Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince by Nancy Atherton Read Free Book Online Page B

Skeaping Manor, Lori? Are
     you planning a break-in?”
    “Yes,” I said, smiling. “I’ve always wanted a collection of giant weta.”
    “That’s as may be,” Florence said sternly, “but the shop doesn’t want a collection
     of nasty old beer mats.” She pointed at the table space in front of me. “Please feel
     free to toss that lot, Lori.”
    I looked down at the assortment of sticky, stained beer mats I’d stacked neatly beside
     the pink parka, and grinned sheepishly at Florence.
    “Sorry,” I said. “I was daydreaming about giant weta.”
    Florence and Bree laughed. I dropped the beer mats into the recycling bin and tried
     to focus on my work.
    •   •   •
    The shop was unusually busy all day. Florence blamed it on the cold spell, saying
     that people were eager to get out and about after being trapped indoors for a week.
     Whatever the reason, I was glad to have Bree on hand to help because my mind wasn’t
     on the job.
    When I wasn’t gazing distractedly into the middle distance, I was asking customers
     if they’d heard rumors about a burglary at Skeaping Manor. The responses were uniformly
     negative, and since Upper Deeping’s gossip grapevine was almost as efficient as Finch’s,
     I concluded with some confidence that Miles Craven hadn’t yet noticed the theft.
    The thought of his ignorance filled me with hope because I knew what I wanted to do
     with the silver sleigh. And what I wanted to do was a tiny bit illegal.
    •   •   •
    “Dimity?”
    Four hours had passed since dinnertime. Bree, Will, and Rob were asleep in their respective
     beds, Stanley was asleep in mine, and I was seated in one of the tall leather armchairs
     in the study, with a fire burning merrily in the hearth and the blue journal open
     in my lap. I’d decided that it might be a good idea to explain my plan of action to
     Aunt Dimity before I followed through on it.
    “Dimity?” I repeated. “Something really strange happened today.”
    Aunt Dimity’s handwriting appeared, curling lazily across the page, as if she couldn’t
     quite work herself into a froth of excitement over my announcement.
    I hope today’s strange event was stranger than yesterday’s because, frankly, yesterday’s
     wasn’t very strange at all.
    “Today’s will knock your socks off,” I promised. “Remember the silver sleigh I told
     you about, the one I saw at Skeaping Manor?”
    The twinkling trinket that entranced young Daisy Pickering? How could I forget it?
    “What would you say if I told you it was in my shoulder bag?” I asked.
    I’d say: Bravo! You’ve piqued my curiosity! Have you embarked on a life of crime,
     my dear?
    “No, but I’m about to,” I said. I took a deep breath and launched into a highly detailed
     account of my day at the charity shop. I told Aunt Dimity about my discovery of the
     silver sleigh, my belief in Daisy’s guilt, and my conviction that Miles Craven was
     unaware of the crime. I was about to reveal my slightly illegal scheme to her when
     she asked a question that hadn’t even occurred to me.
    Why would Amanda Pickering donate her child’s winter coat to the charity shop? The
     pink parka didn’t appear to be too small for Daisy when you saw her wearing it, did
     it?
    “No,” I said. “If anything, it seemed to swallow her up. As I said, she’s a little
     wisp of a thing.”
    Why, then, would a woman in Amanda’s precarious financial position give away a perfectly
     good winter coat?
    “Because it isn’t perfectly good?” I ventured. “The parka is miles too big for Daisy
     and it’s too tatty to sell at the charity shop. Amanda must have found a nicer jacket
     for her daughter.”
    I hope so, for Daisy’s sake. I don’t yet see how your life of crime comes into the
     picture, my dear, but I’m sure you’ll make it clear to me before dawn.
    “I will,” I said, eager to move on from a digression that held no interest for me.
     “It could be argued that I