Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince (11 page)

“Thank you for your gracious hospitality, my lord and my lady,” I said. “You’ve been
extremely helpful, but I must dash. I have a . . . a meeting with the location scout
and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Nor do I,” harrumphed Lord Boghwell. “Can’t abide it. When I was a boy we had a gamekeeper
who acted as though he couldn’t read a clock. For all I know, he couldn’t, but that’s
not the point.”

“Please don’t get up,” I said, before His Lordship could sink his teeth into another
tirade. “I’ll see myself out.”

“You will not,” Lord Boghwell declared, adding with unexpected practicality, “You’d
never find the front door.” He gestured toward a bellpull hanging beside the chimneypiece.
“Ring for Shanice.”

He raised his newspaper to eye level and Lady Boghwell carried on with her crewelwork.
I rang for Shanice and stood shivering in the great room for nearly ten minutes before
she arrived.

“You rang?” she asked.

“Show our visitor out,” Lord Boghwell commanded.

“In a minute, my lord,” said Shanice.

“In a minute?” Lord Boghwell thundered. “When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed
immediately
, not
in a minute
! I pay your wages, my girl, and . . .”

He continued to scold the maid, but his words seemed to bounce off her broad back
as she ambled across the room to add two modest chunks of coal to the fire and to
fuss over the elderly couple’s shawls and lap rugs.

“There you go,” she said, standing back to survey her handiwork. “Tucked up snug as
two bugs.”

“Her Ladyship and I are not
insects
,” Lord Boghwell snapped. “And we will have luncheon in the dining room at one o’clock
sharp
.”

“Have I ever forgotten your luncheon, milord?” Shanice asked mildly, heading for the
door.

“No,” Lord Boghwell allowed grudgingly. “But the morning’s upheavals might have distracted
you.”

“The upheaval is leaving, milord.” Shanice opened the oak door and motioned with her
turbaned head for me to go through it.

“Thanks again,” I said to the Boghwells, and left the great room, wishing I could
plunge my toes into a pot of tea.

S
hanice closed the door gently, planted her hands on her broad hips, and gave me a
pitying look.

“Your nose is as red as a raspberry,” she observed. “Would you like a cup of tea to
warm you through before you go?”

“Yes, please,” I said gratefully.

Shanice led the way up a dim and musty passageway, through a door concealed by a faded
tapestry, and down an austere stone staircase. I assumed both door and staircase were
used exclusively by servants, but I wasn’t surprised when no one passed us on the
stairs. Shanice had said earlier that she was the only person currently working for
the Boghwells, and Risingholme’s shabby state appeared to confirm it. One woman, working
on her own, couldn’t cope with such a large house, no matter how big and strong she
was.

It wasn’t hard to understand why Shanice spent most of her working hours in the cavernous
kitchen. Unlike the rooms I’d seen on my walks to and from the great room, the kitchen
was spotless, well-lit, and kept blessedly toasty by an enormous cast iron range that
had probably been all the rage in the late Victorian era. The range radiated enough
heat to thaw my toes at forty paces, but Shanice dumped a heaping shovelful of coal
into it before filling a blackened kettle at the antiquated sink.

“Take off your coat, sweetie,” she said over her shoulder. “You won’t need it down
here.”

“Why don’t Lord and Lady Boghwell have a bigger fire?” I asked, slinging Bree’s trench
coat over the back of a chair. “Or sit in a smaller room?”

“Because the way things are is the way they’ve always been,” Shanice replied. “Milord
and lady are used to it, all of it, and they don’t approve of change.” She nodded
at a towering Welsh dresser laden with teapots, cups, saucers, creamers, sugar bowls,
biscuit tins, and tea canisters. “Set the table, will you, pet?”

I arranged a selection of tea things on the scrubbed pine table in the center of the
room and before long Shanice and I were sitting across from each other, sipping steaming
cups of jasmine tea. I’d just slipped into a pleasant daydream about sun-drenched
Jamaican gardens when my savior yanked me back to cold reality.

“Not a journalist, then?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

Caught off guard, I blushed and stammered, “H-how did you know?”

“Baby monitor in the chimney breast,” she replied complacently, gesturing to a wall-mounted
unit I’d mistaken for an intercom. “I’ve planted them all over the house. I can’t
leave milord and lady to fend for themselves, can I? They’re babies.”

“They’re tough babies,” I muttered, cupping my hands around my teacup.

“Do you know Frances Wylton?” Shanice asked, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Or did you make
that up, too?”

“I had lunch with Frances Wylton yesterday,” I replied with a hint of defiance.

“She didn’t tell you to ask the Boghwells to help you with your film, though, did
she?” Shanice spoke in exactly the same tone of voice I used when challenging a fibbing
child. “You’re not with a film company at all, are you?”

My cheeks went from pink to scarlet.

“No,” I admitted. “She didn’t and I’m not.” There was no point in lying. My blushes
had already given me away.

