Dead as a Scone Read online

  Cha-Cha made a soft yipping sound.

  “I agree with your assessment. We know the method and the motive—but what do we do next? Who can we tell?”

  Who will believe us?

  Seven

  Nigel stepped out of the pharmacy at the northern end of the Pantiles. “We have time to talk this out before we meet with Augustus Hoskins,” he said to Flick. “We’re not due at the restaurant for another fifteen minutes.”

  “Fine with me. Where?”

  “That bench looks comfortable.”

  Nigel and Flick had walked through the Pantiles so that he could buy a packet of antacid tablets. The bench he chose was on the Upper Walk, across from the colonnade, under a large linden tree. Two teenaged boys were sitting on an adjacent bench, talking, smoking, and occasionally laughing loudly.

  “What do you think happened yesterday?” he asked Flick evenly.

  “To repeat what I’ve already said twice, I think that the trustees tasked us to make a vital recommendation.”

  Nigel’s immediate thought was that he disliked hearing “task” used as a verb, but he didn’t want to argue with Flick’s choice of words. There were far bigger issues to deal with.

  “The trustees took the easy way out,” he said. “They dropped a crisis into our laps.”

  “That’s where it belongs. We manage the museum; it’s our job to solve tough problems. Anyway, this is a simple decision to make. We go with the creative financing option and buy our collection.”

  Nigel heaved a heavy sigh—heavy enough, he hoped, to signal his growing frustration. He opened a roll of antacids and put one in his mouth. His stomach had been churning most of the morning.

  “You are missing my point,” he said. “Of course, the museum will buy the collection. The problem is that the trustees have put you and me on the spot. We will take the blame should anything go wrong.”

  “What can go wrong? It seems a straightforward transaction. The collection will serve as collateral for the loan. If the museum can’t make the payments for some reason, we’ll simply sell off the antiquities. We’d be no worse off than we are today.”

  “That depends,” Nigel said.

  “On what?”

  “Think back to the dismal possibility articulated by Archibald Meicklejohn.”

  “You mean about organizations being dragged to their doom by similar commitments?”

  Nigel nodded. “Think what might happen if Britain experienced a serious economic recession during the coming few years. Fund-raising would slow down at the same time paintings, maps, crockery, and whatever become less valuable. We might not be able to sell off enough of the collection to cover the outstanding balance.”

  He enjoyed watching a look of understanding spread across Flick’s face. “Ouch!” she said with obvious sincerity.

  “Ouch indeed! Therein lies the downward spiral that leads to doom. In the worst case, the museum would go bankrupt.”

  “But how could anyone pin the blame on us?”

  “Clearly you misled the trustees about the long-term value of the antiquities, while I encouraged them to approve an excessively risky transaction.” Nigel grimaced. “As least, that’s what the trustees will tell their friends, colleagues, newspaper reporters, government boards of inquiry—anyone who asks why a successful museum went under. When two plump, wholly defenseless scapegoats come along, no smart executive will miss the opportunity to make full use of them.”

  Flick took a few seconds to respond. “Wow. I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “I assumed you were being paranoid—seeing bogeymen under your desk.”

  Nigel offered the roll of antacids. “Would you like a piece of museum-director’s candy?”

  Flick laughed. “No. But now I understand why you wanted me to come to lunch. We seem to be in this together.”

  “Like peas in the proverbial pod, although should the bottom fall out, my reputation will suffer far more than yours. The trustees are bound to take pity on the sitting chief curator, whereas I will be an irresistible target: the former acting director. I can imagine Archibald claiming that my temporary status encouraged me to be reckless.”

  “Then maybe we should be cautious and recommend one of the other options.”

  Nigel shook his head. “As you said earlier, there is only one choice to make. Doing nothing would be absurd, and dragging our heels accomplishes nothing. We must buy the antiquities. Or else the museum will go the way of the Wolseley Six Saloon.”

  “I’ve never heard of a Wolseley Six Saloon.”

