Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure (20 page)

“Your father must have been ecstatic when he found his hoard,” I said.

“He believed it to be the largest and most valuable hoard ever found in the British Isles,” said Badger. “Since he lacked the financial resources to conduct a proper excavation, he took one artifact from the site”—he opened his clasped hand to reveal the glittering armlet—“to show to those who would understand its significance.”

“Your father took the armlet from the hoard?” I asked quickly. “Not you?”

“Since I was in North Africa at the time,” said Badger, “it would have been rather difficult for me to remove anything from the hoard.”

“Yes, of course, how stupid of me,” I babbled, but my heart was singing. If Badger's father had removed the armlet from the hoard, then Badger was in the clear. He hadn't stolen the armlet from the British Museum or from anywhere else. His father might be considered a thief, but Badger couldn't be accused of breaking the law. A great rush of relief flooded through me as I realized that I would never have to share my suspicions with Aunt Dimity.

“As I was saying,” Badger went on, “my father hoped to persuade an individual or an institution to provide him with the funds he required to excavate, record, and protect the hoard.”

“Was he successful?” I asked, refocusing my attention on the matter at hand.

“Quite the opposite,” Badger replied. “No one responded to his telephone calls or to his letters, and his unannounced visits ended before they began. His discovery was ill timed, you see. There was a
war on. People had more important things to do than to listen to crackpot claims about buried treasure.”

“He must have been incredibly frustrated,” I said.

“He was, but not for long,” said Badger. “On the sixteenth of June, 1944, a V-1 rocket obliterated our house. Mother was out at the time, but Father was in his study, writing yet another letter. The rocket destroyed his notebooks, his maps, his life's work, so perhaps it's just as well that it killed him, too.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “It must have been terrible to lose your father when you were so far away.”

“It was terrible,” he acknowledged, “but it wasn't wholly unexpected. If the Blitz taught us anything, it was that one didn't have to be on the front line to die in battle. Anyone could be killed at any time, anywhere.”

“A harsh lesson,” I said.

“Wars tend to deliver harsh lessons,” he observed dryly. “My father would have been pleased to know that the armlet survived. It was rescued from the rubble by a scrupulously honest fireman, who handed it over to my mother. When I came home, she gave it to me.”

“And you gave it to Dimity,” I murmured. “You must have loved her very much.”

“It was a young man's grand romantic gesture,” he said, “a prelude to the moment when I would reveal myself to Dimity as the boy who'd camped in her parents' meadow. I knew at once that it was pointless. I'd seen the look before, in other eyes, the undying devotion to the dead. One grew accustomed to it after the war, but when I saw it in Dimity's eyes, I felt as if I'd been dealt a double blow. By failing to remember me, she'd erased me from her past. By failing to accept my love, she'd ruined my future—or so I thought. Like a
young idiot, I stormed out of the café, too caught up in my own misery to consider hers.”

“Idiocy is the hallmark of youth,” I observed.

“It is indeed,” he agreed. “I couldn't bring myself to throw away the gift she'd given me, though. It was a soft toy, a badger. I don't know why I kept it, but I did. I still have it.”

He nodded at the bird's-eye maple desk. I looked over my shoulder and saw the pointed, black-and-white face of a badger poking out from a jumble of books, papers, penholders, and notepads.

“Maybe the badger reminded you of a turning point in your life,” I suggested. “If Dimity hadn't let you down, you might not have gone on to achieve such a high level of excellence in your field.”

“When one door closes, another opens,” he said, “if one tugs on it hard enough. And I did work very hard after the Rose Café debacle.”

“Dimity tried to find you after you stormed out of the café,” I told him, “but no one knew where you were. Where did you go?”

“Cambridge,” he said. “I gathered an armload of degrees and took them with me to Egypt, where I spent the next twenty-five years of my life. I met my wife there, and our children were born there.”

“Children?” I said curiously.

“Steve isn't my only child,” he said. “I have two other sons and a daughter, and they've all turned out rather splendidly.” He laughed. “When I left the Rose Café, I was convinced that true happiness would be forever beyond my reach. How wrong I was! And how foolish I was to run away from someone who could have been a lifelong friend.”

“Dimity didn't blame you,” I said. “She understood.”

“Did she?” he said thoughtfully. “I'm not surprised. She was a remarkable woman.”

We sat in silence for a time, and I added more coals to the fire. Badger's energy didn't seem to be flagging, so I thought his son wouldn't mind if I asked a question that was nagging at me.

