Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure (5 page)

I
descended the ladder, restored order to the hallway, and looked in on Bess, who was still in dreamland. Though I was in desperate need of a shower, I gritted my gritty teeth, bypassed the bathroom, and went downstairs. I left the Hobsons' blender on the table in the front hall and brought the glittering bracelet with me into the study.

The study was quieter than the attic had been, but it wasn't much brighter. Rain pummeled the strands of ivy that crisscrossed the diamond-paned windows above the old oak desk, and the autumnal gloom sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with the room's actual temperature. In self-defense, I knelt to light a fire in the hearth. I waited until the flames were leaping high enough to warm me inside and out, then stood to greet my oldest friend in the world.

“Hi, Reginald,” I said, pulling cobwebs from my hair. “Yes, I know I'm a mess. I've been up in the attic. You won't believe what I found there.”

Reginald was a small, powder-pink flannel rabbit with black button eyes and beautifully hand-sewn whiskers. My mother had placed him in my bassinet shortly after my birth, and he'd been by my side ever since. A sensible woman would have put him away when she put away childish things, but I wasn't a sensible woman. My pink bunny sat in a special niche in the study's tall bookshelves, where I could see him and speak with him and let him know that he was not forgotten.

Reginald's black button eyes blushed crimson when I held the garnet bracelet up for his inspection.

“I found it behind the old trunk in the attic,” I informed him. “I'm pretty sure it belongs to Aunt Dimity, but I won't be one hundred percent certain until I ask her.”

I wiped my hands carefully on my jeans before I gave Reginald's pink flannel ears an affectionate twiddle, then reached for a book that sat on the shelf next to his. The book was a journal bound in blue leather and filled with blank pages. Though I had no intention of writing in it, I took it with me to one of the tall leather armchairs that faced the hearth.

I'd inherited the blue journal from my late mother's closest friend, an Englishwoman named Dimity Westwood. The two had met in London while serving their respective countries during the Second World War. Together they had endured bombing raids, firestorms, and the constant fear of an enemy invasion, and their shared experiences—good and bad—had created a bond of affection between them that was never broken.

When the war in Europe ended and my mother sailed back to the States, she and Dimity maintained their friendship by sending hundreds of letters back and forth across the Atlantic. After my father's sudden death, those letters became my mother's refuge, a peaceful retreat from the daily pressures of working full time as a teacher while raising a rambunctious daughter on her own.

My mother was very protective of her refuge. She told no one about it, not even her only child. When I was growing up, I knew Dimity Westwood only as Aunt Dimity, the redoubtable heroine of a series of bedtime stories told to me by my mother. I had no idea that my favorite fictional character was a real woman until after both she and my mother had died.

It was then that Dimity Westwood bequeathed to me a comfortable fortune, the honey-colored cottage in which she'd spent her childhood, the precious postwar correspondence she'd exchanged with my mother, and a curious book bound in blue leather. It was through the blue journal that I finally met the real Aunt Dimity.

Whenever I opened the journal, Aunt Dimity's handwriting would appear, an old-fashioned copperplate taught in the village school at a time when plow horses could still be seen in furrowed fields. I'd nearly fainted the first time it happened, but once I'd recovered from the shock, I'd realized that Aunt Dimity's intentions were wholly benevolent.

I couldn't explain how Aunt Dimity's spirit managed to remain in the cottage long after her mortal remains had been laid to rest in the churchyard—and she wasn't too clear about it, either—but the love I felt for her needed no explanation. She was as good a friend to me as she'd been to my mother. I simply refused to imagine life without her.

By the light of the flickering flames, I placed the garnet bracelet on the ottoman, seated myself in the tall leather armchair, and opened the blue journal.

“Dimity?” I said. “I have a question to ask you.”

I smiled as the familiar lines of royal-blue ink began to curl and loop across the blank page.

Only one, my dear? I have at least a thousand questions to ask you. Was there a good turnout for the moving van vigil? Was it instructive, or did you arrive too late to see anything of interest?

