Dead as a Scone Page 27

  Nigel went to pour himself another cup of coffee while she wrapped up her call to her uncle. He moaned softly when he found scarcely a quarter cup left in the pot.

  “What do you think about the third explanation?” Flick asked.

  “I think we had better talk to Conan Davies.”

  Nigel had Conan’s home number on a laminated card in his wallet. He dialed and put the call on speaker.

  “Davies,” a gravelly, though sleepy, voice answered after six rings.

  “Conan, I am sorry to disturb you so late, but I have a foolish question.”

  “There are no foolish questions, sir.” Nigel heard a big yawn. “Just foolish hours of the day to ask them.”

  “Yes, well, is there a time when the museum is closed and our motion detectors are switched off?”

  “As a matter of fact there is, sir. Two hours each day immediately after closing. That’s when the cleaning crew and maintenance workers are in the museum.”

  Nigel and Flick both slapped palms against their foreheads in exaggerated why-didn’t-we-think-of-that gestures.

  Conan went on, “Of course, one of my guards is on duty in the kiosk on the ground floor. He inspects everything that is brought in or taken out of the building by after-hours personnel.” He added, hopefully, “Is that all, sir?”

  “Thank you, Conan.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  Flick pointed to the empty coffee pot. “Shall I brew some more?”

  “Actually, I would rather try a cup of your Assam.”

  Her eyes became wide. “You want tea?”

  “Indeed! In a teacup rather than a mug. And please put the milk in first.”

  “I have a weird idea, if you are game,” Nigel said, peering at Flick over the top of his teacup. The boyish grin on his face made her wonder what he had in mind. There were all sorts of possibilities this late at night.

  “How weird?” she asked warily.

  “You be Elspeth for the next few minutes. Let’s figure out how she spotted the thief taking pictures and swapping counterfeit antiquities.”

  Flick returned his grin with a big smile. “That’s a great idea. Where do I begin?”

  “In the Hawker Suite, I should think.”

  They walked down to the second floor. Flick stepped inside the Hawker Suite and swung the door ajar.

  “Okay. I’m Elspeth Hawker and the museum has just closed.”

  “Mmm.”

  “What’s that?” she shouted through the gap.

  “The cleaning crew is vacuuming the second-floor lobby,” he shouted back.

  Nigel made the sound again, but it slowly faded away, leaving her in almost total silence. Flick found it quite easy to picture Elspeth standing at this very door, waiting patiently for the cleaning crew to move to the third floor as they worked their way from bottom to top of the museum.

  Flick listened at the door. The building wasn’t completely silent, after all. She could hear cars going by on Eridge Road. And the tick of a clock somewhere nearby. And the wind whooshing around the corners of the building.

  She opened the door. It creaked more than she had expected. The second-floor lobby was empty. She immediately understood the game that Nigel had invented. He would be an observer rather than a director. Her role was to think like Elspeth Hawker.

  What did Elspeth know for certain? Only that one of the people on her list had engaged in systematic theft from the Tea Antiquities Gallery on the first floor.

  What was Elspeth’s goal? To identify the thief so that she could reveal him or her later.

  What was Elspeth’s first challenge? Get to the first floor as quietly as possible, in case the thief already was working inside the gallery.

  Flick stepped outside the Hawker Suite. Elspeth would not have taken the elevator to the first floor; it was too noisy. Therefore, she must have used the staircase. Flick slipped off her trainers and tiptoed down in her stocking-covered feet. She was amazed by how little noise she made. The marble-sheathed steps didn’t groan or creak, even when she moved quickly.

  Flick paused at the bottom of the staircase. To her right was the Tea at Sea Gallery; to her left, the Tea Antiquities Gallery; around the corner behind her, the Tea Processing Salon and the Tea Tasting Room.

  Now what?

  Flick could hear herself breathing. She felt uneasy standing exposed in the first-floor lobby. Elspeth must have felt the same way. Uncomfortable. Out in the open. Painfully vulnerable.

