Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure (9 page)

For a split second I was tempted to tell him that Aunt Dimity's request had, in fact, been a post-dying wish, but I resisted the urge and answered evasively, “Something like that. I don't know much about Badger, except that he had a beard, a tan, and strong, rough hands. My friend thought he might have been a gardener.”

“A gardener would have had no trouble finding work around here,” Adam observed. “Bloomsbury is dotted with garden squares: Russell Square, Red Lion Square, Tavistock Square, Bedford Square—”

“Queen Square,” I interjected.

“Exactly,” he said, nodding. “Gray's Inn and Lincoln's Inn have their own gardens as well, and they're a stone's throw from here.” He hesitated, then explained carefully, “Gray's Inn and Lincoln's Inn aren't hotels, you understand. They're professional associations that provide barristers with office space and living quarters, among many other amenities.”

“I'm familiar with the Inns of Court,” I assured him. “My husband is an attorney, remember. He gave me an Inns of Court tour shortly after we moved to England. As I recall, the gardens were pretty impressive.”

“Barristers can afford impressive gardens,” Adam said dryly.

I recalled the opulent dining halls Bill had shown me and said, “I hear they dine impressively, too.”

Adam laughed as we crossed another busy street. When we reached the other side, he gestured for me to stand with my back to a shop front and pointed across the street to the building facing us.

“That's it,” he said. “Great Ormond Street Hospital. The first children's hospital in London.”

Although I was sure that the work carried out within the Great
Ormond Street Hospital was both praiseworthy and essential, it wasn't the prettiest place of healing I'd ever seen. It looked as though a long row of dull brown wings had been grafted onto a fairly flamboyant Victorian corner building.

“In 1929 J. M. Barrie gave the hospital the story rights to
Peter Pan
,” Adam went on. “The royalties have been rolling in ever since. His gift has saved thousands—perhaps hundreds of thousands—of young lives.”

“What a legacy,” I said, making a mental note to buy a copy of
Peter Pan
for every child in my sons' school. “My friend told me that the Great Ormond Street Hospital was used as a casualty clearing station during the war.”

“It was,” Adam confirmed. “My grandfather was brought here after a wall fell on him during the Blitz.”

“A wall fell on your grandfather?” I said in dismay. “Was he badly injured?”

“Broken leg, cracked skull,” Adam replied matter-of-factly. “He reported for duty three days after he was discharged. Did his rounds on crutches.”

“They don't make 'em like that anymore,” I said. “A hangnail puts me out of commission for months.”

“I somehow doubt it,” Adam said, giving me a sidelong look. “If you're anything like my mother, you report for duty every day, regardless. Would you like to go into the hospital?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “I just wanted to fix an image of it in my mind.”

“You can try,” Adam said doubtfully, “but the building is constantly changing. It may look quite different the next time you see it.”

“Which means,” I said, feeling a bit deflated, “that it would have looked quite different when my friend was here.”

As if sensing my disappointment, Adam said helpfully, “The Victorian bit hasn't changed.”

“I'll fix that bit in my mind, then.” I studied the redbrick corner building in silence, then nodded. “Image fixed. Let us move on.”

An ominous sprinkling of fat raindrops struck the pavement as we turned off the busy street and onto a street that was virtually traffic free. Shiny black bollards separated its wide walkways from a narrow lane laid with paving stones.

“Lamb's Conduit Street,” said Adam. “No cars allowed, except delivery vehicles.”

“Another reason to take public transportation,” I commented.

Lamb's Conduit Street was an unostentatious and delightfully old-fashioned shopping district. The four-story apartment buildings that lined the little lane housed ground-floor shops that offered everything from hand-painted china to hand-printed fabrics. Window displays—some rather dusty, but all tastefully arranged—featured the wares of cobblers, tailors, shirtmakers, jewelers, booksellers, and florists. It heartened me to see so many independent small businesses swimming valiantly against the corporate tide.

The street's eating establishments were as varied and attractive as the small businesses. I spotted a classic fish-and-chips shop, a splendid Victorian pub, and a tempting tearoom as well as some elegant high-end eateries, but there wasn't a chain restaurant in sight. Although many of the cafés and coffeehouses had outdoor dining areas, the increasingly grubby weather had evidently driven their patrons indoors.

As the fat raindrops gave way to a gusting downpour, I opened my umbrella, and Adam pulled up his rain jacket's hood.

“Why is it called Lamb's Conduit Street?” I asked as we splashed along side by side. “Did it funnel sheep into London's meat markets?”

“Sorry?” Adam asked in a polite shout. He pointed to his hood. “Couldn't hear you.”

I repeated my questions in a roar reminiscent of Peggy Taxman's.