“I didn’t think so.” Shanice’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not one of those raving mad
fans, are you?”

“The Boghwells have fans?” I said incredulously.

“Not so’s you’d notice,” said Shanice, chuckling, “but Risingholme does.”

I couldn’t imagine the ugly old pile attracting a single admirer, let alone a legion
of raving mad fans, but I was willing to concede that mine was not the only opinion
that mattered.

“I can understand how an architect or a historian might find the house fascinating,”
I said diplomatically.

“But you’re not an architect or a historian,” Shanice observed.

“No.” I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and decided to play it straight with
her. “My name
is
Lori Shepherd, but I’m not an architect or a historian or an assistant director or
a journalist. I’m an ordinary, run-of-the-mill housewife. I live on the other side
of Upper Deeping, in a place called Finch—”

“You don’t sound like an Englishwoman,” Shanice interjected.

“I’m American,” I told her, “but I’ve lived in Finch for almost ten years. The vicar
will vouch for me,” I added defensively.

“I believe you,” said Shanice. “Only a fool would claim to be from a local village
if she didn’t live there and I don’t think you’re a fool, Lori Shepherd. What brought
you to Risingholme?”

“Frances Wylton really did send me,” I said. “She advised me to visit the Boghwells
because they’ve been around for so long and they know so much about their neighbors.
Frances thought I might learn something from the Boghwells that would help me to . . .”
My words trailed off and I smiled wryly. “You may find it hard to believe, Shanice,
but I’m trying to find someone who may not exist.”

“Who?” she asked.

“His name is Mikhail,” I replied.

“Mikhail?” she repeated. She cocked her head to one side. “Do you know Amanda Pickering?”

“I don’t know her well,” I answered, “but I’ve met her. I do know that she and Daisy
moved out of their flat unexpectedly on Sunday. Did Amanda Pickering tell you or the
Boghwells about her move?”

“Amanda? Talk to the Boghwells?” Shanice gave a snort of laughter, folded her arms
on the table, and said, “Let me tell you something, Lori Shepherd. I’m almost always
the only hired help at Risingholme. Maids, cleaners, butlers, valets, chauffeurs—they
come and go faster than waves in the wind. If the cold and the dark and the cobwebs
don’t drive them away, my employers do. Amanda, though . . .” She looked down at her
cup of tea and sighed. “Amanda came here once a week for almost a year.”

“Why did Amanda stay when so many others quit?” I asked.

“She never left the kitchen,” Shanice replied simply. “I hired her and I made sure
she never had to deal with the cold or the dirt or the Boghwells. That’s why she stayed.”
Shanice patted the table. “She worked right here.”

“Did she confide in you?” I asked. “Did you know she planned to leave?”

Shanice shook her head. “I expected Amanda to turn up for work as usual on Tuesday
morning, but she didn’t. I rang her landlady to find out if she was ill, but no . . .”
Shanice shrugged. “She left without a word to anyone. Mind you, she wasn’t one for
talking about herself. Amanda Pickering was a good little worker, but she was private
about her private life, and I didn’t pry. I didn’t want to embarrass her with questions
about Daisy’s father and such.”

“What did she do here?” I asked out of sheer curiosity. “Her specialty is silver polishing,
but I didn’t notice much silver in the house.”

“The Boghwells don’t put it out where people can
see
it,” Shanice explained, with feigned astonishment. “They shut it up in the dark and
take it out one piece at a time to gloat over it, like misers counting their coins.
Are you a thief?”

“No,” I said, startled. “Well . . . I stole a bag of candy when I was ten, but I was
so riddled with guilt I couldn’t open it and I told my mother about it before the
day was through. She made me take the bag back to the store and I haven’t stolen anything
since.”

“You were raised right,” said Shanice, with an approving nod. “I’ll risk showing you
some of Amanda’s work.”

She heaved herself to her feet and crossed to a wall of cupboards beside the Welsh
dresser. She winked at me, unlocked one of the cupboard doors, and opened it to reveal
ten deep, wide shelves crammed with a glimmering trove of claret jugs, ewers, punch
bowls, ink stands, pitchers, trays, wine coasters, and a myriad of other items I couldn’t
quite make out. Risingholme’s collection of silver made Skeaping Manor’s seem trivial.
If Miles Craven ever caught a glimpse of it, I thought, he’d go weak at the knees
with envy.

“Every cupboard along the wall is filled with it,” Shanice said, tapping the doors
she hadn’t opened. “It’s good
English
silver,” she added, her eyes twinkling. “No foreign tat allowed in
this
house.”

“Amanda couldn’t possibly polish so much silver,” I protested, goggling at the gleaming
hoard. “She’d have arms like a gorilla.”

“Amanda said professional polishing requires technique, not strength,” Shanice informed
me as she closed the cupboard door. “Milord and lady won’t be pleased when I tell
them she’s gone. I don’t have time to polish silver and they like their treasure shiny.”

She took a biscuit tin from the dresser, placed it between us on the table without
opening it, and resumed her seat.