“The moving van was nearly empty by the time Bess and I reached William's gates,” I replied, “but it didn't matter. Thanks to the villagers' paranoia and my skill at deciphering Felicity Hobson's handwriting, I was allowed to walk straight into Ivy Cottage. I spent half the morning chatting with Felicity and her husband, James.”

You broke the three-day rule? And lived to tell the tale?

“The villagers waived the three-day rule,” I said.

Congratulations, Lori. You have succeeded in astonishing me. Why did the villagers waive the three-day rule? What triggered their paranoia? Why did you have to decipher Felicity Hobson's handwriting? Do you like the Hobsons, or will you need more than half a morning to decide? I'll let you know when I reach my thousandth question, but the ones I've asked just now are enough to be going on with.

I lowered the journal to look at the garnet bracelet, then put it out of my mind while I told Aunt Dimity about the museum boxes, the villagers' fears, and my unexpectedly smooth entry into Ivy Cottage. I told her about the illegible checklist, the reheated carrot purée, and the coastal erosion that had driven the Hobsons from one dream home to another. I mentioned Felicity's love of gardening as well as James's passion for metal detecting, and I confessed to warning them about their sense of humor. Finally, I described the talk James had given about his hobby and the interest it had aroused in the villagers.

“James plans to give a metal-detecting demonstration on the village green as soon as he and Felicity have finished unpacking,” I concluded. “It should draw a big crowd. He's an excellent teacher.”

High praise, coming from the daughter of another excellent teacher. It sounds as though the Hobsons will be a definite asset to Finch.

“They will,” I agreed. “Bess and I like them very much.”

When will you see them next?

“Tomorrow morning,” I said. “Their blender was broken during the move, so I'm giving them one of our spare wedding gifts.”

One of the gifts you haven't yet donated to the charity shop?

“It's just as well I haven't,” I retorted. “If I were an efficient housekeeper, I wouldn't have had a blender on hand to give away.”

Fair point.

The clock on the mantel shelf chimed the quarter hour, and I realized that the afternoon was slipping away. Since I wanted to take a quick shower before getting Bess up for the school run, I began to talk a little faster.

“While I was in the attic, looking for the blender,” I said, “I found something I wasn't looking for.”

I imagine you found quite a few things you weren't looking for. Spiders, for example. And moths.

“If there were spiders and moths up there, I didn't see them,” I said, thanking God for small favors. “I thought I'd found a nest of mice, but it was a false alarm.”

Of course it was. Stanley is a hardworking cat.

“Stanley spends most of his time asleep in Bill's chair,” I pointed out.

True, but when he's not sleeping, he works very hard.

I laughed and pressed on.

“To return to the attic,” I continued. “What I thought was a mouse's nest turned out to be a splendid piece of jewelry. It was hidden behind your old trunk.”

There was a pause before the handwriting resumed.

A splendid piece of jewelry? What sort of jewelry?

“A gold and garnet bracelet,” I said. “I've never seen anything like—” I broke off as a few brief words appeared on the page.

Oh, dear. Oh, no.
The graceful lines of royal-blue ink stopped flowing. When they began again, they were shaky and faint.
Forgive me, Lori, but I must go. I must compose myself before we continue.

“I'm sorry, Dimity,” I said in dismay. “I didn't mean to upset you.”

It's not your fault, my dear. You couldn't have known. Come back later. We'll speak then.

I waited for Aunt Dimity's handwriting to fade slowly from the
page, as it always did, but it vanished in an instant, like a snuffed candle flame. Bewildered, I closed the blue journal and stared at the bracelet through narrowed eyes. The garnets glittered in the firelight like drops of blood.

Only once before had Aunt Dimity ended a conversation so abruptly. It had happened soon after our first meeting, when I'd unknowingly touched on a subject too tender for her to discuss.

“Bobby,” I whispered.

Bobby MacLaren had been the great love of Aunt Dimity's life. She'd met him during the war, a few weeks before she'd met my mother. He'd been a dashing young fighter pilot, and like so many dashing young fighter pilots, he'd been shot down over the English Channel. His body had never been recovered.

