Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure Page 4

  “A museum?” Felicity said. “Why would they think . . .” An arrested expression crossed her face, and she looked accusingly at her husband. “It’s your fault, James. The villagers saw those boxes of yours and got the wrong idea.”

  “Seems likely,” said James, nodding. “They must have excellent eyesight.”

  “Nothing goes unseen in Finch,” I told him. “If you leave a scone uneaten in the tearoom, you’ll hear about it later in the pub.”

  James rounded on his wife and said sternly, “No more topless sunbathing.”

  “No more joyriding,” she retorted, shaking an index finger at him.

  “We’re joking,” James clarified, when my eyes widened.

  “Of course you are,” I said with a belated chuckle, “but I’d go easy on the jokes until the villagers get to know you better. They tend to take things literally. When they see boxes labeled MUSEUM, for example . . .” I left the sentence hanging, but Felicity answered my unspoken question.

  “James collects odds and ends,” she said, “and he keeps them in a room he calls his museum.”

  “There’s a splendid shelf-lined room upstairs,” said James. “We assume it was used as a library, but I’ve claimed it for my collection.”

  “Please assure the villagers that we have no plans to open a real museum,” said Felicity.

  “I will,” I said. “Thank you. They’ll sleep easier tonight.” I turned to James. “What sort of odds and ends do you collect?”

  “All sorts,” he said. “I’m a metal detectorist.”

  “I see,” I said, recalling a newspaper article I’d read on the subject. “You have one of those wand things that goes beep when it passes over metal.”

  “That’s right,” said James. “I use a metal detector to search for buried treasure.”

  “Have you found any?” I asked.

  “It depends on your definition of treasure,” said Felicity, rolling her eyes.

  “I haven’t found my Viking hoard yet,” James admitted, “but I have a rather nice collection of old coins.”

  “And old cutlery and old tins and old belt buckles,” Felicity put in.

  “My wife thinks I’m daft,” said James, “but it’s good healthy fun, and it can be quite educational. I never know what I’ll dig up.”

  “It sounds exciting,” I said.

  “It can be,” said James. “Sometimes, when the going is slow, I’m more of a bird-watcher than a detectorist, but I enjoy watching birds. I enjoy being outdoors.” He cast a sidelong glance at Felicity. “As my wife will tell you, my hobby has the added benefit of getting me out from under her feet.”

  “There’s such a thing as too much togetherness,” said Felicity, laughing, “especially when a couple has retired.” She held out her arms to Bess. “Let me have a go, James. It’s been an age since I cuddled a baby.”

  Bess was duly passed from husband to wife and given a teaspoon, which she happily pounded on the teak table. The Hobsons had evidently developed selective deafness during their years in the classroom, because they seemed unfazed by the racket.

  “I don’t suppose . . .” I hesitated, then started again. “After you and Felicity have fully recovered from your move, James, and after you’ve put your house in order, would you be willing to give a talk in the village about your hobby? I, for one, would find it fascinating, and I’m sure the others would, too.”

  “Why wait until we’ve settled in?” said James, sitting upright. “I can speak with the lane lurk—that is, I can speak with our new neighbors right now, if you like.”

  “Any excuse to avoid unpacking,” Felicity said, but she didn’t look upset.

  “It’s a rather good excuse,” James argued. “It’s clearly the best way to calm their fears about the museum.”

  “They won’t expect tea, will they?” Felicity asked me.

  “They won’t even expect chairs,” I assured her. “You’ll score big points with them by simply inviting them into the garden for a chat.”

  “I’d put the tea things away nevertheless,” James advised, getting to his feet. “We wouldn’t want them to get their hopes up.”

  “Very well.” Felicity stood and passed Bess to me. “While I clear the table and Lori changes Bess’s nappy, James can invite our new neighbors into the garden for a brief introduction to metal detecting.” She caught her husband’s eye and repeated pointedly, “A brief introduction, James.”

