Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince (8 page)

Still Bree soldiered on, invading the kitchen for a peek at the receipt book. If she
hoped to find Cyrillic writing in it, she was disappointed. The Russian tea cake recipe
was unsigned, undated, and written in plain English.

By the time we returned to our seats in the drawing room it was midday. I was hungry,
tired, footsore, and ready to leave, but Bree was still fresh as a daisy.

“Do you offer your customers guest cottages as well as guest rooms, Maddie?” she inquired
craftily.

Madeleine’s face fell. “We don’t have guest cottages, I’m afraid. There was a row
of workmen’s cottages on the property, but according to our tenant, one was hit by
a stray bomb during the war and the others were demolished after the war. Will it
count against us, do you think? I realize that people enjoy staying in cottages, of
course, but I rather thought staying in the main house would have its own special
appeal. Bunny says it gives common folk a chance to live like Lord and Lady Muck.”
She began to laugh, caught herself, and blushed charmingly. “I hope you won’t quote
Bunny in your story. She meant it as a joke, but it might come across as . . . condescending.
She’d be furious with me for talking out of turn.”

“We’ll pretend we didn’t hear it,” Bree assured her. “We would like to hear more about
your tenant, though.”

“To be exact, we have two tenants,” said Madeleine, clearly welcoming the change of
subject, “a married couple, but they live in a converted barn a half mile east of
the main house, so neither they nor our guests will be inconvenienced.”

“How long have they lived in your barn?” asked Bree.

“Goodness knows,” Madeleine replied. “They’ve been here longer than we have. They
came along with the house, so to speak, but they’re so quiet and retiring we sometimes
forget they’re around.”

“They sound like the perfect tenants,” I said, and made a mental note to “inspect”
the converted barn before we left.

“Do you mind if I ask how you heard about Hayewood House?” said Madeleine.

“Not at all,” I answered. “My colleague and I were inspired to come here by a conversation
I had with a woman named Amanda Pickering.”

My just-about-truthful reply seemed to strike Madeleine like a thunderbolt.

“When did you speak with Amanda?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“On Saturday,” I said.

“Astonishing,” said Madeleine, shaking her head. “I don’t know if you’re aware of
it, but Amanda Pickering and her daughter have disappeared without a trace. She was
supposed to work here on Monday, but she didn’t show up. When I rang her landlady—a
thoroughly disagreeable woman, by the way, with a voice like a cheese grater . . .”
Madeleine frowned at the recollection, then went on. “At any rate, the landlady told
me that Mrs. Pickering had cleared out her flat on Sunday and left for parts unknown.
Do you know where she’s gone?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t,” I said. “She’s not a close friend. I met her only once,
at Skeaping Manor.”

“That horrible place.” Madeleine wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I’ll never understand
how Amanda could take her daughter there. It seems like an unhealthy environment for
a girl Daisy’s age.”

“Did Amanda bring her daughter to Hayewood House as well?” Bree asked.

“Yes,” Madeleine replied. “Daisy has respiratory problems that keep her away from
school fairly often and Amanda doesn’t like to leave her at home with no one but the
appalling landlady to look after her. Daisy’s such a well-behaved little thing that
I didn’t mind having her around. To tell you the truth, I didn’t see much of her.
She spent most of her time in the converted barn, visiting our tenants.”

I felt Bree twitch beside me, like a hound scenting a hare, and decided it was time
to move on. We’d plumbed Hayewood House’s depths and come up empty, but the converted
barn seemed to offer us a fresh line of inquiry, so I dropped my camera into my shoulder
bag and got to my feet.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Maddie,” I said. “You’ve been a delightful hostess
and an incredibly patient guide. I believe we have all the material we need.”

“We’ll let you know when the story comes out,” Bree added, rising.

“Where will it be published?” Madeleine inquired as she escorted us to the entrance
hall. “I meant to ask earlier, but it completely slipped my mind.”

“We’re freelancers,” I said before Bree could open her mouth. “We’re not sure where
our story will appear, but I can tell you right now that you deserve a rave review.
Hayewood House has everything anyone could desire in an exclusive, high-end B and
B.”

“You’re too kind,” said Madeleine, beaming.

She retrieved our coats and walked with us to the front door.

“Would it be all right with you if we took a turn around the grounds, Maddie?” Bree
asked. “We’d like to take pictures of the house from different angles.”

“I’ll come with you, if you like,” Madeleine offered.

“We wouldn’t dream of taking up any more of your valuable time,” I said. “Thanks again,
Maddie. I’m sure the Graham sisters from Dundee will love every minute of their stay
here.”

“If you run into Amanda again,” Madeleine said as she opened the door, “would you
please ask her to send me a forwarding address? I don’t know what to do with her last
paycheck.”

“If I run into her, I’ll tell her,” I said. “Good-bye, Maddie. I wish you the best
of luck with your new venture.”

