Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure (3 page)

Although the sight of the old well revived vivid memories, I pushed them aside. I'd been so disarmed by the Hobsons' hospitality that I'd forgotten the reason for my visit, but it was time to get down to business. I was fairly sure that the villagers would look upon me with disfavor—and possibly growl at me—if I left Ivy Cottage without learning the truth about the museum boxes.

The movers had deposited a simple teak table and four matching chairs on the back garden's brick patio. I placed Bess and a few of her toys on the soft grass at the edge of the patio and kept an eye on her as the Hobsons and I took our places around the table. I didn't mind Bess playing with dead leaves. I just didn't want her to fill her mouth with them.

I was about to turn the conversation toward the mysterious boxes when James spoke.

“Tell me, Lori,” he said, “were you deputized by the lurkers in the lane, or did you visit us of your own volition?”

I blushed to my roots. A feeble denial sprang to my lips, but I couldn't bring myself to insult James's intelligence.

“I suppose it was too much to hope that you wouldn't notice our little gathering,” I said with a sigh.

“We're tired, but we're not
that
tired,” said Felicity. “Does it happen every time someone new comes to Finch?”

“I'm afraid so,” I said apologetically. “The arrival of newcomers is a big event in a small village. Since Finch is a very small village, your arrival is a very big event.”

“We aren't complaining,” James assured me. “It's rather flattering to be the center of so much attention. Were you sent, by the way? Or did you volunteer?”

“A bit of both,” I admitted. “The villagers are curious about you.” I was too embarrassed to meet his gaze, so I kept my eyes fixed on Bess as I added, “So am I.”

“We thought as much,” said James, nodding. “And we're prepared to give you a few morsels of information to take back with you.”

“We won't reveal our deepest secrets,” said Felicity. “We plan to be here for a long time, and we'd like to save something for later.”

“But we'll tell you enough of our life story to satisfy our audience,” said James.

“Please feel free to break in with questions,” said Felicity.

Their graciousness had robbed me of the desire to ask any questions of them, ever, on any subject, but I'd lived in Finch for too long to put my fingers in my ears as James began.

“L
et's start with why we came to Finch, shall we?” James proposed. “It's a dramatic tale, filled with pathos, danger, and near-tragedy. I'm sure the lane lurkers will gobble it up.”

“Behave yourself, James,” Felicity scolded. “The ‘lane lurkers,' as you call them, are our new neighbors.”

“I stand corrected,” James acknowledged. “I'm sure our
new neighbors
will gobble it up.” He took a small sip of tea, adjusted his spectacles, and gazed out over the meadows beyond the garden's boundary wall. “I suppose you could call us climate-change refugees.”

“It's an accurate description,” Felicity agreed, “but I think we'll have to turn the clock back a bit to explain why.” She refilled my cup, then went on. “After James and I retired from teaching, we sold our house in North London and bought a cottage in a small village near Eastbourne.”

“Our cottage had been built in 1820,” James said, “and it sat high on a cliff overlooking the Channel. We'd hoped to spend the rest of our days there, savoring the sea air and the glorious sunsets.”

“It was our dream home,” Felicity said, “until it turned into a nightmare.”

“A nightmare?” I echoed, and my reluctance to ask questions went straight out the window. “What happened?”

“The southeast coast has always been battered by winter storms,” James said, “but over the past few decades, the storms have become
bigger and stronger and more frequent than any in recorded history. As a result, the cliffs have begun to erode at an alarming rate.”

“The sea is reclaiming the land,” said Felicity, “and it was happening before our very eyes. Cliffs that had been fifty meters away from our back door were suddenly forty meters away, then thirty.” She shook her head. “It was like watching a disaster film.”

“It was like being
in
a disaster film,” James countered. “We couldn't let our grandchildren play outside when they came to visit because we never knew when the next section of cliff would collapse. We couldn't stroll on the beach because falling rocks might land on our heads. The stress and the uncertainty began to take a toll on our health. We had trouble sleeping, eating, concentrating. It was, as Felicity said, a nightmare.”