  “I shall be the soul of brevity,” he promised, but there was a definite bounce in his step as he strode off to speak with the lurkers.

  * * *

  The back garden looked as though it had burst into bloom. The Handmaidens’ pastel smocks, Dick Peacock’s paisley waistcoat, Charles Bellingham’s crimson hatband, and Grant Tavistock’s silvery scarf brightened the somewhat dreary retreat as those who’d participated in the moving van vigil gathered before the wishing well to listen to James Hobson’s impromptu lecture.

  It must be admitted that some of the villagers craned their necks to peer through the cottage’s uncurtained windows, but most contented themselves with deceptively casual glances. Sally Cook regarded James with undisguised suspicion, but the others wore slightly smug expressions, as if they were anticipating the pleasure of informing Peggy Taxman that she’d missed out on a golden opportunity to be among the first locals to receive a personal invitation to visit the newcomers. My neighbors were good people, but they weren’t saints.

  James stood behind the teak table, with his hands resting lightly on one of his museum boxes. Felicity and I stood on either side of him, having agreed that it would be inconsiderate to sit when the villagers were forced to stand. Bess crawled among her admirers, toying with their shoelaces, tugging on their trousers, and talking to herself.

  “I feel as if I’m back in the classroom,” James announced. “But I promise not to assign any homework.”

  The villagers acknowledged his quip with polite smiles, as if they were reserving judgment.

  “As I told you in the lane,” James went on, “Lori thought you might like to hear a little something about my hobby.”

  “What is your hobby?” asked Mr. Barlow, who was always willing to cut to the chase.

  “I’m a metal detectorist,” James replied.

  “You use one of those long, beeping stick things to find stuff that’s buried underground,” Dick Peacock said knowledgeably. “My wife and I read an article about chaps like you in the paper not long ago.”

  “We all read the article, Dick,” said Sally Cook. “It was the only thing worth reading in the paper that day.”

  “The sports section is always worth reading,” Dick protested.

  An argument about what parts of the newspaper were worth reading might have ensued, but James knew how to bring a classroom to order.

  “It’s a worthwhile topic,” he said very quietly.

  The villagers instantly shut their mouths and cocked their ears to hear him.

  “Metal detectors aren’t used only to find objects buried underground,” James continued, resuming his normal tone of voice. “They’re used to detect concealed weapons at airports and to locate hidden pipes and cables in construction. Metal detectors have many uses, but I use mine to explore the past.”

  He opened the museum box and took a large bronze coin from it, then held the coin high in the air for all to see.

  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what this is,” he said.

  “It’s an old penny,” said Mr. Barlow. “The kind we used before decimalization.”

  “That’s right,” said James. “It’s a 1957 bronze penny.”

  “Why would you want an old penny?” Opal Taylor asked. “You can’t use it in the shops anymore. It’s worthless.”

  “Is it?” James said, gazing up at the coin. “I found it in a field where a traveling fair
once pitched its tents. If it could speak, imagine the stories it would tell.”

  Every eye, including mine, was suddenly fixed on the penny.

  “When I look at my penny,” James continued, “I can almost hear children laughing as they ride a merry-go-round or gorge themselves on candy floss or win a prize at a carnival game. I imagine the child who lost it, the desperate search, and the tears that followed.”

  I wasn’t sure about the others, but I found myself hoping the coin hadn’t slipped from a sticky little fist.

  “Some metal detectorists,” James went on, “focus on the monetary value of a find. Simply put: If it isn’t gold, it isn’t worth keeping. Others, like myself, enjoy the story each object tells. It’s like holding a piece of history in my hand. I can’t help imagining who made it, who owned it, who left it behind, and why. With a lot of research and a little imagination, I can reconstruct the world that produced my coin. A 1957 bronze penny may not be valuable in material terms, but every find connects me to another time and place.”

  “Have you found any gold?” asked Millicent Scroggins.