Bree and I shook hands with Madeleine and trotted down the stairs. She paused on the
threshold to wave to us before closing the door.

“What a twit!” Bree exploded as we strode away from the house in an easterly direction.
“She didn’t even ask to see our business cards. Can you imagine letting two reporters—reporters
with
foreign accents
, no less—snoop around your house without asking them for some form of identification?”

“I wouldn’t let a reporter snoop around my house, period,” I said, “but I wouldn’t
call Madeleine Sturgess a twit. She was a little overexcited, that’s all. It was her
first day on the job and there she was, faced with a golden opportunity to get some
free publicity.”

“It’s better than no publicity,” Bree scoffed. “How could she even consider breaking
into the hospitality industry without a website?”

“She’s new to the game,” I said. “She’ll figure it out.”

“Why did you tell her we were freelancers?” Bree demanded. “We work for
Country House Monthly
, don’t we?”

I came to a halt and gave Bree a look that stopped her in her tracks.

“Madeleine Sturgess is a nice woman,” I said sternly. “She may not be the canniest
businesswoman on the planet, but she’s the sort of woman who worries about sending
a paycheck to an employee who left her in the lurch. I won’t have her wasting her
time searching the local newsstands for a magazine you invented.”

“Right,” said Bree, looking chastened. “Sorry.”

“No worries,” I said and walked on.

“So much for our Russian connection, eh?” Bree said as she caught up with me. “The
Russian tea cakes weren’t made for a Russian family because a Russian family never
owned Hayewood House. And Sergei Sturgess is as Russian as I am.”

“I’m holding out hopes for the tenants,” I told her.

“Me, too,” she said. “If Daisy spent time with them, she might have told them about
Mikhail.”

“Or they might be hiding him.” With those words I forgot about my fatigue, my sore
feet, and my grumbling tummy and hurried forward, muttering, “C’mon, Bree. Let’s find
the converted barn.”

B
ree and I soon stumbled upon a dirt road leading east from Hayewood House. Snowmelt
had turned much of the dirt into mud and the mud bore the imprint of fresh tire tracks.

“I hope Maddie’s tenants haven’t gone out for the day,” I said as we picked our way
along the road’s less muddy margins.

“If they have,” said Bree, “you can keep a lookout while I slip inside for a shufti.”

“How will you get inside?” I asked. “Did you bring a set of picklocks with you?”

“People who live in the country don’t lock their doors,” she said authoritatively.

I couldn’t argue with her—my doors were never locked—but it seemed like an opportune
moment to remind my young friend of the difference between resourcefulness and criminality.

“Even if you enter a house through an unlocked door,” I said, “it’s still trespassing.”

“With the best of intentions,” Bree retorted. “You’re the one who came up with the
haunting image of a frail old man begging for help. Do you want to help Mikhail or
not?”

“Let’s see what we find when we get there,” I counseled.

What we found when we got there was a building lofty enough to hold a winter’s worth
of grain, though signs of its conversion were everywhere. Six skylights had been set
into its slate roof, a dozen or more windows inserted in its rough stone walls, and
the square gap through which farm carts had once rolled had been filled with a sliding
door made of galvanized steel.

Smoke rising from the chimney suggested that someone was at home.

“Disappointed?” I said, nodding at the smoke.

“A little,” Bree admitted. “I’ve always wanted to risk arrest for a worthy cause.
Can we at least scope out the place before we announce our presence?”

“Lead the way,” I said. Circumnavigating the converted barn might be less daring than
breaking and entering, but it was also less likely to land us in jail.

We looked through each window we passed as we crept stealthily around the side of
the building, but since the windows we passed were curtained, we couldn’t see very
much. We could, however, see into the large solarium protruding from the barn’s rear
wall. A tall, rawboned woman stood before an easel in the glass-enclosed room, paintbrush
in hand. She was older than Madeleine Sturgess. Her short, dark hair was shot through
with gray and her face was beautifully lined. She wore an oversized white shirt, liberally
spattered with paint, and a pair of khaki trousers.

Since we were silent, motionless, and half hidden by a leafless shrub, Bree’s red
hair must have caught the woman’s eye because she looked up from her canvas suddenly,
squinted in our direction, and signaled for us to meet her at the solarium’s back
door.

“Have you lost yourselves?” she asked when we arrived. She had soft gray eyes and
an extremely pleasant voice.

“No,” said Bree. “We’re journalists. We were up at the big house, interviewing Madeleine
Sturgess, and we thought we might have a word with you as well.”

“About what?” she asked.

“About living in a converted barn,” I said on the spur of the moment. “We’re sure
our readers would love to hear about your home, Mrs. . . um . . .”

“Wylton,” she said. “Frances Wylton, but Frances will do.”