  “I’m not surprised! My dad bought one of the last Sixes to be built—in 1975. I learned to drive in that car.”

  “What’s our plan for today?” Flick asked.

  “The fellow we are meeting for lunch at Barn and Rafters in Lonsdale Gardens…” Nigel glanced at his watch. “We had better move along.” He stood up. “The chappie’s name is Augustus Hoskins, a world-class whiz at raising money for museums. He is so good, in fact, that two of his fund-raising campaigns have been turned into case histories for business-school textbooks. His nickname in the museum biz is ‘the Great Hope.’ We will pick his brain. Perhaps there is an option four?”

  “Do I have to curtsy when I meet him?”

  “A discreet kiss to his ring undoubtedly will be sufficient.”

  They left the Pantiles, looped around the Church of King Charles the Martyr on the corner of Neville and London Roads, and walked through Chapel Place to reach High Street. Nigel had to slow his pace so that Flick could stay with him.

  “I assumed when you invited me to lunch that we would drive,” Flick said. “Otherwise I’d have left my look-good pumps in my office and worn my comfortable walking shoes.”

  “It’s scarcely more than a kilometer stroll from the museum to Lonsdale Gardens. Besides, walking in Tunbridge Wells is easier than parking.”

  “Frankly, I’m amazed at how much walking I do these days, despite the many hills. My friends back home don’t believe me. They can’t imagine that I have survived three whole months without buying a car.”

  “Remind me of where you are from.”

  “York. A small city in southeastern Pennsylvania.”

  “We have a York in England. Ours is somewhat older, though, and I’ll wager more historic.”

  “Older maybe; my York dates back only to 1741. But more historic—piffle! The words ‘United States of America’ were first spoken in York. That was in 1777, when the Continental Congress met in York to adopt the Articles of Confederation, America’s original constitution. York was the first U.S. capital.”

  Nigel held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I stand corrected.”

  They crossed to Mount Pleasant Road and trod uphill next to Central Railway Station. A train had just arrived. Several people ran past them into the station, clearly trying to catch the train.

  “How large is your York?” Nigel asked.

  “Slightly smaller than Tunbridge Wells—but otherwise quite comparable. I feel right at home here.”

  “You and Hoskins should get along like old mates. He grew up in the Wells.”

  “That’s a coincidence.”

  “My very words to him yesterday.” He hesitated. “Flick—there is something I need to say before we meet Augustus. I am afraid that I must be blunt with you. We don’t want to give Hoskins the impression that anything criminal has gone on at the museum.”

  “By any chance are you thinking about the intentional poisoning of Dame Elspeth Hawker, followed by the negligent ignoring of obvious barbiturate overdose symptoms by one of England’s leading physicians?”

  Nigel stopped in his tracks and peered at Flick’s face. She was grinning at him. “Ah!” he said. “You are pulling my leg.”

  Nigel began walking again. Perhaps he deserved a mocking response from Flick. He had raised the issue chiefly because Iona Saxby’s “loose cannon” comment of the day before had hit home. On the other hand, Flick
seemed to have backed away from her belief that Elspeth had been murdered. On the other, other hand, Americans could be outrageously unpredictable.

  Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, expect the unexpected.

  He mulled the old cliché that had popped into his mind. It seemed wholly apropos for dealing both with tea museums and Felicity Adams.

  Ahead on the left were the two stone pillars that marked the entrance to Lonsdale Gardens. They passed through and walked left again, toward Barn and Rafters.

  “Have you been here before?” he asked.

  “Yes. The Barn Pub on several occasions and once for dinner upstairs at the Rafters.”

  “Curiously, the place is new to me. We are here at Hoskins’s suggestion.”

  “Do you know what he looks like?”

  “No. But I doubt that a sixtyish museum consultant will be hard to spot.”

  Nigel opened the door and murmured, “Oh dear!”

  “What’s wrong?” Flick asked.