  James’s hand disappeared into the box again. When it came out, he was holding a round brooch made of pearls inset in gold to mimic a daisy’s petals. An awed murmur ran through his rapt audience.

  “Sorry,” he said, responding to the murmur. “In this case, all that glitters isn’t gold. The pearls are fake and the metal is painted brass, but when I dug it up, I thought I’d found a treasure. And I was right. Although my brooch turned out to be a tatty piece of mid-twentieth-century costume jewelry, I’ll never forget the thrill I felt when I first saw it, and I’ve never stopped weaving stories around it. Who made it? Who owned it? Was it lost, or was it cast aside?”

  “Why would someone throw away a perfectly good brooch?” demanded Selena Buxton.

  “I can think of many reasons,” James replied. “If you put your mind to it, you can, too.”

  The villagers became thoughtful, as though they were concocting scenarios ranging from temper tantrums to broken engagements to failed marriages. James Hobson was clearly a gifted teacher. My mother, I thought, would have approved.

  Elspeth Binney was the first to break the spell.

  “You could have put an advertisement in the paper,” she suggested, bending to lift Bess into her arms, “saying you’d found something of value in such and such a place. The brooch’s owner might have come forward to claim it.”

  “I did place an advert in the paper,” said James, “but no one came forward. I like to think I’ve given it a good home in my museum.”

  “So,” Sally Cook said slowly, “it’s a . . . a private museum, is it? Not open to the public? No tearoom?”

  Felicity pressed a hand to her mouth, presumably to keep herself from laughing, but James responded to Sally’s questions without betraying a hint of amusement.

  “My museum is nothing more than the room in which I display my finds,” he explained. “I display them for my own pleasure, but once I’ve unpacked and organized them, you’ll be welcome to view them, free of charge, whenever you like—within reason.”

  The villagers smiled broadly this time, and Sally Cook’s worried frown vanished.

  “I’ll be happy to make a cup of tea for anyone who stops by,” James added, “but if you want a really good cup of tea, I suggest that you continue to patronize Mrs. Cook’s charming establishment.”

  Sally beamed at him.

  “I’m sure we’ll all enjoy viewing your finds and listening to the stories you’ve invented about them, James,” she said. “But we’ve taken up enough of your time this morning. You must have better things to do than to stand around in your garden, talking to us.”

  “I’m afraid we do,” said Felicity, stepping forward. “We’ve hardly begun to unpack. I’ll probably spend the next half hour hunting for dishes so James and I can have our lunch.”

  “Don’t you worry about cooking,” said Opal. “We’ll fill your fridge before you can say snap.”

  “If there’s any heavy lifting to be done, I’m your man,” said Mr. Barlow.

  “I’ll bring a keg of ale along,” said Dick, “to spare you the walk to the pub.”

  “There’s no need—” Felicity began, but Sally silenced her polite protest.

  “Of course there’s a need,” said Sally. “Moving house is no joke. We’d be ashamed of ourselves if we left you two to fend for yourselves.”

  “Well, then . . . thank you,” said Felicity, admitting defeat with a grateful smile.

  “When you’ve got your place sorted out, James,” said Mr. Barlow, “I’d like to take a look at this detector gizmo of yours.”

  “So would I,” said Charles Bellingham.

  “I think we all would,” said Grant Tavistock. “I don’t suppose you’d consider giving a demonstration, would you? We could hold it in the old schoolhouse—it’s our village hall.”

  “It’d make more sense to hold it on the village green,” Mr. Barlow pointed out. “There’s nothing under the schoolhouse but a stone foundation. The green might have anything buried in it.”

  “A truer word was never spoken,” said James. “All right, then . . . In response to popular demand, I’ll give a demonstration on the village green as soon as our home is presentable.” He bent his head toward Mr. Barlow. “How does one make announcements in Finch?”

  “Church bulletin board,” Mr. Barlow replied.

  “Then you can look for an announcement on the church bulletin board very soon,” said James.

  “Much obliged,” said Mr. Barlow. “We’ll be off, then.”

