Dead as a Scone Page 29

  “It’s a pop-out panel that fits perfectly in place,” Conan said. “Beautiful workmanship. Almost impossible to see on the pantry side and hard to find on the greenhouse side.”

  “What do we do now?” Nigel asked.

  “We call the police,” Flick answered. “Have them arrest Matthew Eaton.”

  “On what basis?” Conan said. “Eaton will deny he knows anything about the panel. We have no evidence that he stole anything or poisoned anyone. Without proof, without a confession, there’s no case against him.”

  Nigel suddenly sneezed.

  “Bless you,” Flick said.

  “Thanks. I must be allergic to something on the other side of the wall.” He found a handkerchief in his pocket and blew his nose. “I’ve just had an idea. A rather nasty idea—but I think Mr. Eaton deserves what’s on offer.”

  “I hope it involves lots of oleander,” Flick said.

  “In a way, it does.”

  She couldn’t imagine why Nigel was once again wearing his little-boy smile.

  Eighteen

  Am I the only person ready to leap out of his skin? Nigel Owen asked himself as he watched the before-meeting chatter in the boardroom. A few feet to his left, Flick Adams was jawing merrily with Dorothy McAndrews about alternative methods of brewing tea. And across the room, Conan Davies had engaged Vicar de Rudd in a calm discussion about the fortés and failings of local golf courses.

  How can they be so blasé about what is going to happen?

  Nigel understood why his day had inched along. Because other people had done most of the work required to implement his idea, he had been left with too much free time on his plate. He had used it unproductively—to second-guess their preparations and worry about what might go wrong.

  On three different occasions that morning, Nigel had checked the storeroom in the greenhouse to make certain that Conan had properly reinstalled the access panel and its camouflage of gardening chemicals and tools. Would Matthew Eaton notice anything out of place if he arrived early for the trustees’ meeting and decided to visit his storeroom? Had he arranged the cans and bottles in a specific way? Would any variation instantly signal that his secret passage had been discovered? Nigel finally decided that all he could do was hope for the best.

  The best came to pass. Matthew arrived at quarter of four and happily spent the fifteen minutes before the meeting talking football with Archibald Meicklejohn.

  He hasn’t a clue that we found the panel, Nigel realized with much relief.

  At four on the dot, Archibald took his seat at the head of the polished mahogany table. Nigel and the meeting’s other participants followed the chairman’s lead and found their seats. Long-standing tradition required that the senior management of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum—acting director, chair of the trustees, and chief curator—be arrayed at one end of the conference table. And so Nigel sat at the corner of the table, to Archibald’s left, while Flick took the opposite corner, to Archibald’s right.

  Flick offered an encouraging wink from across the table. It straightaway caused Nigel to remember the encouraging hug she had delivered before the meeting began. And then there had been the kiss after dinner the previous evening…

  Keep your mind on the plan.

  In theory, there were no seating customs for the other trustees. In practice, Marjorie Halifax always sat at the other end of the long table, facing Archibald. She did so today. The other participants selected their chairs on a first-come, first-served basis.

  One seat near the middle of the table remained empty until five minutes after four, when Iona Saxby rushed through the door in a hat that, Nigel estimated, had a brim as wide as a full-sized Mexican sombrero. She sat down next to Dorothy McAndrews, who, fearing brim-whip or possible blinding, scooted her chair closer to Sir Simon Clowes.

  “Scusi,” Iona said to Nigel in badly accented Italian. “I am tardi because my train was a locale.”

  “Non importa,” Nigel replied. Iona must be getting ready for one of her periodic fortnights in Italy.

  “Grazie!” The happy look on her face went far beyond mere gratitude for his forgiveness of her minor transgression.

  Blimey! She remembered my promise to have dinner with her.

  “Well, now that we all are here,” Archibald said, “we can begin. Nigel, this is your meeting—please take the lead.”

  Nigel put Iona out of his mind and drew a deep breath. “I want to thank the trustees for attending this special meeting of the trustees of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum. As you see, we have several guests with us today.

  “First, I am delighted to welcome Mrs. Harriet Hawker Peckham and Mr. Alfred Hawker, the soon-to-be-confirmed new owners of the Hawker antiquities. The gentleman sitting to the right of Mrs. Peckham is Mr. Barrington Bleasdale, the Hawkers’ solicitor.”