“Did you ever try to find your father's hoard?” I asked.

“No,” he replied.

I nodded. “I suppose it would have been close to impossible, after his papers had been destroyed.”

“As a matter of fact, the rocket didn't destroy all of his papers,” Badger informed me. “I still had the letters he'd written to me while I was fighting in North Africa. In his last letter, he used a coded clue to direct me to the hoard's location.”

“Were you able to decode the clue?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Badger. “At the time, I was the only one who
could
decode it.”

“If you understood the clue,” I said, “why didn't you look for the hoard?”

“It took me a while to settle back into civilian life,” he said. “Then came Cambridge, followed by Egypt, fieldwork, marriage, children, research, writing, lectures, interviews, and more fieldwork. I simply didn't have enough time to complete my father's work as well as my own. And as I told Adam, the Anglo-Saxon period isn't my bailiwick.”

“You could have told an Anglo-Saxon scholar about it,” I said.

“I could have,” Badger agreed. “I could have told those who'd ignored my father that he had, in fact, made a marvelous discovery. I could have handed the hoard over to those who'd turned him away and insulted him, but I chose not to.” He gave me a sidelong look and a twinkling smile. “I'm afraid I haven't yet outgrown my petulant streak.”

I began to return his smile, but frowned instead as I recalled something he'd said only moments earlier.

“What did you mean by ‘at the time'?” I asked. “You said that you were the only person who could decode your father's clue
at the time
. Were you implying that someone else was able decode it later on?”

“Well spotted, Lori,” he said approvingly. “There is only one person other than myself capable of understanding my father's clue, and she happens to be sitting beside me.”

“Who?” I said, eyeing him doubtfully. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he said. “In his last letter, my father told me that he'd found the hoard in the place where I'd first lost my heart.” He bent his head toward me and raised an eyebrow. “I don't need to elaborate, do I?”

I blinked stupidly at him for a moment, then caught my breath.

“No,”
I said, grinning incredulously. “Are you serious? Are you telling me that there's an Anglo-Saxon hoard in
my meadow
?”

“I am serious,” said Badger. “There's an Anglo-Saxon hoard in your meadow. I'm afraid Father didn't specify which part of the meadow, but the hoard's in there, somewhere.”

“Good grief,” I said, leaning my head on my hand. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

Badger held the armlet out to me.

“Put this back,” he said.

“Put it back with the hoard?” I shrank away from his outstretched hand. “I can't, Badger. It's all you have left of your father.”

“Nonsense,” he said, letting his hand drop. “My father lives on in my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and the memories I have of him are more precious to me by far than any trinket. Please, Lori, put the armlet back where it belongs. It was my father's intention to return it to the hoard. I'd be grateful to you if you would carry out his wishes.”

“What if I can't find the hoard?” I asked.

“You found me,” he pointed out. “Surely you can find something that's buried in your own backyard.”

“But what if I
do
find it?” I asked a bit desperately. “What then?”

“It's entirely up to you,” he said. “You knew Dimity. Ask yourself what she'd do. You won't go far wrong by following her example.”

Badger held the armlet out to me again. I hesitated, then took it from him, tucked it into my shoulder bag, and stood.

“If I have a hoard to find, I'd better get going,” I said, peering through the windows. “Night comes early in October.”

“Do you intend to start your search today?” Badger asked, sounding amused.

“I don't have gold fever,” I assured him, “but I do find it hard to believe that an Anglo-Saxon treasure trove has been sitting right under my nose ever since my husband and I moved into Dimity's cottage. I guess I won't believe it until I see it.”

“How do you intend to search for it?” he asked. “It would be a pity to dig holes all over your lovely meadow.”

“Don't worry,” I told him. “I have a less destructive plan. But I'll need daylight to put it into action.”

“I'll ring Sarah.” Badger pulled a cell phone from his pocket and made the call, then rose slowly to his feet with the aid of his malacca cane. “I have one more question for you, Lori. Dimity Westwood died more than a decade ago. Have you really spent the past ten years and a bit looking for me?”

“Not exactly,” I said, clearing my throat nervously. “You know how it is, Badger. New country, new village, new house, new friends, a pair of twins, a baby girl, a—”

“Say no more,” Badger interrupted. “I understand completely.” He reached out to shake my hand. “Thank you, Lori. For everything. I hope we meet again.”

