Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure (8 page)

T
he sky was a gloomy shade of battleship gray the following morning, but I felt as bright as a daisy. Bill's confidence-building campaign had continued late into the night, and it had had its intended effect. Although I remained convinced that my quest for Aunt Dimity's long-lost admirer was doomed to failure, I was ready to give it my all.

After arranging for a driver to meet me on the train platform in London, Bill insisted on taking charge of the children's morning routine. I left him to it and enjoyed the rare luxury of dressing in peace. To ward off the nip in the air, I pulled on a dove-gray cashmere sweater and a pair of merino wool trousers. My old walking shoes were the obvious choice for footwear. They weren't in the least stylish, but I could rely on them to keep my feet blissfully blister free on city pavements.

Armed with Bill's well-marked map of Bloomsbury and swathed in a voluminous black raincoat, I kissed Will, Rob, Bess, and Bill good-bye, tucked the garnet bracelet and a compact umbrella into my shoulder bag, and drove Bill's Mercedes to the train station in Oxford. I reached London's Paddington Station at ten o'clock.

My walking shoes had scarcely touched the train platform when I was approached by a young man who was, at a guess, in his late twenties. I wasn't sure who he was, but he didn't look like a chauffeur. He was tall and slender and dressed like a university student, in black jeans, black leather boots, and a scruffy black rain jacket. Though his
attire was depressingly monochromatic, his face had a fresh, rosy glow, his eyes were the color of cornflowers, and his blond hair fell over his brow in a loose golden wave.

“Lori Shepherd?” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the station's clamor. “I'm Adam Rivington. Your husband asked me to meet you. He said you wouldn't mind if I dispensed with the suit and tie. Forgive me . . .” He gripped my elbow and steered me away from the flood of detraining passengers to the relative sanctuary of a newspaper kiosk before adding brightly, “I'll be your guide for the day.”

“My guide?” I said in surprise. “I was expecting a driver.”

“I
can
be your driver,” he allowed, “but to be perfectly honest, a car isn't your best mode of transport in London. The tube is. I've taken the liberty of purchasing an all-day pass for you, but if you'd rather not use it . . .” His voice trailed off as he awaited my pronouncement.

“I'm fine with the tube,” I assured him. “It's better than battling traffic and hunting for parking spaces.”

“Much better,” he agreed, looking pleased.

“How did you know I was me?” I asked somewhat incoherently.

“Mr. Willis sent a photo,” he said, showing me his cell phone. “He also instructed me to address you as Lori, because—”

“—everyone does.” I finished the sentence for him and smiled wryly. “It's true. I hang up on anyone who asks for Mrs. Willis because it's a sure sign that I'm about to hear a sales pitch. May I call you Adam?”

“I'd prefer it to ‘Mr. Rivington,'” he said, smiling. “I've worked for your husband's firm many times, driving out-of-town clients to and from Heathrow and around town, but I've never been asked to give a walking tour. I'm looking forward to it.”

“Did my husband tell you why I'm here?” I asked.

“He said you were looking for someone,” Adam replied, “and he gave me an outline of your itinerary. Our first stop will be Carrie's Coffees in Bloomsbury.” He glanced at his watch, then extended his arm in a courteous, sweeping gesture. “Shall we?”

My young guide ushered me safely through the tangled torrents of commuters to the Underground station and onto a dank, crowded tube train. I was content to let him lead the way when we changed trains at Piccadilly Circus, and I followed him like a devoted puppy when we disembarked at Russell Square. I emerged from the tube station, longing for a breath of fresh air.

The air I breathed was fresher than I expected. A crisp breeze plastered my flapping raincoat to my body, and ominous clouds hung low in the sky. Adam thrust his hands into his jacket pockets while I pulled a silk scarf from my shoulder bag and wrapped it around my neck.

“To tell you the truth,” I said as I closed my bag, “I prefer buses to the tube. The view from the top deck of a double-decker bus is a whole lot more entertaining than the view from an underground train.”

“It is,” Adam agreed. “On the other hand, you don't have to stand in the rain while you're waiting for the tube. And the tube is faster. Unless there's a transport workers' strike, in which case all bets are off. Would you like to take the scenic route to Carrie's Coffees, or would you prefer a more direct route?”