  The Hawker heirs acknowledged their introduction with lackadaisical waves and feeble smiles, but Bleasdale bestowed a Cheshire cat grin on everyone at the table. Nigel instantly recognized the euphoric look of a man who expected to be much wealthier by the end of the day.

  Don’t count your chickens quite yet...

  Nigel finished the introductions. “All of the trustees know the gentleman on my left. Conan Davies is our chief of security. I asked him to join us today should we require his expertise on security matters pertaining to the collection. And sitting next to Conan is Mr. Marc Pennyman. I prevailed upon him to travel up from Maidstone to help me with any… unusual legal issues that might emerge today.”

  Nigel saw Barrington Bleasdale offer a confused frown; he clearly knew that Marc Pennyman was a policeman. This is definitely not the time to explain. Nigel paused for more smiles, nods, and waves, then said, “Vicar, please open us in prayer.”

  The vicar began with an invocation that asked, once again, for additional wisdom and discernment. Nigel listened carefully and offered his own silent postscript. The group gathered in this room today has need of a boatload of discernment.

  The first item on the agenda—the part of Nigel’s plan designed to lull the trustees into believing that this special meeting was largely routine—was a longish slide presentation delivered by Flick. He asked her to project photos of the eighty most important Hawker antiquities and give a thirty-second description of each, ostensibly to bring everyone up to speed with the content of the collection. As before, her detailed knowledge captured the interest of the trustees. Even Nigel found himself paying attention. Her twenty-third photo was “Yunnan,” one of the tea caddies from “All the Teas in China.” He cast a sideways glance at Matthew Eaton. It was hard to read Eaton’s expression in the near dark, but Nigel sensed a certain smugness around the man’s mouth, a tinge of self-satisfaction.

  We’ll have that off your face in another hour.

  Flick talked on, and Nigel had to fight back a yawn. Once again, the darkened boardroom became as warm as a tropical rain forest, with the drawn drapes blocking the windows and the heating system working passionately even though the outside temperature had reached sixty degrees Fahrenheit.

  Flick finished speaking and received her accustomed accolades. Only Marjorie Halifax, who still seemed peeved at Flick, was subdued in her praise. Nigel surveyed the conference table as Conan turned on lights and opened drapes.

  Everyone is still alive!

  Nigel cleared his throat. “By way of apologizing for the skimpy repast I served at our last meeting—and to compensate you for attending yet another unplanned trustee meeting—I have asked Alain Rousseau to provide the mother of all tea breaks this afternoon.” Nigel nodded at Conan, who opened the door and helped Giselle wheel in two tea trolleys laden to overflowing with serving dishes, ceramic crocks, and silver tureens. “Quarter of five strikes me as an excellent time to enjoy our tea. Bon appétit!”

  Nigel felt great satisfaction as he watched the trustees, the Hawker heirs, and Solicitor Bleasdale attack the tea trolleys from all sides. He recalled an image—perhaps from an old Jacques
Cousteau movie—of a dozen sharks savaging a school of fish, each predator determined to get more than his or her fair share.

  “I love prawns!” Dorothy squealed, as she shoveled savory prawns on her plate.

  “Have as many as you want, Dr. McAndrews,” Giselle said. “I brought more than enough for everyone to have a double helping.”

  “I’ve never seen scones this lovely golden color before,” Marjorie cooed. “They are beautiful.”

  “I will relay your compliment to Chef Rousseau, Mrs. Eaton,” Giselle said. “He tried a new recipe today.”

  “Add my congratulations for the superb lemon tart,” Archibald said.

  “May I suggest that you also try a spoonful of sorbet, Mr. Meicklejohn,” Giselle said. “Tart and sorbet go very well together.”

  “This soufflé is magnificent!” Matthew Eaton gushed, a spoon still in his mouth.

  “Have another,” Nigel said. “I don’t really care for Grande Marnier.”