  With a jerk of his head, Mr. Barlow signaled to the others to follow him along the brick path that would take them back to the lane. Elspeth Binney paused only to return Bess to me.

  “I hope you like casseroles,” I said to the Hobsons after the villagers had departed. “Because you’re about to receive quite a few.”

  “We’ll take whatever’s given and be thankful for it,” said Felicity. “It’ll be a luxury to have someone else cook for us. We’ll use the spare time to shop for a new blender in Upper Deeping.”

  “I forbid it,” I said adamantly. “If you manage to carve out some free time over the next few days, put your feet up and relax. I’ll bring you a blender.”

  “You’re a generous lot, aren’t you?” James observed.

  “No more generous than you,” I said. “You did very well, James. The villagers won’t forget it.”

  “It truly was my pleasure,” said James. “I could talk about my hobby for hours on end.”

  “And yet,” said Felicity, “you were the soul of brevity.” She kissed her husband on the cheek.

  “I wouldn’t worry about brevity when you tell the villagers the tragic tale of your cliff-top cottage,” I said. “You’re right, James. They’ll gobble it up.”

  “You’ve reminded me that it’s lunchtime,” said Felicity, pressing a hand to her stomach. “Will you share our casseroles with us, Lori?”

  “Thanks, but Bess and I will follow our neighbors’ example and get out of your hair,” I said. “You must be longing to have the cottage to yourselves.”

  “Let me drive you home,” James offered.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “A quiet walk will be better for Bess after her action-packed morning.”

  The couple accompanied Bess and me to the pram, then to the gate, where they waved us off. I returned the friendly gesture, then set out for home, convinced that Ivy Cottage was in very good hands indeed.

  “Remind me to look for the blender,” I said to Bess, but she was too busy chewing on her blanket to respond.

  As I strolled up the leaf-strewn lane, thinking of crumbling cliffs, bronze pennies, tatty brooches, and my lunch, I couldn’t have known that my search for a simple appliance would take me on a journey through space and
time. I couldn’t have known that it would mark the beginning of my very own treasure hunt.

  Five

  The blue sky had vanished behind a heavy blanket of clouds by the time Bess and I reached the cottage, but the rain was unusually considerate. It waited until we were indoors to come bucketing down.

  I said hello to Stanley, who was in the living room, curled snugly in Bill’s favorite armchair, and wheeled the pram down the hallway to its parking place in the solarium. Bess was entranced by the rain cascading down the glass walls, so we stayed put for a while, watching the world through a glimmering waterfall.

  Bess stayed awake long enough for a hearty lunch, a diaper change, and a spirited game of peekaboo, but she nodded off shortly thereafter, worn out by the fresh air and her burgeoning social life. I carried her upstairs to the nursery, settled her in her crib, turned on the baby monitor, and left her to dream about a world filled with teething rings.

  “Next stop, attic,” I murmured as I closed the nursery door.

  I clipped the baby monitor’s mobile receiver to a belt loop on my blue jeans, then took a short pole from the linen closet and used its hooked end to open the trap door in the hall ceiling and to pull down the attic’s folding ladder. It wasn’t a smooth operation—it never was—but I knew that the thumps, bumps, and grumbling wouldn’t bother my sleeping beauty.

  The roar of rain battering the slate roof surged into the hallway when I opened the trap door, reminding me that the day had gone from sunlit to stygian. Since the attic was illuminated by one dim, dusty lightbulb and two small, grimy windows, one at each gable end, I took a flashlight from a drawer in my bedside table and brought it with me as I climbed the ladder.

  When Bill and I first moved into the cottage, the attic had been empty, apart from a light coating of dust and an old leather trunk that had been tucked away in a dark corner by the cottage’s previous owner. Before the twins had come along, the wide floorboards had been clutter free, and nothing had concealed the hand-hewn roof beams, the burly tie beams, or the slender laths beneath the slate tiles.