“Of course we'll meet again,” I said. “I'll have to fill you in on what I find.”

“I hope I'm still around to hear your report,” he said.

“You will be,” I stated firmly. “In case you haven't noticed, you're in remarkably good health for a man your age.”

Badger was still chuckling a moment later, when Steve, Adam, and Sarah entered the room. Steve surveyed his father anxiously, but Adam and Sarah looked as if they'd been handed the keys to heaven. They couldn't thank Badger enough for giving them free rein in his library, but when they began to burble on about the scarabs, urns, and statues it contained, Steve shot them a warning look, and they fell silent. Badger invited them to visit him again, and Steve walked with us to the front door.

“I don't know what you said to my father,” he told me, “but it's done him a world of good. I haven't seen him looking so well since before my mother died.”

I thanked him for looking after Adam and Sarah, waved good-bye to Badger, who was watching us from one of his windows, and ran down to the walkway, where my companions were waiting to invite me to lunch.

“Would you mind very much if I took a rain check?” I asked. “I, uh, have something to do before dark.”

“We'll take you to Paddington, then,” Adam offered.

“No need,” I told him. “If you'll take me to the nearest tube station, I'll find my own way from there.”

As we set out, I realized with a start that I'd lost my fear of getting lost in London. Aunt Dimity, I thought, would be proud of me. And Bill would be gobsmacked.

I
caught the express train to Oxford. To quell the hunger pangs that were creeping up on me, I bought a cheese and tomato sandwich in the buffet car, but I telephoned James Hobson before I ate it. When I asked him if I could borrow his metal detector, he astounded me with the news that Peggy Taxman had disrupted his rota, commandeered his metal detector, and spent much of the day scanning the village green, ably assisted by Jasper.

“I'm not surprised by the disrupting and the commandeering,” I explained, “but I didn't expect Peggy, of all people, to take up metal detecting.”

“She's gone at it full bore,” said James. “She seems intent on collecting more items than anyone else in the village.”

“Ah, yes, that sounds about right,” I said. “Peggy doesn't like to be second best at anything.”

“I could lend you my spare detector,” he suggested. “It operates in much the same way as the one I used at the demonstration.”

“That would be great,” I said.

“Will you share the green with Mrs. Taxman?” James inquired.

“Peggy's not very good at sharing,” I replied, “so I'll scan my own property.”

I detected a quizzical note in his voice as he said, “I was beginning to think you weren't interested in my hobby, Lori.”

“I was just waiting my turn,” I told him brightly.

A second telephone call confirmed that Bill had taken Bess with him to his office and that he intended to drive from there to Upper Deeping to pick up Will and Rob after school. If all went well, I told myself as I unwrapped my sandwich, I would have two uninterrupted hours to find the hoard.

All went well. The train arrived in Oxford ahead of schedule, Bill's car didn't break down on the way to Ivy Cottage, and James handed over his spare metal detector and utility belt without delay. I swapped my long raincoat for a short jacket when I got home, but I didn't bother to change the rest of my clothes. I simply strapped the utility belt around my waist before I trotted outside to study the meadow that sloped gradually from the rear wall of my back garden to the brook Badger and his father had found so useful.

The wildflowers Badger had admired were long gone, and the trees in the oak grove had shed their leaves, but the brook was still flowing freely. The cheerful little stream was content to remain within its banks for most of the year, but as Badger had reminded me, it tended to inundate the lower part of the meadow in the spring. As soon as the thought of flooding entered my mind, the penny dropped.

“He was giving me a clue,” I said aloud, clapping a hand to my forehead. “Badger was telling me to concentrate on the upper part of the meadow because no Anglo-Saxon in his right mind would store his valuables in a safe deposit box that might be carried away in the spring floods.”

I switched on the metal detector and began to scan the meadow's uppermost reaches. I was nearing the edge of the oak grove when I hit pay dirt. The detector's mournful wail sounded deafeningly and continuously as I moved the coil head over a slightly sunken, circular
patch of dried grasses. Visions of coins, weapons, armor, and glittering gems danced in my head as I leaned the detector against a tree. My hands trembled with excitement as I pulled the digger from its sheath and dropped to my knees, but I couldn't bring myself to cut through the soil.