  The feeding frenzy lasted a full fifteen minutes. Nigel exchanged occasional fleeting looks with Flick and Conan, both of whom had moved away from the tea trolleys and were sipping cups of tea. Marc Pennyman remained seated at the table, his face aglow with curiosity. Nigel watched him for a few moments. Of course, the detective inspector is curious. He is wondering if we can pull it off.

  Getting Pennyman to attend had taken a good deal of “prevailing” when they called him early that morning. Fortunately, the DI knew Conan Davies by reputation. Although he doubted Nigel and entirely distrusted Flick, Pennyman finally had been won over by Conan’s pleas and assurances.

  He had arrived at ten but had nearly headed back to Maidstone five minutes later when Nigel explained his plan.

  “That is daft as a brush,” Pennyman said. “I will have no part of it.”

  Conan Davies patiently reviewed the accumulated evidence and showed Pennyman how the thefts had been committed. He also explained how the microphones on the conference table fed a voice-operated tape recorder in Polly Reid’s office to capture everything said in the boardroom during a meeting.

  “I see where you want to go with this,” Pennyman said with the hint of a grin on his lips, “and I don’t suppose that I will jeopardize my career by merely sitting through the first act of your farce and remaining in the immediate vicinity to see the final denouement, on the off chance you succeed.” His face hardened. “However, it might be better for all concerned if a sworn officer of the Kent police does not attend the middle act.”

  “A very wise observation,” Conan had said. “It is highly likely that Detective Inspector Pennyman will receive a telephone call at an appropriate time during the trustees’ meeting.”

  At a few minutes past five o’clock, Nigel rapped the table with his knuckles. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is time to regroup at the table. I have a question for you: How did you enjoy the food today?”

  The volley of enthusiastic applause from the hard-to-please trustees surprised Nigel. Alain Rousseau had more than met Nigel’s challenge; he had clearly outdone himself.

  “Now we can tell you the whole story,” he said. “I am excited to reveal that our distinguished trustees and our honored guests have been the first to taste a new line of sweets and savories that Giselle plans to serve in the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom.”

  “Here! Here!” Archibald cried out.

  “Three cheers for the chef!” Vicar de Rudd shouted even louder. Nigel hoped no one would actually begin hip-hip-hooraying. Providentially, no one did.

  He went on. “What makes these new dishes especially noteworthy is that all of them are flavored with tea leaves.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Dorothy said. “You can’t mean that those scrumptious savory shrimp are made with tea.”

  “And certainly not the Grand Marnier soufflé,” Matthew said.

  “Or the scones,” Marjorie put in.

  “Well, if you don’t believe me,” Nigel said, with mock distress, “perhaps you will believe Giselle Logan.” He added, “Giselle, please explain our concept to our doubting trustees.”

  Giselle gave a slight bow. “Let me start by saying that cooking with tea is quite common in Asia and has been for centuries. There are countless soups, sauces, marinades, entrees, and desserts that contain tea leaves—or tea oil, which is made by pressing the seeds of a tea plant. As you have just discovered, tea adds new flavors and smells to familiar dishes.” She spread her hands. “Please do not feel upset if we fooled you. At first, many people do not recognize the presence of tea in cooked foods. However, we believe that visitors to our museum will be eager to try dishes made with tea.”

  “Are we going to publish a cookbook?” Marjorie asked.

  “What a grand idea,” Flick said. “That can be one of our first fund-raising ventures.”

  Nigel exchanged the faintest of smiles with Flick. Now Marjorie Halifax could take credit for an idea that Flick had mentioned to Augustus Hoskins more than a week earlier. The councilwoman had a jubilant look on her face and seemed to be viewing Flick from a much rosier perspective than previously.

  Marjorie decided to ask another question. “What kinds of tea did Alain use in the treats we just enjoyed?”

  Giselle spoke up first. “In fact, Alain used only one tea—a high-quality, estate-grown Assam. The idea is to feature a different tea every month and choose specific sweets and savories that make the best use of each one.”

  “Do you know which Assam Alain chose?” Iona asked.

  “No. But Dr. Adams does. I believe she provided the tea.”

  Nigel locked his eyes on the yellow pad in front of him and began counting the lines. This was the question they had been waiting for, a perfect opportunity to set the hook. It was Flick’s job to answer the question. She had to do it all by herself.