  A hiding place. That’s what Elspeth would want.

  Elspeth would have sought a secure vantage point—someplace she could watch the thief working inside the Tea Antiquities Gallery.

  Elspeth would have taken her position before the thief arrived and then stayed put until after he or she had finished. Only then would Elspeth remount the stairs and spend a cozy night locked inside the Hawker Suite.

  Flick slowly revolved on her shoeless heel.

  The Tea at Sea Gallery was an open area with twenty low tables to display the various ship models and a dozen floor-to-ceiling exhibit panels standing close to the walls.

  No place to hide.

  The Tea Tasting Room seemed a more likely possibility. Its archway entrance provided a good view of the first-floor lobby area—and of anyone entering or leaving the Tea Antiquities Room. Flick padded into the Tea Tasting Room and stood silently in the corner next to the entrance.

  No good. I would have to stick my nose around the archway to see anything.

  And there was another weakness: The Tea Tasting Room was almost bare. With no available hiding places, Elspeth certainly would have felt nearly the same level of unease as in the first-floor lobby itself.

  That left the Tea Processing Salon—a room full of machinery adjacent to the Tea Antiquities Room. Two wide archways in the shared wall connected the rooms.

  Flick moved toward the Processing Salon, then changed her mind.

  Do it the other way around. Begin in the Antiquities Room.

  The rack that held the “All the Teas in China” Tunbridge Ware collection was set up in the northeast corner of the large gallery. Flick stood in front of the display and looked behind her into the Tea Processing Salon. She could see the gleaming pulleys of the cut, tear, and curl machine in the distance, but not much more. The big machine reminded Flick of an old printing press—a celebration of shafts, belts, and wheels. If Elspeth had positioned herself behind the iron frame, she would have been able to see through parts of the machine and easily observe the thief at work in the Tea Antiquities Gallery.

  Without much fear of being seen herself.

  There were also five freestanding display panels in the Processing Salon, any of which would provide a convenient hiding place. Flick could imagine Elspeth feeling secure and comfortable amid the various machines and exhibits as she watched the thief replace one of the tea caddies with a sham look-alike.

  Comfort would be important, because she had to watch the Antiquities Gallery over several nights running to catch the thief at work. Elspeth could only guess when he or she would return to substitute another piece of counterfeit Tunbridge Ware.

  Don’t jump to conclusions!

  The thief also replaced the tansu tea chest near the entranceway. What if Elspeth had been watching that evening?

  Flick moved alongside the small chest. Its glass-panel doors glittered in the sharply focused beam of light from the fixture overhead. She was now much closer to the Tea Processing Salon, almost next to one of the connecting archways. When she looked toward the salon, she could see only one corner of the cut, tear, and curl machine.

  No problem! It’s still a good hiding place.

  Flick looked back at the tansu chest—and froze. The shock wave of disbelief that coursed through her body made it difficult to catch her breath.

  She could see Nigel’s face!

  Straight ahead was the reflection of the tea processing machine on the chest’s glass panels, and there—to one side of a large metal link
age—was Nigel watching her, unaware that she could see him.

  The same thing happened to Elspeth Hawker.

  Images advanced like projected slides in Flick’s mind.

  Click. She saw the thief tugging the squat chest, making sure that the replacement was in exactly the same position as the original.

  Click. The thief, stunned by Elspeth’s reflected image, had to struggle mightily as Flick had just done so as not to give away the startling discovery.

  Click. There was the thief leaving the Tea Antiquities Gallery, knowing that Elspeth Hawker fully understood how the thefts had been committed—wondering what would be the best way to silence her.

  Click. Finally, Flick saw Elspeth emerge from her hiding place and return to the Hawker Suite, having no idea of her desperate peril.

  Flick waved at the reflection on the glass. “I can see you, Nigel—just like the thief spotted Elspeth Hawker. Now we know why she was poisoned.”

  “Blast!” He stood up. “Should you ever decide that curating is not your cup of tea, you ought to apply for a crime-reconstruction post at the Kent police.”