“It's nothing to do with sheep,” Adam explained. “Lamb's Conduit Street was named after Sir William Lambe, a civic-minded gentleman who paid for the restoration of a derelict Elizabethan conduit in order to supply water to the City—the oldest part of London. I'd take you to see the conduit's remains, but—”

“But they're probably flooded,” I interrupted, tipping my umbrella forward to keep the wind from turning it inside out. “There's a time for sightseeing, Adam, and a time to get the heck out of Dodge. Let's save Mr. Lambe's conduit for another day, shall we? How close is Carrie's Coffees?”

“We're nearly there,” he said. “The next left turn will take us into St. Megwen's Lane.”

Aunt Dimity's tiny byway lived up to its billing. St. Megwen's Lane was so narrow that I could have stretched out my arms and touched the buildings on either side of it. After a few claustrophobic steps, however, the passage opened up into a kind of half courtyard where a cheerful blue-and-white-striped awning announced that we had arrived at our destination.

“Carrie's Coffees,” Adam bellowed.

“I see,” I bellowed back, but beneath my breath I murmured, “Aunt Dimity's Rose Café.”

I
should have been overcome by a flood of emotions as I stood on the spot where Aunt Dimity had once stood. I should have paused to drink in every detail of the coffeehouse's charming exterior in order to describe it to her later. At the very least, I should have thanked Adam for guiding me unerringly to a place I would have had trouble finding on my own.

I was, alas, too wet and windblown to do and feel what I should have done and felt. What might have been a momentous moment passed in a damp blur as Adam and I put our heads down and hurried through the front door. To my relief, the warmth that enfolded us wasn't polluted by the detested stink of coffee. Coffee, it seemed, was something of a sideline at Carrie's Coffees.

Though an espresso machine took up more than its fair share of space behind the counter directly in front of us, a set of shelves next to it held an impressive array of tea tins. Better still, the glass case beside the counter contained a tantalizing assortment of pastries, quiches, sandwiches, and colorful salads. The warm air was perfumed with the delectable aromas of fresh-baked bread and pungent herbs mingled with the heady scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, hazelnut, and vanilla, with the merest hint of coffee to legitimize the Rose Café's newest name.

“Adam!” called the stout, middle-aged redhead behind the counter. “What in God's name are you doing out in such filthy weather? You look like a drowned rat!”

“It's good to see you, too, Carrie,” said Adam, lowering his hood and pushing his wet hair back from his forehead.

“Who's your friend?” the woman asked, eyeing me with great interest. “You haven't broken it off with Helena, have you?”

Adam's rosy complexion deepened to crimson.

“I'm flattered,” I interceded, “but I'm also old enough to be Adam's mother. Helena has nothing to fear from me.”

“More's the pity,” said Carrie. “Helena's not the right girl for our lad, as I keep telling him. She takes too much and gives too little.”

“Maybe he has to figure it out on his own,” I suggested.

“Wish he'd hurry up,” said Carrie. She looked me up and down. “Who are you, then? You're a Yank, so you can't be a relative, and you don't look daft enough to be a bone bagger.”

I had no idea what a bone bagger was, but I was glad that I didn't look daft enough to be one.

“I'm Lori Shepherd,” I said. “Adam works for my husband. He's showing me around Bloomsbury.”

“Silly day to choose for an outing. But I'm pleased to meet you, Lori.” Carrie pressed a hand to her expansive bosom as she continued, “Carrie Osborne, proprietor. Don't mind my teasing. I'm in the running for Bloomsbury's Most Colorful Character, and I have to keep up appearances. I want to see my buns immortalized in Russell Square.”

Carrie didn't strike me as the sort of woman who'd make a double entendre accidentally, but I didn't know her well enough to laugh, so I turned instead to Adam and asked, “Is there really a Most Colorful Character competition in Bloomsbury?”

“No,” he said, “but if there were, Carrie would win it.”

“I should think so,” Carrie said emphatically. “What can I get for you, Lori?”

“I'd love a cup of Lapsang souchong,” I told her, “but I don't suppose—”

“Cup or pot?” Carrie interjected.

“A pot, please,” I said readily. “And a glass of water. And one of the baguette sandwiches—the one with the brie and the tomatoes. And . . .” I paused to study the pastries before making a tough decision. “And a blackberry tart.”

“And soup?” Carrie said coaxingly. “Nothing warms the soul on a rainy day like a nice bowl of soup. I have butternut squash soup today, made from scratch.”

“Yes, please,” I said. I needed no coaxing. My brief but chilly walking tour of Bloomsbury had sharpened my appetite to a razor's edge.