I sat on my heels and took a calming breath. Badger's father had considered his find important enough to back away from it until he could excavate it properly. If I dug it up willy-nilly, I told myself, I'd be no better than a looter. By disturbing the site, I might destroy clues about the hoard's origins. One clumsy jab with the digger might damage an artifact that had survived intact for centuries. If, as James Hobson claimed, every object told a story, I might silence an entrancing tale forever. The craftsman who'd fashioned the gold and garnet armlet seemed to whisper in my ear, urging caution.

I decided to listen to him. I got to my feet, slid the digger into its sheath, and picked up the metal detector. I took a long look at the sunken, circular patch of dried grasses, then turned around and headed for the study.

It was time to heed Badger's advice. I would ask Aunt Dimity how she'd deal with buried treasure.

*   *   *

Reginald regarded me expectantly when I entered the study. I knelt to light a fire in the hearth, then straightened to run a fingertip along his hand-sewn whiskers.

“It's not a bracelet,” I explained to him as I placed the armlet in his niche. “It's an Anglo-Saxon armlet, and it came from our meadow. But don't tell anyone. Not yet. Not until I figure out what to do next.”

Reginald remained resolutely silent. I took the blue journal from
its shelf and seated myself in one of the tall leather armchairs that faced the fire.

“Dimity?” I said as I opened the journal. “Do you remember a father and son who camped in your parents' meadow between the wars?”

Aunt Dimity took a long time to respond, but when she did, her handwriting flowed swiftly across the page, as if, in answering my question, she'd answered a few of her own.

Badger was the boy from London who camped in our meadow one summer. He thought I'd remember him when we met again in the Rose Café, and he was devastated when I didn't.

“People who want to be recognized shouldn't grow beards,” I muttered.

Did he serve in the navy, Lori? Beards were quite popular in the navy.

“Badger spent the war dodging tanks in North Africa,” I said, “so I'm pretty sure he wasn't in the navy.”

A North African posting would explain his deep tan. I suppose he let his beard grow out to celebrate his return to civilian life.

“He's clean-shaven now,” I said, “but his hair is longer than it was when he posed for the photographs you saw in the
Times
.”

Is it still curly?

“It's as curly as mine,” I said, “but it's not dark anymore. It's pure white. He's still handsome, he still has a great sense of humor, and he's”—I smiled inwardly—“remarkably healthy for a man his age.”

Did you tell him about Bobby?

“I delivered each of your messages,” I said, “and I told him you understood why he'd behaved so badly.”

He didn't behave badly, Lori. He behaved brokenheartedly.

“He thinks he behaved badly,” I stated firmly, “but I told him not
to worry about it because most of us behave like idiots when we're young.”

Did you really? How did he react to your forthright pronouncement?

“He agreed with me,” I replied. “He said he'd been a fool to run away from someone who could have been a lifelong friend.”

Did he tell you where he went?

I recounted everything Badger had told me about Cambridge, Egypt, his late wife, and his four splendid children. I described Wilmington Square, the town house, and the comfortable bed-sitting-room Badger's son and daughter-in-law had created for him on the ground floor.

“I didn't see the rest of the town house,” I concluded, “but I'm sure I'll hear a detailed description of the library the next time I get together with Adam and Sarah.”

Do you intend to get together with them again? In London?

“Definitely,” I said. “But that's another story. For now, let's stick with Badger. I haven't quite finished telling you about him.” I glanced fondly at Reginald, then looked down at the journal. “Badger kept the badger you gave him, Dimity. I saw it on his desk. He pointed it out to me.”

He kept it all this time? I'm as surprised as I am delighted. It's nothing compared to the gift he gave me, but it was a small, a very small, token of my friendship. I'm glad he didn't throw it away.

“He is, too,” I said. “But speaking of the gift he gave you . . .” I put my feet on the ottoman and launched into Badger's tale of the armlet and the Anglo-Saxon hoard. I was about to explain my role in the tale when Aunt Dimity's handwriting sped across the page.

My mother wrote to tell me that our visitor from London had returned without his son. He gave her the impression that he'd returned for nothing more than a much-needed break from the war-ravaged city. My mother had no
idea that he was an amateur archaeologist or that he intended to excavate our meadow. I'm terribly sorry that his life ended so tragically and I'm sorry that his life's work was destroyed, but I must confess that I'm not one bit sorry that circumstances prevented him from digging a dirty great hole in our meadow.

“Well, Dimity,” I said awkwardly, “it's funny that you should mention digging a hole in the meadow, because when I got back from London just now, I borrowed James Hobson's spare metal detector and . . .” I hesitated, then said in a rush, “I'm just about completely sure that I found the hoard, Dimity.”

