an iron hand and a voice that could pulverize granite. Peggy ran the post office, the general store, and the greengrocer's shop, and she chaired every committee meeting in Finch. Village life would have ground to a halt without her organizational skills and her seemingly boundless energy, but most of us would have preferred a ruler who was less overbearing, officious, and opinionated than the one we had.

I looked toward the humpbacked bridge and asked, “Why isn't Peggy here?”

“Delivery day,” replied Millicent. “She's restocking the shelves in the Emporium.”

Finch's general store had been known as the Emporium from time out of mind. It was an aptly grandiose name, as the Emporium stocked everything from hay bales to freckle cream.

“Why didn't she send Jasper in her place?” I inquired.

Jasper Taxman, Peggy's soft-spoken, mild-mannered husband, was the only person on earth who could curb his wife's wilder excesses, but even he chose his battles wisely.

“Jasper's working the till,” Millicent informed me, “but they'll hear about the museum soon enough.”

“God forbid,” Dick groaned. “If Peggy gets wind of it, we'll be stuck in committee meetings for the next three days. She'll want to get up a petition and hold a protest rally. Either that, or she'll want to run the museum herself, which means that she'll volunteer
us
to run it.”

“A committee meeting once a week is bad enough,” Charles said, looking appalled. “If I have to attend three in three days, I'll go mad.”

“And deaf,” Grant added glumly.

“We need to stop the rumors before they start,” Mr. Barlow said
decisively. “The only way to get our facts straight is to speak directly with the Hobsons.”

My neighbors gazed at me imploringly.

“I'm willing,” I said, taking the leaden hint, “but I don't know why it has to be me. Why can't one of you speak with them?”

“Because you have a baby and we don't,” Sally replied bluntly. “Bess is your passport into Ivy Cottage.”

“Have you no shame?” I said, eyeing her reproachfully. “Do you really want me to use my infant daughter as a prop in an underhanded scheme to trick an innocent couple into revealing secrets they might wish to keep to themselves?”

“We do,” said Sally.

“Hole in one,” said Grant.

“She got there in the end,” Dick said complacently, and the others nodded.

“What a great idea,” I said, grinning. “I should have thought of it myself. Wish me luck!”

“You won't need it,” said Sally. “You have Bess.”

T
he villagers were urging me onward when a loud
bang
! made everyone jump. The burly movers, having completed their task, had slammed the van's swinging doors shut. The sound of their laughter as they climbed into the cab suggested strongly that they'd enjoyed startling us.

“Well, really,” Elspeth said indignantly. “The manners of some people.”

No one joined Elspeth in berating the movers as they drove off. I suspected that the others were remembering, as I was, a certain proverb concerning glass houses and thrown stones. People who spied on moving vans couldn't in all honesty claim the high ground when it came to practicing good manners.

The slamming doors didn't make my dozing daughter jump, but they did wake her. She opened her eyes, blinked slowly, and yawned lazily, then smacked her lips to indicate that she was ready for the midmorning snack I'd tucked into the diaper bag.

“Brilliant,” I said, beaming at her. “We'll ask the Hobsons if we can warm your puréed carrots in their kitchen.”

“I hope they've unpacked their pots and pans,” said Sally.

“We'll soon find out,” I said cheerfully, and steered the pram toward the arched wooden gate in the tall hedgerow.

I couldn't believe my luck. Despite our late arrival at the moving van vigil, Bess and I had managed to score better-than-front-row seats. Thanks to the museum mystery, we wouldn't have to listen
wistfully while our neighbors described the Hobsons' tables, chairs, and lamps. Instead, we'd be the first locals—the very first!—to see their possessions up close,
inside Ivy Cottage
. I felt as though Christmas had come early.

I strode through the gateway in an excess of high spirits, but my steps slowed, then stopped as a wave of memories washed over me. Ivy Cottage was a pretty place, two stories tall, its walls cloaked in the climbing vine that had given the cottage its name. Shaggy strands of ivy framed a pair of bay windows on the ground floor, tall chimneys bracketed the slate roof, and a shallow porch sheltered a front door made of weathered oak. A well-kept garden grew on either side of the smooth brick path that led from the arched gate to the front door.

I could remember a time, however, when Ivy Cottage hadn't presented such a pretty picture to the world. Its previous tenant, the late Hector Huggins, had allowed his garden to engulf his home. When I'd first seen it, I'd been reminded of Sleeping Beauty's castle. Fortunately, the overgrowth had been tamed and the cottage updated by Mr. Huggins's heir, a young Australian named Jack MacBride.

Although Jack had lived in Ivy Cottage during its lengthy renovation, he'd recently moved in with Bree Pym, who, after a few miscues, had fallen as deeply in love with him as he had with her. The villagers had accepted the new arrangement grudgingly, not because they disapproved of it but because it deprived them of the pleasure of attending another wedding at St. George's.

