Dead as a Scone Read online

  Nigel nodded noncommittally. The “housemaid” in question was more of a live-in companion than a servant. Katherine Quarles, a robust, rosy-cheeked woman in her early seventies, often accompanied Elspeth to the museum. Nigel knew she had been with Elspeth for nearly fifty years. He made a mental note to find out if she needed transport to the funeral.

  Harriet continued. “It will be best to get right to the matters at hand.”

  Nigel reached into his breast pocket. He had thought ahead and prepared a tentative list of people who might want to attend Elspeth’s funeral. Harriet scanned the two sheets of paper, occasionally scowling, occasionally shaking her head.

  “There must be a hundred names here,” she said with a final grimace.

  “One hundred and nine,” Nigel admitted.

  Harriet frowned. “It is certainly true that our famous ancestor, Desmond Hawker, was flamboyant by nature. Dame Elspeth, however, lived a highly private life. She would hardly approve of entertaining a crowd of strangers. We believe that a small, discreet funeral attended by only her inner circle would be most in keeping with her wishes.” She glanced at Alfred. “Isn’t that right?”

  Alfred’s head bobbled up and down like a wind-up doll.

  Nigel managed another vague nod, although he felt like laughing in Harriet’s face. Harriet’s fabled stinginess, not Elspeth’s “wishes,” had driven her response. He had expected and prepared for just such a prospect.

  “I believe you are right, Mrs. Peckham,” Nigel said, through gritted teeth. “Therefore let me offer a suggestion. We begin the day with private interment here at Lion’s Peak, then follow with a public memorial service and a reception at the museum.”

  Alfred looked puzzled. “Doesn’t holding an interment first put the cart before the horse, so to speak?”

  “Not really,” Nigel said. “Vicar de Rudd assures me that interment-first funerals have become quite common.”

  “An excellent idea, Mr. Owen,” Harriet said, her voice bubbling with contentment. “I take it that the museum plans to sponsor the reception.”

  “Oh yes, Mrs. Peckham. We will provide refreshments for the mourners.”

  “Flowers, too?”

  “I will contact the florist this morning.” Nigel comforted himself with the thought that since Harriet was a widow, Alfred a bachelor, and neither had children, the pair certainly must be the last of the Hawkers.

  “And a good job, too,” Nigel muttered as he left Lion’s Peak.

  He telephoned Vicar de Rudd as he drove back to the museum.

  “I know that Alfred and Harriet can be difficult,” the vicar had said, “but remember that this is a time of great pain for them. We must make allowances.”

  “Speaking of allowances—Harriet asked me to make a request of you. She would like bells to toll before the service of thanksgiving.”

  The cell phone fell silent. “Bells?” the vicar said at last. “I regret that we don’t have a bell tower at St. Stephen’s.”

  “When I attempted to explain that well-known fact, Harriet said, ‘Don’t be silly. All churches have bells.’ ”

  “But…but…that makes no sense at all.”

  “A perfect description of Harriet Hawker Peckham!” Nigel said triumphantly.

  Now, two mornings later, he saw lights at the end of two tunnels. Minutes from now, Elspeth’s funeral would be history. And in a mere six months, he would be free of the whole Hawker clan.

  I’ll be back in glorious London where I belong.

  The notion made him smile.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” said a woman’s voice.

  “Sorry?” He turned.

  Flick Adams, an amused smile on her face, handed him a tall, cool glass. “You seem relaxed for the first time in days. I thought you might like something to drink.” She added, “I figured you would want sherry punch rather than tea.”

  “Thank you. Sherry punch is perfect.”

  “I also wanted to offer my compliments.”

  “For what?”

  “For taking charge of Elspeth’s funeral. You did a magnificent job.”

  “Ah…yes…well…”

  “I’ll let you get back to your duties. I’ve been told that it’s bad form to interrupt a Brit when he’s standing guard.”

  Nigel sipped his sherry punch and watched Flick walk back to the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom. He noticed with some surprise that she appeared remarkably fetching this morning in her tailored black dress. When he first met Flick, Nigel concluded that she didn’t fit the mold of chief curator. A proper curator should be a gangly, stoop-shouldered scientist—the usual boffin with horn-rimmed glasses. But Felicity Adams was a lovely brunette with fine features who looked younger than her thirty-six years. The label “corn-fed beauty” had straightaway come to mind.