“Lori Shepherd,” I said in turn and when Bree remained unaccountably mute I added,
“and Bree Pym.”

“Come in,” said Frances.

She led us through the solarium and into an open-plan great room with a kitchen at
one end, a sitting room at the other, and a dining area in between. An intricate web
of elm beams supported the roof, a thick layer of whitewashed plaster concealed the
stone walls, and a spiral staircase beside the front door led to a high-ceilinged
loft that might once have been used to store hay bales.

The furniture was old, solid, and comfortable looking. Overstuffed chairs and sofas
clustered companionably around a wood-burning stove at the far end of the great room
and a large wooden desk piled high with papers sat beneath a window overlooking a
sodden meadow. The polished flagstone floor was strewn with an assortment of vintage
rugs ranging in style from Turkish to French and the air was redolent with a savory
aroma that made my mouth water.

“Toss your coats anywhere,” Frances said. “I was about to break for lunch. Will you
join me?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” I said as my stomach gave an embarrassing rumble.

“I made the bread first thing this morning and the soup is simmering on the cooker,”
said Frances. “It couldn’t be much less trouble.”

“Thanks,” I said. “We’d love to join you.” I dropped my coat on an armchair and asked,
“How long have you lived here, Frances?”

“Almost forty years,” she replied, throwing cloth napkins onto the oak dining table.
“My husband and I moved in a year after we were married. We’ve never wanted to live
anywhere else.”

“I can see why,” I said, peering up at the elm beams. “Your home is charming.”

“The location suits us,” said Frances. “We’re not the most sociable of creatures.
We prefer living in splendid isolation.”

Bree hadn’t said a single word since we’d entered the barn, nor had she removed her
trench coat. She stood midway between the desk and Frances, looking from one to the
other with an intensely perplexed expression on her face.

“Are you
the
Frances Wylton?” she blurted suddenly. “The romance writer?”

“Yes and no,” said Frances. The crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes crinkled into
a thousand splintery wrinkles as she smiled. “Take off your coat and have a seat,
Bree. I’ll explain while we eat.”

I didn’t know what Bree was talking about or what explanation Frances had in store
for her and I was too hungry to care. The soup Frances ladled into three earthenware
bowls was a pottage rich and thick enough to serve as a complete meal, but she buttered
thick slices of her homemade bread for us as well. While she and Bree conversed, I
ate like a ravening beast.

“I am Frances Wylton,” Frances began, “but I’m not the romance writer. That would
be my husband, Felix.”

“Felix?” Bree echoed blankly, ignoring her food.

“Felix Chesterton,” said Frances. “Felix borrowed my name when he wrote his first
novel because he was convinced that a romance written by a woman would sell better
than one written by a man. I don’t know if he was right or not, but the book was such
a hit he went on using my name.”

“You
husband
wrote
Lark Landing
?” Bree said, looking staggered.

“I’m afraid so,” Frances said gently.

“And
Sundown Mountain
?” said Bree.

“He wrote each and every one of them,” Frances said. “Have a bite to eat, Bree. You’ll
feel better.”

Bree reached for a slice of bread, as though she didn’t trust herself to handle a
soup spoon.

“I’m sorry it’s come as such a shock to you,” Frances continued. “I thought all of
my husband’s fans were in on his secret.”

“I don’t pry into my favorite authors’ private lives,” Bree told her seriously. “Knowing
too much about them might change the way I feel about their books.”

“I wish more readers were like you,” said Frances. “Unfortunately, they’re not. Felix
was outed several years ago by a prying, spying fan. He thought it spelled the end
of his career, but it had the opposite effect: His sales numbers soared. Which simply
proves what I’ve said all along: Predicting what book buyers will like or dislike
is as pointless as throwing darts at jelly. I’m glad to know that Felix is one of
your favorite authors.”

“He’s right up there with Tolkien,” Bree said passionately. “If it weren’t for their
stories, I don’t think I’d be alive today.”

Frances’s eyes flickered toward mine and I gave a small nod. It was true. Immersing
herself in her favorite books had helped Bree to survive a childhood blighted by her
father’s dissolute habits.

“I don’t know how many times I’ve read
Lark Landing
,” Bree went on, as if she hadn’t noticed the looks that had passed between Frances
and me. “People who knock romances have never read your husband’s books.”

“I’ll tell him,” Frances said softly. “You have no idea how much it will mean to him.”
She gazed down at her bowl for a moment, as if to collect herself, then continued
lightly, “I wish you could tell him yourself, but he’s gone down to London to meet
with his editor and he won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“No worries,” said Bree. “I don’t really want to meet him.”

“Because meeting him might change the way you feel about his books?” said Frances,
her eyes twinkling.

Bree nodded. “Best to keep the two separate, I think.”

“So do I,” said Frances. “Now. What would you like me to tell you about my home?”