Since I'd helped Jack with the renovation, Ivy Cottage was as familiar to me as my own cottage. I felt a touch of pride as I surveyed the neatly clipped vines, the sparkling windowpanes, and the carefully tended garden, and I hoped the Hobsons would take good care of their new home, whether they used it as a museum or not.

Bess ended my reverie with a powerfully worded request for food. With a hasty apology, I cut short my stroll down memory lane and made my way up the brick path without further delay.

I'd scarcely finished knocking on the front door when it was opened by a tall, slender woman dressed in a Fair Isle sweater, brown corduroy trousers, and sensible brown suede shoes. Her eyes were an interesting shade of powder blue, and she wore her gray hair in a short, chic style that flattered her oval face. She had a pencil tucked behind one ear, a pair of reading glasses perched halfway down her nose, a piece of paper in her hand, and a puzzled frown creasing her brow.

The woman peered at me over her reading glasses, then held the piece of paper out to me. It appeared to be a checklist.

“Any idea what this scribble might mean?” she asked, pointing to the second item on the list. “You'd think I'd be able to read my own handwriting, but I can't make head nor tail of it. That's what comes of making to-do lists at the last minute.”

“‘Empty . . . coolbox'?” I ventured, after studying the scrawl.

“Good Lord, yes,” she said, clapping a hand to her forehead. “I hope the ice hasn't melted. We'll need the butter for our toast tomorrow morning. There's nothing so dispiriting as dry toast.” She gestured for me to follow her as she hurried into the cottage.

I lifted Bess and the diaper bag from the pram, carried them across the threshold, closed the door behind me, and paused to scrutinize the large rectangular room that stretched from the front to the back of the cottage. The late Hector Huggins had used it as both living and dining room, but it looked as though the Hobsons would use it exclusively as a living room. I was tempted to open the door to the dining room, to see if they planned to put it to its intended use, but decided against it. I didn't want to push my luck too far.

I liked what I saw in the living room. Upon closer examination, the leather sofa I'd noticed earlier appeared to be neither cheap nor outrageously expensive. It was comfortably worn as well, like a favorite pair of bedroom slippers, and the rest of the furnishings were equally unpretentious. There were a few antiques scattered here and there, but I sensed that, once the furniture was arranged properly, the finer pieces would blend in nicely with the more modest ones.

Satisfied, I entered the kitchen, where I found the gray-haired woman transferring the contents of a large red cooler to the stainless steel refrigerator Jack MacBride had installed. The kitchen was crowded with boxes, some half empty, others unopened, none of them labeled
MUSEUM
.

“You arrived in the nick of time,” the woman said over her shoulder. “One more hour, and our butter would have been soup.” She tipped a stream of half-melted ice cubes into the sink, then set the cooler aside, with its lid open, to air dry. “I really can't thank you enough,” she went on, turning to extend a damp hand to me. “I'm Felicity Hobson, by the way, and your baby is beautiful.”

Mrs. Hobson couldn't have chosen a better way to endear herself to me. I looked down at my daughter's silky dark ringlets, her velvety brown eyes, and her rose-petal complexion, and I had to agree that she was indeed beautiful. My boys were good-looking, too, but there was something about an infant . . .

“I'm Lori Shepherd,” I said, shaking Mrs. Hobson's hand. “And my daughter's name is Bess. We live up the lane from you, just past Anscombe Manor.”

“Anscombe Manor,” Mrs. Hobson repeated reflectively. “Is that the place with the riding school?”

“That's right,” I said. “My sons take lessons there.”

“I know,” she said. “The woman who owns the tearoom told me.”

“Did she?” I said, wondering what else Sally Cook had told our new neighbors about me.

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Hobson. “Our estate agent introduced us to quite a number of villagers when we came to Finch to view Ivy Cottage. Everyone we met seemed eager to speak with us.”

“Talking is the most popular form of exercise in Finch,” I told her.

“I'm rather fond of it myself,” said Mrs. Hobson.

The twinkle in her eye suggested that she'd learned as much about the villagers as they'd learned about her during her first visit to Finch. It was a promising sign. Mrs. Hobson, I thought, would have no trouble holding her own in a community of snoops.

Bess repeated her request for food.

“Diaper?” Mrs. Hobson guessed.

“Hunger,” I said. “Bess usually has a bite to eat right about now.”

“I'm afraid we didn't bring any baby food with us,” said Mrs. Hobson. “Our children outgrew it some thirty years ago.”

“Not to worry,” I said, patting the diaper bag. “I never leave home without a jar of puréed carrots.”

“Would you like me to warm it for Bess?” Mrs. Hobson asked. “I do have a saucepan here, somewhere.”