  “Excuse me, sir. Are you Mr. Nigel Owen? The acting director of the museum?”

  The second voice that disrupted Nigel’s pondering was masculine—and not the least bit pleasing.

  “I am he,” Nigel owned up to the roundish, potbellied, middle-aged man who had surprisingly appeared before him.

  “My name is Bleasdale,” the man said. “I am a solicitor, currently in the employ of Harriet Hawker Peckham and Alfred Hawker.”

  Nigel gestured with his glass. “You will find your clients inside yonder tearoom.”

  “Actually, I came to see you.”

  “Me?”

  “You.”

  “In that event, how can I be of help, Mr. Bleasdale?”

  “It is a simple matter,” Bleasdale replied. “I want to make an appointment to meet with you. At your convenience, naturally, but no later than the close of business on Monday, next.”

  “May I inquire as to the nature of our meeting?”

  “Again—a simple matter. When the last will and testament of the late Dame Elspeth Hawker goes to probate, Mrs. Peckham and Mr. Hawker will be recognized as coexecutors of the estate and also as legal owners of all family property. Upon receiving the grant of representation from the probate registry, they plan to retrieve the various artifacts and antiquities on loan to this museum. I have been asked to act on their behalf to make arrangements for the expeditious return of said property.”

  It took awhile for Nigel’s mind to make sense of the barrage of legal jargon. “Are you talking about the museum’s antiquities?” he said finally. “The clobber on display in this building?”

  Bleasdale arched his ample brows. “Your valuables are yours to keep. The Hawkers seek only the return of their property. Specifically, the several thousand items originally lent to the museum by Mary Hawker Evans. Paintings, antiques, bric-abrac, knickknacks, books, maps, curios, and the like.”

  “May I ask why they want the items returned?” Nigel asked, although the answer was patently obvious.

  “To sell them, of course. Dame Elspeth’s estate must pay mammoth inheritance taxes to our friends at Inland Revenue. Forty percent of her estate will need to be sold. It comes down to a simple choice for Harriet and Alfred. Sell this collection or sell Lion’s Peak.” He handed Nigel a business card. “As you might imagine, my clients would prefer the museum to purchase the pieces from the estate. We can discuss all that on Monday. Is two o’clock good for you?”

  “As good as any other time,” Nigel said somberly. The enormity of “several thousand items” had begun to hit home.

  Bleasdale glanced circumspectly to his left and right. “Perhaps I shouldn’t reveal this, but you will soon learn that Dame Elspeth left the museum a tidy cash bequest. It will make a good start on the purchase price.”

  For one merry moment, Nigel thought about emptying his half-full glass of sherry punch atop the solicitor’s pomaded head. In the end, discretion and British reserve won the day. Nigel held his tongue—and his drink—as Bleasdale waddled away.

  Flick Adams ignored her thumping heart and, with as much professional detachment as she could muster, asked, “How much time do we have?”

 
Nigel Owen, sitting behind his desk, gave a feeble wave. “Months at most, I should say. Certainly no longer than a half year.”

  “Aren’t there procedural ways to delay the process? Things a devious lawyer can do?”

  “Not when one is dealing with death duties.” Nigel shrugged. “The Inland Revenue expects payment promptly—on most assets within six months of a death. After that they tack on interest charges, which further reduce the value of the estate. Bleasdale may resemble the Michelin Man, but his chubby face glows with the boundless confidence of a solicitor who is wholly prepared to deal with any legal maneuvering that will cost his clients money. In short, bid farewell to the Hawker antiquities.”

  Flick was standing in the corner of Nigel’s office, next to the window with the spectacular view of the museum’s gardens. She counted nine visitors strolling among the tea bushes—not a large crowd for a Saturday. But then, the museum had not opened to the public until one, after the mourners had left the reception. As a further discouragement to local tourism, the afternoon had turned bleak and chilly.

  Appropriate weather to talk about impending doom.

  “If we had more time,” Flick said, “we could launch a fund-raising campaign to purchase the antiquities. We could go after donations and grants and approach other foundations for support. The Hawkers weren’t the only family in the tea trade.”