  “I never have understood why so many English pubs revel in murky interiors crisscrossed by oaken rafters and filled with bucolic furniture that might have been owned by Nell Gwynne.”

  “Maybe because guests like me enjoy it. Look around—you are the only person in the place wearing a sour face.”

  “Bah humbug!”

  “You may have to shut your eyes when we go upstairs. There are more red walls, high yellow ceilings, hewn beams, sprays of dried plants, and—”

  “Let me guess,” he interrupted. “And an artsy assortment of jumble-sale relics hung decorously around the room.”

  She smiled. “As I recall, there are paintings on the walls and a bookshelf or two.”

  “Lead on. Even though you have ruined my appetite.”

  They climbed the wooden staircase. At the top, Flick whispered, “That’s got to be him. The distinguished-looking gentlemen sitting alone at the table for four near the railing.”

  “Mr. Hoskins?” Nigel asked cautiously.

  “In the flesh!” He thrust out his hand. “You must be Nigel Owen.”

  Augustus had the look, Nigel thought, of a modernized Pickwickian: portly, jowly, bespectacled, ruddy-cheeked, a fringe of hair encircling a gleaming bald pate—and below that an intelligent face that quickly gained one’s confidence. He wore a charcoal gray three-piece suit punctuated by an orange tie.

  Hoskins smiled at Flick. “Dr. Adams, I presume.” He shook her hand, then pointed at the two chairs on the opposite side of his table. “Sit. Please.”

  The waitress approached. Hoskins asked for a dry sherry. Nigel and Flick ordered small ciders.

  “Would you be surprised to learn,” Augustus began when they were alone, “that forty-odd years ago I danced the Twist in this very room?” He didn’t wait for Nigel or Flick to reply. “It is perfectly true. This used to be a dance hall, with one large continuous floor. The ersatz skylight in the floor that provides a view of the pub below is a recent addition.” He paused to look around the restaurant. “Think of it! They held dances here while less than a mile away workmen were pouring the concrete basement of your splendid museum. I was only a callow youth back then, but even I had heard of the mighty Hawker Foundation and their reputation for doing things right. So imagine my astonishment yesterday afternoon when the lovely and talented Iona Saxby told me that your exhibitory knickers are in a twist.”

  “It feels more like a double bowline knot than a simple twist,” Nigel said. “We do not own the principle antiquities on display in our galleries. The Hawker heirs have announced their intention to reclaim—and sell—their entire collection. We estimate its worth to be at least forty million pounds. The proceeds should be sufficient to pay the inheritance taxes on Elspeth Hawker’s estate, which is the reason they intend to sell the antiquities.”

  “Blasted death duties! Britain makes it easy for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Inland Revenue takes away half of his wealth when he dies.” Hoskins’s wry smile gave way to a serious glower. “And yet, one assumes that Dame Elspeth would have recognized the problem as she grew older and found a solution before her passing. The fact that she did not utterly bewilders me—it is completely out of character with her previous support of the museum.”

  Nigel nodded. Iona Saxby had made a similar comment. Elspeth Hawker loved the museum, yet she had ignored an absolutely fundamental question: What would happen to the Hawker antiquities when she died? Perhaps Elspeth was one of those people who refuse to contemplate her own demise? Or was there another reason?

  What difference does it make? Nigel reminded himself that Elspeth’s motives died with her. His job was to look ahead, not backwards, and to find a way to acquire the Hawker collection.

  Augustus leaned his elbows on the table. “You must know that the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum has been the envy of other English museum directors for four decades. Generous initial funding from a major foundation. A one-of-a-kind collection on display. The devoted patronage of a wealthy family. Nary a need to chat with Augustus Hoskins about raising money.” He chortled again. “What more could a museum ask?”

  “I agree,” Nigel said. “The tea museum led a blessed existence for forty years, but our joyful days came to an abrupt end last Wednesday. We can no longer rely on the Hawker family. Our antiquities are in jeopardy. The Hawker Foundation has ceased providing direct support. And we need as much help as you can give us. The fact is, we are being driven to make an important financial decision under pressure—a decision that may have severe repercussions in years to come.”