She began to shift boxes from one place to another, and in no time at all, I was seated at a cleared kitchen table, feeding Bess spoonfuls of her favorite midmorning snack. Mrs. Hobson's saucepan search had produced a teakettle, a sturdy brown teapot, a squashed packet of tea, and a pretty set of blue-and-white cups and saucers as well as the saucepan. While I fed my ravenous daughter, Mrs. Hobson made a pot of Earl Grey tea and set the table with three cups and saucers. She then left the kitchen to stand at the bottom of the staircase leading to the upper floor.

“James!” she called. “Come down! We have guests!”

She returned to the kitchen and took the chair opposite mine, placed her reading glasses on the table, and rubbed her eyes.

“My husband will be with us shortly,” she said. “Unless he becomes distracted, in which case I'll go upstairs and haul him down bodily.”

“Please don't,” I protested. “He must have a lot to do—you both do—and you've already gone to so much trouble—”

“It's no trouble,” she broke in, filling her cup. “I needed a sit-down, and you gave me an excuse to have one.”

I heard the sound of footsteps descending the stairs, and a moment later James Hobson strode into the kitchen. He was a head taller than his wife, and his face was more weathered than hers, but he had the same slim build. His bright blue eyes peered at me from behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, and his iron-gray hair stood up in random wisps, as if he'd just finished running his hand through it. He was dressed as casually as I would have expected him to be, in a plaid flannel shirt, a somewhat grubby pair of chinos, and sneakers.

“Lori?” said Mrs. Hobson. “Please allow me to present my husband, James. James, say hello to Lori Shepherd and her daughter, Bess. Their timely arrival saved our butter.”

“Hello and thank you,” he said, smiling down at me. “I'd offer my hand, but yours appear to be fully engaged.”

“I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Hobson,” I said.

“Please don't call me Mr. Hobson,” he said with a groan, sinking into the chair next to his wife's. “Felicity and I have been addressed as Mr. and Mrs. Hobson for so long that we've nearly forgotten our Christian names.”

“The schoolteacher's curse,” said Mrs. Hobson. “One of them, at any rate.”

“Among grown-ups,” said her husband, “we're James and Felicity.”

“And I'm Lori,” I said. “I'm familiar with schoolteachers' curses. My mother taught third and fourth graders back in the States.”

“I thought I detected an American accent,” said James. “Is your mother still in the States?”

“She died a year before I moved to England,” I replied.

“I'm sorry,” said James. “And your father?”

“James,” Felicity said, frowning at him, “you're prying.”

“It's okay, Felicity,” I said. “I'm used to people prying. To answer your question, James, my father died shortly after I was born.”

“It must be a comfort to have your father-in-law living nearby,” said James. “He owns the estate across the lane from us, doesn't he?”

“Another tidbit from the tearoom?” I inquired.

“Not at all,” James replied. “We heard about your father-in-law from the man who owns the pub. He sounds like quite a nice chap.”

“William is wonderful,” I said. “You couldn't ask for a better neighbor.”

“I don't suppose we could borrow a blender from him,” said Felicity, with a wry smile. She kicked a nearby box, and it made a faint tinkling noise. “Ours didn't survive the move.”

“I'll bring one over tomorrow,” I said. “My husband and I were given six blenders as wedding presents, and we've only ever used one. The rest are stashed in our attic. They may not have the latest bells and whistles, and their warranties are definitely out of date, but they're as good as new.”

“I was joking,” Felicity said, “but if you wouldn't mind . . . It would save us a trip to Upper Deeping.”

“It would be my pleasure,” I said. “We'll call it a housewarming gift.”

Bess had finished inhaling her carrots, and although she found our
conversation fascinating, she was ready for some exercise. I cleaned her up, then scanned the cluttered floor for a safe place to put her, but there was none. Her body language—and mine—must have spoken to James because he proposed a simple solution.

“Shall we repair to the back garden?” he said. “Your daughter can play among the leaves while we chat.”

“Are you sure we're not taking up too much of your time?” I asked.

“Let's see,” said James, feigning concentration. “Unpack another box or sit idly in the garden on a fine October morning? Difficult choice, but . . .” He stood. “I choose the garden!”

“So do I,” said Felicity, standing. “A breath of fresh air will make a nice change from breathing dust. James, you bring the diaper bag, and I'll bring the tea.”

*   *   *

Jack MacBride had, with ample help from my friend Emma Harris, transformed Ivy Cottage's back garden from a tangled jungle into a tranquil haven. No garden was at its best in late October, but I'd seen the trellis covered with roses, the boundary wall shaded by the pergola's profusion of grape leaves, and the blooming beds of wildlife-friendly flowers that had been cut back but not uprooted during the renovation. James and Felicity, I thought, had a lot to look forward to.

Whatever the season, the garden's most noteworthy feature was the old well that stood at its center. It was known throughout the village as the wishing well, and it looked the part. The wellhead was round and constructed of smooth river stones, with a shingled roof resting on a pair of wooden posts. An oak bucket hung from a rope wound around the wooden spindle that spanned the posts. I
remembered the day Mr. Barlow had given the rope and the bucket to Jack MacBride.