  Flick slipped her trainers back on. “Thank you, kind sir.” Nigel had delivered a tortuous compliment—certainly not the most gracious she had ever received—but a compliment nonetheless. To her surprise, it erased much of the gloom she had felt a moment before. She rewarded him with an amiable smile.

  Unfortunately, Nigel didn’t seem to notice. He was deep in thought, his eyes gazing intently into space. “The fact is,” he said glumly, “we have only reconstructed bits and pieces of this crime. We understand how the thief got around the motion detectors. We have guessed where Elspeth hid and how the thief caught a glimpse of her. The next question is the biggie: How did the thief get in and out of the museum? I doubt that he or she marched nineteen antiquities past the security guard in the kiosk.”

  “Could there be a way into the building that we don’t know about?”

  “I doubt it. Conan Davies knows every nook and cranny of this museum. He certainly would have discovered a chink in our armor long before this.”

  “As Uncle Ted said, ‘There’s always a way in and out.’ ”

  “If there is, we will find it.”

  “Tonight?”

  He shook his head. “You are beginning to look knackered again. It is time to go home; you have done quite enough for one day. We will enlist Conan tomorrow morning. The three of us will tour the museum.” He added with a grin, “Perhaps our building is riddled with clichéd sliding panels and hidden passages after all.”

  “Instead of an actual tour, let’s do a brainstorming session with Conan,” Flick said. “It’s a more efficient way of picking his brain.”

  Nigel seemed to hesitate at first. Flick wasn’t surprised; many people have misgivings about the hoary technique of brainstorming. But then, few of the doubters had tried her unconventional approach. He finally nodded. “Brainstorming it is. You are in charge.”

  They climbed together to the third floor. Nigel locked the old copybook in the small safe in his office. They descended to the ground floor, reset the security system, and left the museum through the side door.

  Flick slid into the BMW and watched Nigel turn the key in the ignition. He seemed preoccupied, as if his mind had focused on another challenging problem. He wore much the same cheerful expression she had seen earlier that evening when he had made the bizarre comment about watching her run. She had been bewildered at first, then delighted that her snap decision to echo the comment back at Nigel had been the right thing to do. They had laughed about running for most of the short drive to the museum.

  Brits have a strange sense of humor.

  “I have been thinking about Desmond Hawker,” Nigel said. Flick peered at him. Was this the start of another odd British joke?

  Nigel continued. “We both agree that he found serenity during the second half of his life—something that he lacked during the first half.”

  “I agree that we agree.”

  “Yes, well, this Sunday…would you…uh…consider… ah…accompanying me to St. Stephen’s?”

  He’s invited you to go to church with him.

  “Oh?” “If you are busy, I certainly understand.” “No.” “No?” “No, I’m not busy,” Flick said emphatically. “I think going to church is a lovely idea.”

  “Ah.”

  She swallowed a sigh. She had sounded like a complete ditz.

  He’s probably sorry he asked.

  It was almost eleven thirty, late enough for Nigel to risk stopping his BMW on the no-parking side of the Lower Walk. Flick looked up at her apartment and wondered if it would be possible to revive the tub full of bath salts. She reached for the door handle.

  “Hang on,” Nigel said, “I will escort you to your front door.” He leapt out of the driver’s seat, came around the front of the car, and gallantly opened her door.

  “It is only six thirty in Pennsylvania,” he said, a soppy grin breaking across his face.

  “That’s true,” Flick said, as evenly as she could. Her heart had begun to race. Nigel was up to something—but what?

  “I suppose you will call your mother when you get upstairs?”

  “If I don’t, she will call me. It happens every time she talks to Uncle Ted.”

  “Well, if she should ask about your love life…”

  Without warning, Nigel cupped her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips.

  “Assure her that it is alive and well,” he said.

  “O–okay,” Flick murmured, her heart now thumping. She looked up at Nigel. He still had the soppy grin on his face. She hoped that her smile looked just as silly to him.

