Free Aunt Dimity and the Lost Prince by Nancy Atherton

kitchenette and en suite facilities,”
     Mrs. MacTavish informed me haughtily. “Have done ever since Mr. MacTavish passed.
     Would you care to see it?”
    “I’m sorry,” said Bree, “but we haven’t come about the flat.”
    “I didn’t think you had.” Mrs. MacTavish looked past us to survey the Range Rover.
     “People who drive posh cars don’t look for accommodations in Addington Terrace.” She
     took a long drag on her cigarette and blew a stream of smoke into the air. “Why have
     you come, then? Is it your day to do charity work? Or are you writing a sensitive
     article about the deserving poor?”
    “Neither,” I said, ignoring the woman’s sarcastic tone. “We’d like to speak with Amanda
     Pickering.”
    “Visiting nurses, are you?” asked Mrs. MacTavish. “Come to see little Daisy?”
    “No,” I said, faintly alarmed. “Why would Daisy need to see a nurse? She’s not sick,
     is she?”
    “She’s always sick,” Mrs. MacTavish replied. “Weak chest. Spends more time out of
     school than in it.”
    “Would you please tell Mrs. Pickering we’re here?” Bree said, with ill-concealed impatience.
    “You’re too late,” said Mrs. MacTavish. “She’s gone, her and that queer little girl
     of hers. No warning, no two-weeks’ notice, not even a note. Just packed their bags
     and left.”
    “When?” I said, taken aback. “When did they leave?”
    “Yesterday,” Mrs. MacTavish replied. “And don’t ask me where they went because I don’t
     know.” She eyed me shrewdly. “Did Mrs. Pickering work for you?”
    “No,” I said. “I do my own housework.”
    “How do you know her, then?” she asked.
    “I don’t really know her,” I admitted. “I met her at Skeaping Manor on Saturday morning
     and we had a brief conversation—”
    “Did you?” Mrs. MacTavish cut in. “I’m surprised to hear it. Mrs. Pickering wasn’t
     one for conversation.” She took another pull on her cigarette and exhaled a noxious
     cloud of smoke that engulfed her whole head. “The woman lived here for nearly a year,
     but I still don’t know where she came from or what happened to the girl’s father.”
    “He walked out on them,” I told her, hoping that one tidbit of gossip would lead to
     another.
    “I thought so,” said Mrs. MacTavish, with a satisfied nod. “But Mrs. Pickering never
     said. Too busy for idle chatter, I suppose. She worked all the hours God sent, except
     on Sundays, when she took her precious Daisy on outings.”
    “She worked six days a week at Skeaping Manor?” Bree said. “No wonder Daisy knows
     the place so well.”
    “Did I say she worked six days a week at Skeaping Manor?” Mrs. Mactavish asked tartly.
     “She worked there on Saturdays.” She took a last pull on her cigarette and used it
     to light another before tossing the glowing butt into a slush puddle. “I know where
     she worked and when because she left contact numbers with me in case of emergencies.”
     The landlady peered skyward as she recited, “Hayewood House—with an
e
in the middle, mind, to make it
extra
posh—Risingholme, Shangri-la, Tappan Hall, Mirfield, and Skeaping Manor. A different
     place each day of the week and nothing but the best for our Mrs. Pickering. She claimed
     to have a knack for polishing silver.”
    “Silver?” I said weakly.
    “I didn’t doubt her,” Mrs. MacTavish went on, with a careless shrug. “She kept her
     rooms as neat as a pin, and as far as I know, she never lied to me. She didn’t say
     very much at all. I had an earful from the women at Hayewood House and Risingholme
     today, though.”
    “About Mrs. Pickering?” I said.
    “Who else?” Mrs. MacTavish snapped. “Apparently, Mrs. Pickering failed to show up
     for work yesterday and today. Didn’t call in sick or give notice or anything. Simply
     didn’t put in an appearance.” The landlady sucked on her cigarette and let the smoke
     trickle through her nostrils. “I expect to hear from the