  “An ever-so-common complaint these days.” Hoskins sat back in his chair, signaling that the waitress had arrived to serve their drinks. When she left, he said to Nigel, “Please continue with the details of your repercussive financial dilemma.”

  Nigel took ten minutes to recount his meetings with Barrington Bleasdale and summarize the three obvious options. Hoskins proved an excellent listener, saying nothing but offering a sympathetic frown and a steady stream of interested nods. Nigel finished by saying, “Flick and I would appreciate your advice in two areas. First, have we ignored a potential solution? Second, if we choose to purchase the collection, is there a way we can decrease risk inherent in a long-term loan?”

  Hoskins steepled his fingers. “Your first question has a simple answer. Yes—there is another option. Find a new patron to replace the Hawkers, a tea fancier with the financial resources and cultural inclinations of Cosimo de’ Medici. The modest museum he started in Florence during the early Renaissance is now the Uffizi Gallery.” Hoskins began to chuckle. “Every museum director I know goes on such a quest. Unfortunately, an approach that worked in fifteenth-century Italy almost never succeeds in twenty-first-century Great Britain.”

  Hoskins turned to Flick. “Before I tackle Nigel’s second question, I would like to know your opinion. As chief curator, how do you feel about acquiring your collection with long-term financing?”

  Nigel realized that Flick was looking at him—apparently to get his go-ahead before she answered. She’s not a loose cannon! He grinned at her and nodded his approval.

  Flick began. “I fully endorse the general principle that a museum holds its assets in trust for the public. I would never consider mortgaging our antiquities to raise funds for another purpose—say to build a new building. But here the shoe is on the other foot. We’re engaging in financial wizardry to purchase our collection. I feel comfortable about doing that.”

  “In that event,” Augustus said, “your challenge is to retire the debt as quickly as possible.” He looked at Nigel. “To reduce risk, you must find other sources of funding from people and organizations that support your mission. It won’t be easy. I sometimes feel we are living in a philanthropic ice age. Nonetheless, with perseverance, one can make progress despite treacherous glaciers and blowing snow.”

  Flick chimed in. “We have the means to generate some additional revenues ourselves. We might create a line of replica artifacts, start a ma
gazine for tea fanciers, publish a series of tea-related cookbooks, and even launch a chain of Duchess of Bedford Tearooms.”

  “All intriguing ideas,” Hoskins said, “but alas, most will require significant investments before they begin to pay dividends.”

  She gave a sheepish shrug. “I know—it takes money to make money. Well, if absolutely necessary, we can begin to charge visitors a modest admission fee, although that would undo our forty-year tradition as a free museum.”

  “Perhaps it won’t come to that. Let me ponder your problem for a day or two and see if the ‘Great Hope’ can live up to his overblown reputation.” Augustus smiled benevolently. “If I may make an unrelated observation—you two seem ideally suited to work together. In my experience, the museum director and chief curator are often at each other’s throats.”

  Nigel avoided Flick’s gaze and suspected that she was trying to avoid his.

  The awkward moment passed when Augustus waived at the waitress. “Let’s order lunch,” he said. “On me, of course. I intend to have a substantial meal, and I don’t care to place a new financial burden on the museum.”

  He began to chuckle again. Flick joined in.

  Nigel merely smiled. He didn’t find the quip funny. These days, nothing about the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum seemed laughable.

  Flick knocked on Nigel’s doorframe. He looked up from the mass of paper on his desk. “I meant to ask you a question earlier,” she said, “but it skipped my mind. At lunch you told Augustus Hoskins that the Hawker Foundation has ceased providing direct support to us. How come? After all, they created the museum in the first place.”

  Nigel rummaged in the sea of clutter, found a brochure, and folded back the cover. “I have here the current annual report published by the Hawker Foundation. Take a good look at this photograph.”