“I’ll miss Amanda,” she said, “but I’ll miss little Daisy more. She came to work with
her mother sometimes, when she wasn’t feeling well, and the stories she’d tell!” Shanice
smiled at the memory. “I never knew what she would say next. I expect she told you
all about Mikhail.”

“She did,” I said.

“Me, too,” said Shanice.

“Did she tell you where he is?” I asked with some urgency.

“She didn’t have to tell me,” Shanice replied. “I know where he is. And I can tell
you how he got there.”

I felt a jolt of anticipation and sat forward in my chair, wondering if the Boghwells’
maid-of-most-work was about to give me the clue I needed to solve the riddle of the
silver sleigh.

“Daisy liked to bake biscuits with me while her mother was working,” Shanice explained.
“I made her favorites this morning because she was in my thoughts.” She pried the
lid from the biscuit tin and pushed it toward me. “Do you know what they’re called?”

I looked into the tin and saw dozens of small, round cookies liberally coated with
confectioners’ sugar. They looked like my late mother’s pecan balls, but when I lifted
one from the tin and bit into it, I tasted hazelnut.

“Russian tea cakes,” I said.

“That’s right. Daisy said they were
her
favorite biscuits because they were
Mikhail’s
favorite biscuits,” Shanice said with a tolerant, disbelieving smile. “When I told
Daisy we would bake Russian tea cakes, out she came with a story about a Russian prince
and robbers and kidnappers and sailing ships and castles and goodness knows what else.
You wouldn’t think such a little girl could make up such a wonderful story, but the
tea cakes made her imagination fly like a gull in a hurricane.” She tapped the side
of her turban. “Mikhail’s in there, sweetie. In Daisy’s head. No need to go looking
for him elsewhere.” Shanice plucked a tea cake from the tin and turned it in her fingers,
saying softly, “Daisy is a special child. I’ll miss her very much.”

It was clear to me that Shanice ranked Mikhail right up there with the tooth fairy
in terms of credibility, but I didn’t mind. The clue I’d sought was in the biscuit
tin.

“The tea cakes are delicious,” I said, licking powdered sugar from my fingertips.
“Is it your own recipe?”

“There’s not a lot of call for Russian biscuits in Jamaica,” Shanice said dryly. “I
found the recipe in the Risingholme receipt book.”

“You have a receipt book?” I said excitedly. “An old one? I’ve always wanted to look
at an old receipt book. May I?”

“Which one would you like to see?” she asked. “They go back a long way.”

I did some convoluted mental gymnastics to figure out how many years had passed since
the Bolshevik revolution, added a couple of decades to compensate for my feeble arithmetic
skills, and said, “The past hundred years will do very nicely, thank you.”

While Shanice sauntered off to fetch the book from a shelf at the far end of the kitchen,
I thought hard. According to Daisy Pickering, Russian tea cakes were Mikhail’s favorite
treat. And Mikhail’s favorite treat had now shown up at two places Daisy Pickering
had frequented: Hayewood House and Risingholme. Was it a coincidence? I asked myself.
Maybe so, I answered, but it was beginning to feel as though Daisy had left a trail
of crumbs for me to follow.

Shanice returned with an oversized, leather-bound ledger containing handwritten recipes
for everything from profiteroles to pickled pig’s feet. Each cook, it seemed, had
added new recipes to the book or recorded personal variations on old ones, though
in some cases it looked as though guests had been allowed to inscribe their own contributions
on the lined pages. The earliest handwriting reminded me so strongly of Aunt Dimity’s
elegant script that I couldn’t help but wonder if the anonymous writer had gone to
a village school similar to the one my benefactress had attended in Finch.

Shanice let me browse through the recipes to my heart’s content, then thumbed through
the book until she reached the Russian tea cake page. My heart beat a little faster
when I saw that it was the same recipe, written in the same hand, as the recipe Bree
and I had examined in Hayewood House’s receipt book. Though the recipe was unsigned,
it was dated:
July 1925
.

“Lord and Lady Boghwell mentioned a family called the Tereschchenkos,” I said casually.
“It sounds like a Russian name, doesn’t it? Do you think they might have given the
tea cake recipe to Risingholme’s cook back in 1925?”

“I doubt it,” Shanice said, sounding amused. “You don’t want to believe everything
the Boghwells tell you about their neighbors, sweetie. They’re the only people in
these parts who still call Mr. and Mrs. Thames the Treresh—the Terersh—” She made
one more attempt to pronounce the name correctly, then gave up. “I’ve only ever known
them as the Thameses. Milord and lady don’t care to admit it, but Mr. and Mrs. Thames
are as English as I am.”

I thought she might be joking—her lilting Jamaican accent made it seem possible—but
one look at her face told me that she intended only to fill me in on a bit of local
knowledge the Boghwells were too xenophobic to recognize.

“Would you like to copy the recipe?” Shanice asked, pointing to the receipt book.