I left my chair to persuade Bess to chew on a teething toy instead of a pinecone, then returned to it, breathless with anticipation.

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “About your nightmare, I mean. It must have been awful.”

“We were certainly filled with awe,” James said dryly. “But we could see the handwriting on the wall.”

“Once we faced the fact that our dream home's days were numbered,” said Felicity, “we revised our dream and began to look for another home.”

“We should mention here that our daughter lives in Upper Deeping,” James interjected.

“I know,” I said, with a half smile in Felicity's direction. “I also know that your daughter is an interior decorator and that she's the one who told you about Ivy Cottage.” I shrugged. “Word gets around.”

“Naturally,” said Felicity, smiling back at me. “Yes, Jessica did tell
us about Ivy Cottage. She'd be here helping us today if her children weren't under the weather.”

“Both of them sick?” I said. “That's tough.” I smiled sheepishly as Felicity's eyebrows rose. “As I said, word gets around. Rumor has it that your daughter has two school-aged children, a boy and a girl.”

“And our son?” Felicity asked.

“Unmarried, works in finance, lives in Singapore,” I said unhesitatingly.

“Remarkable,” said Felicity.

“Typical,” I said. “If you let something slip, the villagers will remember it. And pass it on.”

“I'll bear it in mind,” said Felicity, “and I'll watch what I let slip.”

“So will I,” said James.

“A wise decision,” I said.

“Where were we?” said Felicity. “Ah, yes . . . our daughter learned of Ivy Cottage from a client who knew the estate agent handling the property.”

“Felicity and I drove up from the coast to view the cottage,” said James, “and decided on the spot to up stakes and move inland. It wasn't an easy decision, but it was the right one.”

“I imagine you'll miss the sea air and the sunsets,” I said sympathetically.

“We can drive back to the coast whenever we like,” said James. “And we won't miss the tension and the fear. Our grandchildren will be able to visit us more often, and we'll allow them to play outside when they do.”

“The Little Deeping floods from time to time,” I said, in the interest of full disclosure.

“We know,” said Felicity, with another smile. “Grant and
Charles—the chaps who live in Crabtree Cottage—told us. But they also told us that the floodwaters have never reached Ivy Cottage.”

“If our nightmare taught us anything,” James said philosophically, “it's that no place on earth is entirely safe. We believe, however, that we're safer here than we were on our crumbling cliffs.”

“Ivy Cottage suits us perfectly,” said Felicity. “It's on solid ground, it has a magnificent garden, and it has plenty of room for James's hobby.”

“My wife is a keen gardener,” James informed me.

“A decent-sized garden was the one thing our cliff-top cottage lacked,” said Felicity. “Well,” she temporized, “that, and solid ground.”

“I'll introduce you to my friend Emma Harris,” I said. “She worked on the garden while the cottage was being renovated. I know for a fact that she still has a three-ring binder filled with her drawings, diagrams, and plant lists. I'm sure she'll be willing to pass it on to you.”

“I look forward to meeting her,” said Felicity, sounding impressed.

“We look forward to meeting everyone we haven't already met,” James put in. “That's the point of village life, isn't it? Getting to know one's neighbors?”

Bess crawled across the brick patio to join in the discussion, but before I could reach for her, James picked her up, parked her in his lap, and gave her his key ring to play with. When she made no objection, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Hobsons would make a fine addition to Finch. Bess was a shrewd judge of character.

“If you're looking for neighbors who take an interest in one another,” I said, “then you've come to the right place. As a matter of fact, the villagers sent me in here to ask you about some boxes that piqued their curiosity. They think you're planning to open a museum in Ivy Cottage, and they've worked themselves into a lather over the extra traffic, the parking, the litter, the zoning laws, and just about
anything that could be remotely connected to the opening of a museum.”

“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.”