  Nigel replied with a halfhearted grunt that made Flick spin around and peer at him. Does the oaf really care? After all, he’ll leave just about when the museum gets cleaned out.

  She guiltily banished the disagreeable thoughts. Nigel hadn’t acted anything like an oaf in recent days. He had gone beyond the call of duty to put together an excellent send-off for Elspeth. Moreover, he seemed as upset as she felt over the threat to the museum. Happily, Nigel hadn’t noticed her fleeting glare at him.

  “Your predecessor served for, what, fifteen years as chief curator?” he said.

  “Malcolm Dunlevy held the post for closer to twenty years.”

  “Why didn’t he purchase the items owned by the Hawker family?”

  “I’m sure he never saw the need,” Flick said. “The Hawker Foundation built the museum as a showcase for the Hawker collection. Over the years, Mary Hawker Evans donated many items to the museum. Upon her death, she bequeathed us a number of valuable antiquities, and her will made arrangements to pay the inheritance taxes on the other items. Malcolm probably assumed that Elspeth had done the same. I certainly did—up until a half hour ago.” She added, “I wonder how much of the Hawker collection we’ll be able to purchase.”

  “I don’t suppose we will have a definitive answer until Bleasdale sends in the appraisers and we learn how large a bequest Elspeth gave the museum.” Nigel sprang upright in his chair. “Oh bother!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Your question reminded me that I don’t know our collection as well as I ought. In truth, I have no idea what we own and what the Hawkers own.”

  “There’s a register of the family’s property in my office.”

  “Brilliant! Would you be willing to show me around the museum this afternoon? I don’t want to be at a hopeless disadvantage when I meet with Bleasdale on Monday.”

  “Sure—I’d rather visit the exhibits than mope. We can start in the Hawker Memorial Library and then work our way down.”

  Flick retrieved the register—a one-inch-thick binder stuffed with computer-generated inventory logs—from the bookcase in her office. She also swapped the three-inch-heel pumps she had worn to the funeral for a pair of comfortable walking shoes. She found Nigel waiting for her in the library, holding a legal pad and staring at the tall bookshelves that lined the walls.

  “Another penny for your thoughts,” she said.

  “I’m forever amazed that so many books have been written about tea,” he said.

  “There are many different aspects of tea to write about. Agriculture, manufacturing, economics, history, geography, marketing, shipping, chemistry, food preparation, etiquette, chinaware, silverware…”

  “I take your point,” Nigel said. “How many books do we have?”

  “Roughly three thousand, including about six hundred nineteenth-century tomes from Commodore Hawker’s personal library. They are on loan to us.”

  “Do you have a sense of their value?”

  “Oh, the commodore’s books are old and unusual, but I doubt there are many collectors who covet specialized volumes about tea. I’d guess an average price tag of say fifty pounds each.”

  “Perhaps thirty thousand pounds in all—between fifty and fifty-five thousand dollars.”

  Flick nodded.

  Nigel made notes on his pad, then said, “I rarely see ordinary museum guests perusing these shelves.”

  “True. The library is mostly used by visiting academics and students—and, of course, my staff of curators.”

  “Does anything else on this floor belong to the Hawkers?”

  “No,” Flick answered. “The museum owns all of the paraphernalia in the Conservation Laboratory and our office equipment.”

  “In that case—onward and downward.”

  Flick followed Nigel down the staircase to the second floor. Directly across from the bottom of the flight of steps was the doorway to the Tea in the Americas Room. She peeked inside. No museum guests.

  “I love this exhibit,” Flick said. “The two most important items belong to the Hawker family.” She pointed at two large oil paintings hung on opposite walls. “They are both by Lilly Martin Spencer, an American painter who worked in the nineteenth century. One is the renowned Boston Tea Party of 1773…the other of the lesser-known Edenton Ladies Tea Party of 1774.”

  “Where might one find Edenton?” Nigel asked.

  “It’s a small city not far from the coast of North Carolina. During the autumn of 1774, fifty-one Edenton ladies held a public meeting and resolved not to drink East Indian tea until the Crown eliminated the import tax. They also refused to wear any clothing from England.”

  “Nasty rebels!” Nigel said with a wink. “But I agree that the paintings are lovely.”