“Scenic, please,” I said, thinking of Aunt Dimity's long walks through London. “I'll take scenic over direct every time.”

“Me, too,” he said happily.

Adam adapted his long stride to my shorter one as we strolled down a side street and crossed a busy thoroughfare. As we quickstepped from curb to curb, I felt myself ease into the rhythm of city
life. Though I'd lived in the country for more than a decade, I'd grown up in Chicago and hadn't yet lost my urban chops. I could shoulder my way through a crowd without bumping into anyone too vigorously, and I knew how to manage the stuttering sidestep required to dart out of the bustling throng when a shop or a restaurant beckoned.

I'd also retained the ability to take in my surroundings while dodging lampposts, mailboxes, large dogs, small children, and inattentive grown-ups. Bloomsbury struck me as an understated, expensive, and surprisingly eclectic neighborhood. A plethora of tidy Georgian row houses gave the streetscape a pleasant sense of cohesion, while dashes of Victorian, Edwardian, Regency, and Art Deco architecture kept it from becoming monotonous. The few modern eyesores seemed to be medical centers of one sort or another.

“I'm not too keen on them, either,” Adam admitted when I commented on the drab modern buildings. “Many of them occupy bomb sites, though—places where buildings were destroyed during the war—so I try to think of them as battle scars. Paris may be prettier, but London was braver.”

I'd never compared the two cities in quite that way before, but I suspected most Londoners had. I tried to envision the street strewn with rubble, clouded with smoke, and scarred by bomb craters, but my pensive imaginings were cut short when we entered the tranquil precincts of a small park dotted with venerable trees.

The severe iron railings surrounding the park were softened by shrubs and flower beds, and a row of weathered but serviceable wooden benches faced the leaf-littered central lawn. It was easy to imagine Aunt Dimity sitting on one of the benches, kicking off her shoes, and giving her tired feet a breather.

“Queen Square Gardens,” Adam announced.

“Lovely,” I said. “Though not as lovely as it will be when the lilacs are in bloom. Thanks for bringing me here, Adam. It's the perfect antidote to the Underground.”

“Your husband told me that you might need a few doses of greenery to get you through the day,” said Adam.

“A little greenery never hurts,” I conceded, “but I'm doing okay. I haven't been to London for years—not on my own, at any rate. I'm enjoying it more than I thought I would.”

“Even in this weather?” Adam queried.

“If I wanted sunshine every day,” I said, “I wouldn't live in England.” I caught sight of a statue half hidden by the branches of a towering lilac bush. “Who's that?”

“Good question,” said Adam.

He led the way along a curving path to a plinth topped by the statue of a plump, round-faced woman. Since the woman wore an elaborate gown and an odd, muffin-shaped crown, I assumed that she was the queen in Queen Square Gardens, but I didn't know which queen she was. As it turned out, I wasn't alone.

“No one is absolutely sure who she is,” Adam informed me, gazing up at the statue. “The statue was erected in 1775, we think. Its subject has, at various times, been identified as Queen Charlotte, Queen Anne, Queen Mary, and Caroline, King George the Third's consort. General consensus pegs her as Queen Anne, but it's a mystery that may never be solved.”

I felt a rush of affection for the plump little queen. If my search for Badger proved to be as fruitless as I expected it to be, I would, I decided, console myself with the knowledge that scholars much cleverer than I had been equally unsuccessful in their bid to identify Queen Whatshername.

“How wonderful,” I said. “In an age when everything is counted
and measured and recorded in triplicate, it's nice to know that a few mysteries remain beyond our reach.”

“I'm afraid there's no mystery at all to our next point of interest,” said Adam, “except that most people miss it because it's so difficult to see.”

I followed him to a bronze plaque lying flat in a circular patch of stone paving set into the lawn. The words on the plaque were almost too worn to read, but Adam saved me the trouble of deciphering them by reading the inscription aloud.