“I'll pay,” said Adam and he pulled out a company credit card, as if to prove to Carrie that ours was a business arrangement.

“Have a seat while I deal with Mr. Moneybags,” Carrie instructed me.

It would have been a gross understatement to say that the coffeehouse wasn't busy. Adam and I were Carrie's only customers. While he hung his jacket, my raincoat, and my dripping umbrella on wooden pegs just inside the door, I selected a table near the white-framed, multipaned café window that stretched from one end of the shop front to the other.

Before Adam could join me, he was waylaid by two new arrivals who were clearly old friends. He bussed the young woman on each cheek and clapped the young man on the shoulder, then stood chatting with them while they divested themselves of their rain gear.

I took the opportunity to pull my cell phone from my shoulder bag and call Bill. A small, mean-spirited part of me hoped to find him in a down-to-the-last-clean-diaper panic, but he sounded downright jolly when he answered the phone.

“I delivered the blender,” he said before I could ask. “The Hobsons send their thanks. I also delivered the boys to school on time, emptied the dishwasher, changed Bess's diaper, and did a load of laundry.”

“You're a star,” I said.

“How's your search going?” he asked. “Did Adam meet you at Paddington?”

“He did and he's fantastic,” I said. “He knows more about Bloomsbury than I know about Finch. I assume that's why you chose him.”

“He seemed like the right man for the job,” said Bill. “Any luck finding Badger?”

“We've only just arrived at Carrie's Coffees,” I explained. “I thought I'd touch base with you before we launch the next phase of our search.”

“Which will be . . . ?” Bill asked.

“Lunch,” I replied, and he laughed.

“Bess and I have already had lunch,” he informed me. “How does lentil stew sound for dinner?”

“Scrumptious,” I said. “Do you know how to make lentil stew?”

“It's simmering on the stove as we speak,” Bill answered smugly. “Bess helped me by chewing on a wooden spoon. At the moment, she's using it to drum on a saucepan. Would you like to say hello?”

“Let her play,” I said, “but give her a hug from me.”

“I'll give her a hug and a kiss and a cuddle from you,” he said. “Oh, and I'm pleased to report that you haven't missed James Hobson's metal-detecting demo. He's holding the first session tomorrow morning on the village green, weather permitting.”

“Tomorrow morning?” I said, surprised. “He and Felicity must have broken the land speed record for unpacking.”

“They had lots of little helpers,” said Bill. “The villagers descended on Ivy Cottage en masse this morning to empty boxes and fill shelves.”

“Because the sooner the Hobsons are settled,” I said, “the sooner James can give the demonstration.”

“Uh-oh,” said Bill. “I'd better run. Jaws is making a break for the hallway.”

“Head her off at the pass,” I told him. “We'll catch up when I get home.”

“I'll have dinner on the table,” he promised, and we ended the call.

I shoved my cell phone into my bag, ignored a twinge of homesickness, and looked out the window. Since the view of the truncated courtyard was less than inspiring, and since Adam was still chatting with his friends, I turned my attention to the coffeehouse's decor.

Carrie's Coffees was a sunny place to stop on a rainy day. The polished plank floors gleamed in the diffused light shed by the blue-shaded ceiling lamps that hung, one apiece, over each table. The walls were painted a soft buttercup yellow, trimmed with white woodwork, and hung with framed watercolor paintings of Georgian row houses brightened by flower-filled window boxes.

The day's menu had been handwritten in a florid but legible script on a wall-mounted whiteboard above the espresso machine. The menu's blue ink matched the blue lampshades as well as the stripes on the coffeehouse's awning.

The dining tables and chairs were modern in design and made of pale wood, but Carrie had created a cozy seating area at the far end of the room by arranging three compact leather armchairs around a trompe l'oeil painting of a stone fireplace filled with burning logs. To add to the verisimilitude, someone had affixed a roughhewn board to the painting, to serve as a mantel. A carriage clock and a row of well-thumbed paperbacks on the “mantel” completed the picture.

I wondered what the place had looked like when it had been the
Rose Café. Aunt Dimity's comments about rationing and scarcity led me to believe that it hadn't been as bright and airy as Carrie's Coffees. I envisioned scratched wooden tables on wobbly legs, straight-backed wooden chairs, scuffed floorboards, dingy wallpaper, cracked windowpanes, and dim lamps that were used only after dark.

“But they served a decent cup of tea,” I allowed in an undertone.

My one-sided conversation was mercifully curtailed by Adam, who arrived at the table carrying a heavily laden plastic tray.

“Sorry about that,” he said, nodding at his friends, who were placing their orders with Carrie Osborne. “Fellow students.”