“We didn’t come here to ask you about your home,” Bree said. “And we’re not journalists.”

I choked, and clapped a napkin to my mouth to avoid spraying the table with soup.
Frances, by contrast, heard Bree’s announcement without betraying the faintest hint
of alarm.

“I see,” she said calmly, resting her chin in her cupped hand.

“Maddie Sturgess swallowed our cover story whole,” Bree continued, “but it wouldn’t
be right to tell a lie here”—she gazed reverently at the paper-strewn desk—“in the
place where
Lark Landing
was written.”

“Those are bills,” Frances informed her, following her gaze. “I was attempting to
file them when I was overcome by an irresistible urge to paint. Paperwork has that
effect on me.” She pointed toward a door to the left of the refrigerator. “My husband’s
office is through there, so please feel free to tell as many lies as you like.”

“No, I, uh . . .” Bree faltered, blushing to her roots.

I mopped the last vestiges of soup from my chin and smiled ruefully at Frances, who
raised an interrogative eyebrow.

“I apologize for the subterfuge,” I said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,
but the time has clearly passed so we’ll give honesty a whirl and see where it takes
us.” I pushed my bowl aside and folded my hands on the table. “Bree and I are trying
to find out if a story a young girl told us recently is true. The girl’s name is Coral
Bell and she heard the story from her best friend—”

“Daisy Pickering,” Frances interrupted. “Does the story concern a Russian prince named
Mikhail?”

“Yes it does,” I said, taken off guard. “Did Daisy tell you the same story?”

“Daisy tells us lots of stories,” said Frances. “She visits us whenever her mother
brings her to work and every visit is an adventure. Felix says she’s a creative genius
and I must say I agree with him.” Frances got up to refill my bowl, but continued
to talk as she ladled soup from the pot on the stove. “It’s what comes of being sick
so often, I suppose—that, and being an only child. She has to rely on her imagination
more than most children. For a long time she entertained us with thrilling tales about
her best friend—Coral Bell—battling mummies, skeletons, and gigantic insects, but
about a month ago we began to hear about Mikhail.”

“What did she say about Mikhail?” I asked.

“It’s a tale that grew in the telling.” Frances placed my bowl before me and returned
to her chair at the table. “Mikhail started out as an interesting new acquaintance,
but he evolved into a deposed Russian prince who fled his kingdom only to be kidnapped
and held hostage by an evil man who took his treasures and cast him into a dungeon.”
Frances paused. “Sound familiar?”

“Very,” I said firmly.

“Daisy hoped Felix and I would help her to free Mikhail,” Frances explained, “but
we put her off as kindly as we could. Making up stories is one thing. Believing them
is another. Since I’m not a creative genius, I can’t imagine what Daisy did to convince
you that such an incredible tale might be”—she smiled wryly—“credible.”

Bree gave a sharp gasp and swung around to face me, crying, “Daisy meant to bring
it
here
.”

“She meant to bring what where?” Frances inquired.

Bree planted her forearms on the table and leaned toward Frances.

“Daisy was desperate to free Mikhail, but she couldn’t do it on her own,” she said
rapidly. “She asked you and your husband for help, but you wouldn’t help her because
you didn’t believe in Mikhail.”

“How could we believe in him?” Frances said reasonably. “He’s a fantasy figure.”

“If Daisy managed to get her hands on one of Mikhail’s stolen treasures,” said Bree,
“would you still regard him as a fantasy figure?”

“I might reconsider my position,” Frances allowed.

“Lori?” said Bree. “Exhibit A, please.”

I reached into my shoulder bag and produced the silver sleigh. Frances stared at it
as if she couldn’t believe her eyes, then took it from me and examined it from every
angle.

“It’s a troika saltcellar,” said Bree. “It’s Russian, it’s portable, and it’s worth
a lot of money. It could have been smuggled out of Russia during or after the Revolution
by a fleeing nobleman.”

“And the nobleman’s name could be Mikhail,” murmured Frances. She placed the sleigh
on the table, where it glinted and gleamed and splashed the room with shards of reflected
light. “How did Daisy come by it?”

“I’d rather not say,” I answered. If Bree and I were ever accused of concealing a
crime and withholding evidence from the police, it would give me some small measure
of comfort to know that I hadn’t drawn Frances into our web of naughtiness. “It’s
for your own protection. The less you know, the better off you’ll be.”

“In other words,” said Frances, “Daisy stole it from the evil man who stole it from
Mikhail.”

“My lips are sealed,” I said.

“In that case, I won’t bother asking how it ended up in your bag.” Frances ran a fingertip
along the sleigh’s delicate runners. “Perhaps Daisy was telling us the truth after
all. When she comes here again, I’ll ask her to tell me more about Mikhail.”

“You’re too late,” I said. “Daisy and her mother have disappeared.”