“‘On the night of the eighth of September 1915 a zeppelin bomb fell and exploded on this spot,'” he recited. “‘Although nearly one thousand people slept in the surrounding buildings no person was injured.'” He squatted to brush some stray leaves from the plaque. “The Queen Square zeppelin bomb was the first high-explosive bomb to detonate in central London.”

“Too bad it wasn't the last,” I said. “The Blitz would make zeppelin raids look pretty tame.”

“Are you interested in the Second World War?” Adam asked, straightening.

“I am,” I said. “I have—” Since I had no intention of explaining Aunt Dimity's equivocal state of existence to my guide, I checked myself and began again. “I
had
a friend who lived in London during the war. She's gone now, but her stories have stayed with me.”

“Here's a story your friend may not have told you,” said Adam. “Approximately two thousand people took refuge from the Blitz in an air raid shelter”—he pulled his hand out of his pocket and pointed at the ground—“beneath your feet.”

“Is the shelter still there?” I asked, looking down in amazement.

“As far as I know,” Adam replied. “Let's hope we never need it again.”

I looked from a pair of women chatting animatedly as they crossed the park to a red-haired man throwing a ball for a very excited wire-haired terrier, and I shook my head.

“It's hard to believe that it was needed in the first place,” I said.

“Not for me,” Adam said. “I grew up hearing my granddad's stories.” He gazed at the bronze plaque in silence, then raised his head and smiled. “One more stop before we leave the gardens. There's someone I'd like you to meet.”

He took off across the park and I trotted after him until he stopped before another, more modern memorial: a bronze cat peering down from a freestanding, four-foot-tall segment of redbrick wall, as though entranced by a sudden movement in the wind-whipped leaves.

“Please allow me to introduce you to Sam the Cat,” said Adam. “Sam was placed here in 1997 to honor his owner, the late Patricia Penn, a defender of historic buildings and—needless to say—a cat lover.”

“A brick wall and a bronze cat,” I said. “Very appropriate.” I stepped forward to give Sam's head a rub. “I would have walked right past him if you hadn't pointed him out. For someone who doesn't give many walking tours, Adam, you seem to know an awful lot about Bloomsbury.”

“I should,” he said. “I've lived here all my life.”

I blinked at him in surprise, then burst out laughing.

“No wonder Bill called you,” I said. “You're not just a guide. You're a
native
guide—a bona fide Bloomsbury-born bloke.”

“Guilty as charged,” Adam acknowledged. “I'm the fourth generation of my family to live here. My great-grandfather witnessed the zeppelin attacks, my grandfather served as an air raid warden during the Blitz, and my parents work at the British Museum. I hope to work there, too, after I get my postgraduate degree.”

“I'm not tearing you away from your studies, am I?” I said.

“Not at all,” he replied, and his blue eyes twinkled mischievously as he added, “You're helping me to pay for them.” He tilted his head toward the busy street beyond the park's railings. “Next stop, Great Ormond Street Hospital.”

“Bill really did brief you well,” I marveled as we exited the park. “I suppose Carrie's Coffees is your local hangout.”

“It's one of them,” he said.

“Of course it is,” I said, feeling as though I were covering ground Bill had already covered. “Would you happen to know if Carrie's Coffees replaced an older hangout called the Rose Café?”

“To be accurate,” Adam said, “Carrie's Coffees replaced the place that replaced the place that replaced three other places that replaced the Rose Café.”

“But it would have been the Rose Café in your grandfather's time,” I said thoughtfully. “Has he ever mentioned it?”

“No,” said Adam, “but he wouldn't. Granddad prefers pubs to tearooms. A few pensioners meet up at Carrie's, though, to chat about old times.”

I came to an abrupt standstill, and Adam yanked me out of the way of a gaggle of teenagers that was bearing down on us.

“What's up?” he asked.

“If you know an elderly gentleman who calls himself Badger,” I said, staring hard at him, “prepare to catch me because I'll probably faint.”

“You're safe,” Adam assured me. “The name doesn't ring a bell. Is he the man you're hoping to find?”

“He is,” I said, and we resumed walking. “My friend got to know Badger just after the war. They used to meet at the Rose Café. She asked me to . . . to give him a message.”

“A dying wish?” Adam inquired.