  “It is one of my favorite teas,” Flick said. “A bold, tippy tea from the Mangalam Estate. I ordered a full canister two weeks ago. I kept the canister tucked away in my office, on my credenza, just for this occasion. I didn’t even brew a pot for myself, just to make certain that Alain would have enough for today.”

  Nigel risked a glance at Matthew. A few minutes earlier, his face had been a picture of contentment. Now he looked pensive, perhaps preoccupied with thoughts of canisters on Flick’s credenza. Nigel could almost see thoughts forming in the landscaper’s mind. Does she have more than one canister? How full was the canister I found before I added the handful of crushed oleander leaves?

  Perfect! The fish is firmly on the line. Now to let him run a bit.

  Nigel sat back in his chair. “The purpose of our meeting today is to review the terms of our purchase of the Hawker antiquities. Mr. Bleasdale has prepared a draft purchase agreement for the trustees’ consideration. It is”—Nigel tipped his head toward the solicitor—“a quite straightforward document that sets down in writing a proposal that Mr. Bleasdale and I discussed some two weeks ago. Let us spend the next, oh, fifteen minutes or so reviewing the provisions.”

  Nigel had been optimistic. It took nearly thirty minutes to review the various provisions in the purchase agreement. The most important was the simplest: two independent appraisers—one chosen by the Hawkers, one by the museum—would value each antiquity. The museum would pay the average of the two estimates of worth, unless the difference between the two exceeded 10 percent of the low valuation. In that event, a third expert would reappraise the antiquity and the parties would conduct negotiations to establish a price satisfactory to both.

  There was a knock on the door. It opened sufficiently for Polly Reid to poke her head into the boardroom and say, “Sorry, Mr. Owen. There is a call for Mr. Pennyman. Quite important, the gentleman says.”

  Pennyman stood and quietly made his way out of the room. He pulled the door shut behind him with a solid thump.

  It had been Conan who decided that the “second act” was about to begin. He had keyed the TALK button on his cell phone and rung Polly’s extension as a signal to summon Penny
man to his nonexistent telephone call. One look at Matthew Eaton’s darting eyes and sweating brow convinced Nigel that Conan had chosen the perfect time.

  Nigel tapped his copy of the draft with his pen. “Now that we all understand the terms of the agreement,” he said, “I would like to open the floor to questions, comments, and suggestions from the trustees. I believe it is critical that we resolve any concerns today so that we can move ahead quickly with the appraisals.”

  Marjorie Halifax thrust her hand in the air, visibly keen to ask the first question.

  “Yes, Marjorie,” Nigel said amiably.

  Before Marjorie could begin to talk, Matthew jumped in. “I am sorry to interrupt, Marjorie, but I just remembered that I have an engagement this evening. I think the agreement is brilliant, and I agree that we should move ahead with dispatch. Now, if you will excuse me…”

  Matthew tried to stand up, but Conan had slipped silently behind his chair. A broad hand pushed Matthew back down in his seat.

  “Are you mad?” Matthew turned his head to look at Conan.

  “Not that I am aware of, sir.”

  The other trustees gaped at the sight of Conan restraining Matthew. Archibald was the first one to react. “Conan, please explain your actions immediately.”

  “It’s quite simple, Mr. Meicklejohn. I am ensuring that Mr. Eaton remains in his seat.”

  Matthew was almost as tall as the chief of security, but not as strongly built. He tried to stand again, but Conan pushed him down with more force than before.

  “Get out of my way, you fool!” Matthew shouted.

  “No, Mr. Eaton,” Conan said. “Anyone else can leave the boardroom whenever they want to, but not you, sir. Not for at least another two hours. Isn’t that right, Dr. Adams?”

  “Correct,” Flick replied. “An hour has passed since the start of our tea break. A total of three will be more than sufficient—won’t it, Matthew?”

  Nigel glanced around the table. The other trustees appeared shocked by Conan’s wholly untypical behavior. Their expressions ranged from simple perplexity to outright disbelief. The Hawker heirs were both slack-jawed with confusion. Bleasdale gazed at Matthew with unconcealed avarice—no other solicitor was better positioned to represent Matthew Eaton in his upcoming lawsuit against Conan Davies and Felicity Adams.