  “I can’t begin to estimate their worth.”

  “Several hundred thousand pounds at a minimum, one would think.”

  “And then there are many related artifacts on display. English newspaper articles about the ‘outrages’ in the colonies. Other illustrations and cartoons. Tea chests of the late colonial era. An original parliamentary copy of the Tea Act of 1773. Rats!”

  Nigel looked up from his writing. “Say again?”

  “I can’t get used to the idea that all of this may disappear. The Hawkers own everything—except the tea bag exhibit.”

  “Ah! I’ve wanted to ask you about that ever since my first look-see through the museum. It seems odd to me that a Yank invented the tea bag.”

  Flick smiled. “Legend says that it happened in New York City, back in 1908. A tea merchant named Thomas Sullivan supposedly became annoyed with the cost of the little tin boxes he used to send samples to customers. So he switched to small silk bags. One of the recipients brewed a pot of tea by simply pouring hot water over the bag—and the rest is history.”

  “From your tone, I assume the legend isn’t true.”

  Flick pointed at a framed document. “That’s a copy of the U.S. patent issued in 1903 for a ‘tea leaf holder’ made out of fabric. Tom Sullivan seems to have received the credit for an invention actually made by two gentlemen named Lawson and McLaren.”

  “Where next?” Nigel asked.

  “We’re done with this floor. The only other permanent exhibit room is the Tea and Health Gallery—we own all of the displays.”

  “And a fascinating read they are.”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic. Studies have shown that tea is good for your teeth because it’s a natural source of fluoride, and it’s also brimming with flavonoids, antioxidants that have all sorts of healthful properties.”

  “Coffee is good fo
r the health, too. On many occasions it has kept me from falling asleep behind the wheel of my BMW.”

  “Very droll.” Flick strode into the second-floor lobby, Nigel close behind.

  “The small silver lining in this cloud,” he said, “is that we can immediately reclaim the square footage set aside for the Hawker family suite.” He pointed to a door labeled PRIVATE. “To begin with, I doubt Alfred or Harriet plans to spend any time in the museum. To end with, I see no need for us to provide the greedy rotters any office space in this institution.”

  Flick caught her breath. He’s talking about Elspeth’s room.

  Directly under Nigel’s office was an equivalent space on the second floor set aside as an office for the Hawkers. It had a large desk, a comfortable sofa, a private loo, even a small kitchen area. Mary Hawker Evans had occupied it sparingly—chiefly on days when the trustees met—but Elspeth had used it almost daily. “My pied-à-terre in Tunbridge Wells,” she often said. “My home away from home.”

  “Someone will have to pack up Dame Elspeth’s kit,” Nigel said.

  “I’ll put it on my list of things to do.” Flick sighed. She had intended to browse through the Hawker Suite as part of her efforts to gather additional facts about Elspeth’s relationships with museum people before her death, but her private investigation, if that was the right term for it, had run out of steam. Her plan had been both simple and vague: Engage trustees and museum employees in conversations about Elspeth and listen carefully to everything they said. Well, she had heard nothing the least bit irregular at her dinner with four of the trustees, or in a subsequent chat with Archibald Meicklejohn about her desire to add a professional tea taster to the museum’s staff, or in routine meetings with the curators and docents. Every passing day seemed to soften her conviction that Elspeth had been fed an overdose of barbiturates.

  So much for your delusions of detective grandeur.

  “Let’s head downstairs,” she said to Nigel.

  “Before we do,” he replied, “what about the paintings in the Grand Hall?”

  “Blast! I forgot all about them.”

  The Grand Hall, the largest room in the museum, filled the western side of the second floor and was used both for scholarly conferences and special exhibits. Flick loved the décor: Chinese silk draperies, wooden moldings painted in yellow and blue, and comfortable gilded “salon chairs” upholstered in matching blue damask. The dozen oil paintings in the room—each done by a different member of Britain’s Royal Academy of Arts in the late nineteenth century—depicted various personalities associated with the history of tea, commencing with the possibly mythical Chinese emperor Shen Nung, who purportedly discovered that tea was good to drink in 2,737 BC, and running down through the ages to Commodore Desmond Hawker and Sir Thomas Lipton.