“No need to apologize,” I assured him. “We're on your turf. I'd be surprised if you didn't run into someone you know.”

“Your lunch and mine,” he announced, placing the tray on the table. “I've asked Carrie to join us after the lunch rush. I thought you might like to speak with her about Badger.”

“That's why I'm here,” I said. “Thanks.”

I transferred the tray's contents to the table, and Adam returned the tray to the front counter. He'd made good use of the company card, ordering a bowl of soup, a chickpea salad, a wedge of bruschetta, a focaccia sandwich, a small vat of black coffee, and two bottles of water for himself, but a brief glance at my own dishes revealed a glaring omission.

“Where's my blackberry tart?” I demanded as he took his seat.

“There wasn't enough room on the tray for your tart,” he explained. “Carrie will bring it over.”

“Bless her,” I said, and dug in.

I was halfway through my soul-warming bowl of soup when the lunch rush began. Carrie's assistant, a wiry, gray-haired woman called Dizz, emerged from a back room to help her boss field orders from the dozens of customers who streamed in and out of the
coffeehouse. I kept a close watch on Carrie's patrons, but they were either young or middle-aged. Not one was old enough to be Aunt Dimity's very old friend.

Though the tables filled rapidly, the three armchairs before the faux fireplace remained empty.

“Are the leather chairs contaminated?” I asked.

“No,” said Adam. “They're reserved for Carrie's old dears—the pensioners I told you about, the ones who come here to chat about old times. She gives them free coffee and tea as well. She says it's the least she can do for her Battle of Britain boys.”

“Were they fighter pilots?” I asked.

“I'm not sure,” said Adam. “I never know whether Carrie's joking or not, but if you ask her a straight question, she'll probably give you a straight answer. I believe she knows the old boys quite well.”

“What happens if someone sits in their chairs?” I asked.

“A first-time offender gets a polite warning and a lecture about what we owe the brave men who stepped up to defend our country in its hour of need,” he explained. “Repeat offenders are told to leave and never come back.”

“I can see why the chairs are empty,” I said. I finished my soup, then glanced toward the front counter and lowered my voice. “I'm almost afraid to ask, but what is a bone bagger?”

“It's Carrie's pet name for an archaeologist,” he explained with a martyred air. “I'm working toward a postgrad degree in archaeology, you see, and since you were with me . . .”

“Got it,” I said, starting in on my sandwich. “Have you bagged many bones?”

“None,” he replied. “I turned up a bone comb at a dig in Kent, but I haven't yet uncovered human remains.”

“I'd rather find a bone comb than a ribcage,” I said with a dainty
grimace, “but I'm not an archaeologist. What period are you studying?”

“Early Anglo-Saxon,” he said decisively.

“I thought Anglo-Saxon was a language,” I said. “
Beowulf
was written in Anglo-Saxon, wasn't it?”

“It was,” said Adam, “but Anglo-Saxon is also the name of the culture that produced
Beowulf
, a culture created by the Germanic tribes that invaded, settled, and ruled Great Britain from the fifth century to 1066.”

“That would be . . . after the Romans, but before the Norman conquest?” I said tentatively.

“Close enough,” said Adam, grinning. “But if you mention the Dark Ages, I'll have to deduct points. The Anglo-Saxons weren't bullet-headed barbarians, Lori. They were fierce warriors, yes, but they were also artists, artisans, poets, and architects.” He leaned forward on his elbows, his face alight with a scholar's passion. “Have you seen the Sutton Hoo ship burial exhibition at the British Museum?”

“No,” I admitted. “My sons tend to gravitate to the arms and armor. And the bugs. Will and Rob are crazy about bugs.”

“Well, if you and your boys ever want a guided tour of the world's greatest collection of Anglo-Saxon treasures, ring me.” He raised his hand, palm outward. “No fees involved. It would be my pleasure.”

“That's very kind of you, Adam,” I said. “I may take you up on your offer, once I finish my Badger hunt.”

We had plenty of time to savor our meal, and each part of it was worth savoring. The soup's complex flavor had been deepened by a dash of curry, and the brie-and-tomato baguette had been sprinkled with microgreens and drizzled with a peppery olive oil. The tea had come as such a pleasant surprise that I didn't mind lingering over it while awaiting the arrival of my blackberry tart.

I didn't have long to wait. The lunch rush died down as quickly as it had begun. In an hour, the coffeehouse was once again somnolent, with only a handful of customers popping in for takeout orders. When Dizz cleared our table and Adam's friends waved good-bye to him, I felt a rising sense of anticipation. I had to remind myself sternly that Badger, not blackberries, was my main priority as Carrie approached our table with my tart and a flask of hot water to top up my teapot.