Will you dig it up?

“I'm not qualified to dig it up,” I said. “Buried treasure belongs to the Crown. By rights, I should report it to the British Museum or to some other respectable institution. I should let a trained archaeologist, or maybe a team of trained archaeologists, conduct the excavation. The hoard should be disinterred, recorded, transported, researched, and displayed by people who know a whole lot more about such things than I do. I should step aside and let the professionals take over.”

What's stopping you?

I gazed into the fire and asked myself the same question. An answer came to me when I realized that the only sound I could hear was the crackle of burning logs.

“I like a quiet life,” I said slowly. “The thought of strangers trampling my wildflowers turns my stomach. I don't want people driving by the cottage to take pictures of the place where the famous hoard was found, and I certainly don't want to be known as the woman who found it.”

Why not?

“It wouldn't be fair,” I said. “I could talk about Badger's father until I was blue in the face, but he'd never get the recognition he
deserves. The focus would be on Badger because he's so well known and on me because I happen to have a neighbor who's a metal detectorist.” I shook my head. “I don't deserve the praise, and I don't want the five minutes of fame that would come along with finding ‘the largest and most valuable hoard ever found in the British Isles.'”

Does Badger expect you to excavate his father's find?

“He asked me to put the armlet back where it came from,” I said, “and he told me to ask myself what you would do.”

You don't need my help to make a decision.

“Badger still has a high opinion of your judgment,” I said, “as do I. So I'm asking you, Dimity: What do you think I should I do about my groundbreaking discovery?”

You have to break ground to make a groundbreaking discovery, Lori, and you haven't yet turned a spadeful of earth. Until you do, you can't know what's buried in the meadow. James Hobson's spare metal detector might have reacted to a pile of toy trucks Will and Rob buried just for the fun of it.

“It sounds like something they'd do,” I acknowledged, smiling.

Someone will come along one day and rediscover the hoard. In the meantime, I'd advise you to act as its guardian.

“What should I do with the armlet?” I asked.

You should give it a decent burial. Dig its grave near the spot that gave the metal detector fits, drop the armlet in it, cover it over, and move on.

The anxiety I'd carried with me into the study suddenly vanished, to be replaced by a heady feeling of relief. I'd boxed myself into a corner, and Aunt Dimity had shown me the way out. As the hoard's guardian, I wouldn't have to sacrifice my family's privacy for the greater good, nor would I have to fight a losing battle to give credit where credit was due. A guardian would have a much quieter life than a groundbreaker.

“I'll do it,” I said decisively. “I'll bury the armlet before Bill finishes the school run.”

You'll tell him about it, won't you?

“I'll tell him the whole story,” I said, “and I'll tell Badger as well, but I won't tell anyone else. Bill and I will keep an eye on the boys, in case they decide to play gravedigger; we won't throw metal-detecting parties; and we'll never, ever let Adam Rivington pitch a tent in our meadow.”

I believe you'll be an exemplary guardian, Lori.

“I will be,” I said. “I already have a motto. In the immortal, earsplitting words of Peggy Taxman . . .” I tilted my head back and bellowed, “‘Some things are best left buried!'”

I heard a scrabble of claws in the living room as Stanley leaped from Bill's armchair and ran for cover. I called out an apology and a promise of tuna for dinner, then glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel.

“I'd better get the burial under way,” I said. “Bill and the children will be home in about forty minutes, at which point my quiet life will cease to be quiet. I'll be back later, though, to bring you up to date on what's happening in Finch.”

Before you go, my dear, please allow me to tell you how grateful I am to you for finding Badger. You've polished a tarnished memory until it gleams. From now on, when I look back on the moments I shared with him, I'll feel nothing but happiness. Thank you.

“The gratitude goes both ways, Dimity,” I said. “If you hadn't sent me on a wild goose chase, I wouldn't have met Adam, Sarah, Carrie, Chocks, Ginger, Fish, and one of the foremost archaeologists of our time. My new friends mean more to me than any hoard.” I glanced at the clock again. “And now I really do have to run.”

Go! But come back soon. I can hardly wait to hear the latest news!

I smiled as the curving lines of royal-blue ink faded from the page, then returned the journal to its shelf and took the armlet from Reginald's niche. I held it in the firelight one last time and wondered who had made it, worn it, buried it. As I slipped it into my pocket, I could almost hear a chorus of whispers thanking me for leaving it in peace.