Had I blundered again? I wondered. Had Bobby given the bracelet to Aunt Dimity? Had its reemergence reawakened memories she found hard to bear?

“Reginald,” I said, looking up at my powder-pink bunny, “what have I done?”

A somber gleam lit his black button eyes. With a heavy heart, I rose slowly to my feet and returned the blue journal to its shelf. Almost as an afterthought, I placed the garnet bracelet in Reginald's niche.

“Look after it for me,” I told him. “I think it has a tale to tell.”

*   *   *

If it hadn't been for Bess, I would have gone through the rest of the day in a distracted daze. Babies tend to concentrate the mind, however, and my maternal responsibilities prevented me from dwelling on what had happened in the study.

My concentration didn't slip until we were halfway through
dinner. Will and Rob laughed uproariously when I filled my water glass with gravy, and Bill didn't even try to hide his mirth. I left the dinner table knowing that the hilarious story of Mummy's glassful of gravy would be told for decades to come.

After the boys went to bed, I retrieved the garnet bracelet from Reginald's niche in the study and joined Bill, Bess, and Stanley in the living room. Bill was sitting in his favorite armchair, Bess was asleep in her father's arms, and Stanley the hardworking cat was snoozing on the bay window's cushioned window seat. I stirred the fire Bill had lit in the hearth, then sat on the chintz sofa, curled my legs beneath me, and put my thoughts in order.

“You were in another world during dinner,” Bill observed. “What's on your mind? If you're thirsty, I can get you a cup of gravy.”

“No, thanks,” I said with a rueful smile. “As a matter of fact, I do have something on my mind. I haven't had a chance to tell you yet, but Bess and I met the new people in Ivy Cottage—James and Felicity Hobson.”

“I know,” said Bill. “I know all about the Hobsons, too.”

“How?” I asked.

“I had a late lunch in the pub,” he replied.

“Dick Peacock,” I said, as understanding dawned. “Dick filled you in on the Hobsons after he brought them the keg of ale.”

“It wasn't just Dick,” said Bill. “Everyone who dropped into the pub had something new to say about the Hobsons. It sounded as though half the village had been in and out of Ivy Cottage, delivering food and drink, helping to arrange the furniture, and poking their noses into every closet, cabinet, and drawer. The ladies repaired to the tearoom to compare notes, but Charles, Grant, and Mr. Barlow came to the pub to talk things over.” He shrugged. “It's a small pub. I couldn't help overhearing.”

Bill wasn't as interested in gossip as I was, but he understood its role in village life, and he made no attempt to avoid it when it was handed to him on a plate.

“So you know about the cliff-top cottage?” I inquired.

“Yes,” said Bill.

“And the sick grandchildren in Upper Deeping?”

“Yes.”

“And the metal detecting?”

“
Especially
the metal detecting,” said Bill. “Charles, Grant, Dick, and Mr. Barlow kept talking about the things they'd seen in James Hobson's museum room. They can't wait to get their hands on one of those gadgets.”

“James showed them his finds?” I said with a touch of envy.

“It sounds as though he showed them a world-class collection of junk,” said Bill, “but you know the old saying: One man's trash . . .”

“Is another man's treasure,” I said, completing the bromide. “There's one piece of trash James won't display in his museum room. I'll bet your pub pals didn't tell you about the broken blender.”

“They didn't,” Bill acknowledged, “but Opal Taylor did. She came to my office to let me know that you were replacing the Hobsons' broken blender with one of ours. She thought it was a very neighborly thing to do.”

“I should have guessed,” I said. “Opal regards it as her duty to organize other people's kitchens. Felicity must have mentioned the broken blender while Opal was rearranging her pantry.”

“Sounds about right,” said Bill, chuckling.

“Okay,” I said. “Since you're up to speed on the Hobsons, I can skip them and go directly to the strange thing that happened this afternoon.”

Bess gave an undignified snuffle, and Bill made soft crooning
noises to soothe her. Since he'd looked after her from the day she was born, he didn't need my help to calm her when she was fussy.