  Flick wasn’t caught off guard when Nigel kissed her again.

  A dog yapped somewhere overhead.

  Nigel laughed. “Cha-Cha, your companion and chaperone, knows you are back.”

  “Okay,” Flick said again, unable to think of anything else to say. She quickly let herself into her building. She drew several calming breaths and listened through the door as Nigel started the BMW and drove away.

  “Wow!” she murmured and trudged up the long staircase to her apartment.

  Cha-Cha raced around her feet as she let herself in. She walked into her parlor and sat down in her only armchair. The dog jumped up next to her and tried to lick her cheek.

  “I just made a terrible mistake, didn’t I, Cha-Cha?”

  The dog replied to the sound of his name with a soft, squeaky bark.

  “You are absolutely right. I did act dumb! I should have kissed him back.”

  Seventeen

  Nigel awoke in an emphatically jovial mood on Thursday morning. He stopped at the bakeshop on Mount Pleasant Road and bought a dozen French pastries for the museum’s staff. When he arrived at his desk, he used his first twenty minutes to send cheerful email notes to former colleagues throughout England. And by midmorning he had found a way to settle scores with Conan Davies.

  Although Conan was chief of security, a management position, he chose to wear the same discreet uniform as his team of security guards: sharply creased gray trousers, a blue blazer adorned with the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum crest on the breast pocket, and comfortable black shoes—the sort with thick rubber soles that cushion the blows of walking and standing on marble floors.

  Nigel applauded Conan’s logic: The museum had a small security staff and Conan often had to pitch in and perform routine chores. This morning, for example, he stood on the museum’s loading dock watching a food delivery lorry back slowly into the single concrete bay. The museum’s security policy—written and enforced by Conan—ordained that a security guard monitors all transfers in or out of the museum. Nigel, however, felt personally aggrieved by the chief of security’s shoes. They allowed Conan to move ghostlike through the museum and arrive silently behind Nigel in a wholly unpredictable manner. Conan shocked him to the core at least once each week. Today presented a golden opportunity to get even.


  Nigel approached stealthily, the sound of his leather-soled footsteps entirely masked by the beep, beep, beeping of the lorry’s reversing signal, and clapped Conan on the shoulder. The big man rose a foot off the loading dock and screeched an unfamiliar phrase that Nigel took as a mild Scottish oath.

  Revenge is mine!

  “Oh, it’s you, sir,” Conan said as he readjusted his dislocated eyeglasses.

  “Sorry, Conan. I didn’t mean to alarm you,” Nigel said innocently. “Can we talk while you watch the driver unload? I have a remarkable story to tell you.”

  “Certainly.” Conan gestured toward a pair of scruffy metal office chairs that overlooked the loading dock. They sat down as the driver rolled open the back of the lorry and began to move cardboard cartons to a low-slung trolley.

  Conan listened stony-faced, from time to time murmuring, “Poor Dame Elspeth.” He interrupted Nigel’s narrative only once, when the lorry driver demanded that someone sign for the delivery. Conan scrawled his name on the driver’s tablet computer and pushed the button that closed the loading dock’s overhead door.

  “Sorry, sir. You were telling me how Dame Elspeth first discovered the thefts.”

  Nigel could see Conan growing more and more upset as the balance of the sad story unfolded. The pained expression on his face proclaimed unmistakably how much he hated to learn about a problem on his patch from someone else—especially his boss. Conan was gripping his chair’s armrests with sufficient strength to flex the metal tubing. Nigel wondered if the chair would survive their chat.

  “And you say that my name was on her list of possible thieves, sir?” Conan asked when Nigel had finished.

  “Yes, but only halfheartedly. You see, you are in the building so often that it was probably hard for Elspeth to eliminate you as a suspect.” Nigel grinned. “We did it by reasons of your ancestry.”

  “Thenk ye,” Conan said in a thick burr.

  “We need your help.”

  “You shall have it, sir.”

  “Felicity Adams has set up the Hawker Suite as our incident room. Let’s join her.”