Dead as a Scone Read online

  “Another good point. I guess you and I can take turns bringing Cha-Cha home. A ‘joint custody’ agreement, so to speak.”

  “Me?”

  “Us. At least until we can work out a better arrangement.”

  “I am not at all certain that pets are allowed in my flat.”

  Flick pointed to a large canvas tote bag. “I was going to send that back to the Hawkers, but perhaps we’d better keep it.”

  “How can a self-respecting dog not hate being carried about in a sack like contraband goods?”

  “He’s used to it. Elspeth began to bring him to the museum when he was a puppy.”

  “You knew about this?”

  Flick felt herself blush. “ ’Fraid so. Elspeth was quite attached to Cha-Cha. She took him with her everywhere.”

  Cha-Cha raised his head and made a soft yip.

  “He seems to know when people talk about him,” Nigel said.

  “I believe that’s his ‘I need to go out’ bark.”

  “Oh.”

  “I hung his lead on the coatrack.”

  Nigel sighed. “Perhaps I’ll get lucky while strolling through the Common. I’ll think of a way to foist this animal on someone else.”

  It was the word foist that set Flick to thinking when Nigel and Cha-Cha left. Elspeth cared too much for her pets to risk foisting them on strangers. If she had been warned about a “dodgy ticker,” to quote Marjorie Halifax, Elspeth immediately would have made detailed provisions for the pets.

  “But she didn’t, did she?” Flick said to Lapsang—or possibly Souchong—who had rolled over to have its tummy rubbed. As Flick crouched down to oblige, her cat’s-eye view of the office revealed an object attached beneath the wooden side chair that Nigel had just vacated.

  She crawled closer to the chair and saw that two crossed strips of duct tape held a small metal box to the underside of the seat. She peeled the tape loose. The box was an old tobacco tin—Brophy’s Finest Pipe Tobacco—that opened on one end. She snapped the hinged flap aside and saw a small leather-bound notebook wedged into the can. It took several tugs—and lots of rocking—to pull the notebook out.

  Flick had just sorted hundreds of samples of Elspeth’s clear, large handwriting; without doubt, Elspeth had written the words, numbers, and symbols on the first nineteen pages. She moved to Elspeth’s desk, sat down, and turned on the lamp. She realized vaguely that both cats had followed her across the room and were taking turns rubbing against her ankle, but she was too engrossed to care.

  It’s some sort of diary or logbook.

  The lined pages were covered with abbreviations: Mos.—Ptn.—Pat.—Mos. Constsy.—T.W.—R.R.—Col. Mkgs.—Devs.—Reg. And numbers: 50%—75%—100%. And occasional complete words, such as Hunan, Anhui, and Yunnan. Most of the entries had been neatly inscribed with a fountain pen, but on the top right corner of every page, Elspeth had used a red marker to write a large F. Each page also had an obvious date neatly printed near the top. The dates spanned a nine-month period that culminated less than a month earlier.

  She flipped the pages back and forth for nearly ten minutes. The notebook must have something to do with tea. Hunan, Anhui, and Yunnan were all tea-growing regions in China. Perhaps these are Elspeth’s tea-tasting notes?

  Don’t be silly!

  Flick took a deep breath and urged herself to think methodically. “There really are two questions to answer,” she murmured aloud. “What does the content mean? And why would Elspeth work so hard to hide it?”

  Wrong!

  “You know the notebook was hidden,” she said in full voice. “That’s the starting point. What kind of diary would Elspeth want to hide?”

  Flick stared at the pages. She turned them slowly.

  What am I looking at? What does F stand for?

  A chill as strong as an electric shock ran down Flick’s spine.

  F stands for Fake! Or Fraud! Or Forgery!

  Like tumblers falling in place inside a lock, the abbreviations began to make sense. “T.W.” for Tunbridge Ware. “Mos.” for mosaic. “Ptn.” for pattern and “Pat.” for patina.

  Figure out the rest later.

  More tumblers dropped into slots. Each page represented a different antiquity—most of them pieces of Tunbridge Ware. The abbreviations described the specific characteristics of each item.

  The notebook documented Elspeth’s home-brew evaluations of nineteen different antiquities on display. Elspeth had identified a group of forgeries in the museum—including many of her favorite Tunbridge Ware items.

  The lock opened. Someone had replaced the originals with fakes. Someone who realized Dame Elspeth had discovered the deception.

  The someone who poisoned Elspeth.

  Flick addressed Souchong—or possibly Lapsang. “I knew it had to be murder,” she said. “No one believed me, but now I have a solid piece of evidence.” She laughed. “And you know what? The notebook means that Nigel Owen is off my list of suspects. The antiquity thefts began long before he arrived at the museum.”

  Six suspects left. Five trustees and Conan Davies.

  Almost without meaning to, Flick flipped through the pages of the notebook. All of the pages in the middle were blank, but Elspeth had written eight names on the very last page:

  Archibald Meicklejohn?

  Marjorie Halifax?

  Dorothy McAndrews?

  Sir Simon Clowes

  Matthew Eaton?

  William de Rudd

  Iona Saxby?

  Conan Davies?

  Flick gave a slight gasp as she realized that Elspeth had assembled a list of thievery suspects. She, too, had started with the seven other trustees and Conan Davies.

  “Two of the names are scratched out,” Flick murmured. “The same two I eliminated.”

  Six left. One of them murdered Elspeth Hawker.

  Six

  A tray of unadorned biscuits rather than a cart full of jam-covered scones provided sustenance at the emergency meeting of the trustees of the Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum on Wednesday afternoon. Nigel had expected a jibe or two about the simplified menu, which included only one kind of tea, and he wasn’t disappointed.

  “I see you’ve put us on half rations, Nigel,” Vicar William de Rudd said. “A symbol, I suppose, of the hardships the museum will face in the years ahead.”

  “Either that,” Marjorie Halifax said, “or a reminder that the museum now has four new mouths to feed.” She fought to hold a large blue cat on her lap, plainly a losing battle. “Thank goodness you served us a good cuppa. This really is a charming Formosa Oolong.”

  “I admit that the tea is first-rate,” Matthew Eaton said. “Delightful peachy overtones. However, store-bought British biscuits simply won’t do. The only reason I attend these interminable meetings is to eat scones baked by Alain Rousseau.”

  Dorothy McAndrews, sitting next to Matthew and wearing an almost identically patterned Harris Tweed jacket, chimed in, “It hardly seems fair that a French chef does brilliant Scottish scones, but there you are.”

  “You should consider yourselves blessed to eat plain biscuits today,” Sir Simon Clowes said. “Alain’s scones taste good because they are overloaded with butter. Most of us at this table have reached the age when we require heart-healthy diets. I say that both as friend and physician.”

  “It’s not the scones I miss,” Iona Saxby said, “but those lovely homemade conserves that Alain puts up. And the clotted cream, of course.”

  Sir Simon groaned. “You must realize that clotted cream is an extraordinarily potent source of cholesterol and that Alain’s cloyingly sweet jams and jellies are almost pure sugar.”

  Iona, undeterred, shook her head in mock sadness. “You really have shown us your wretched side, Nigel, by cutting back on our tea break. At heart you are a parsimonious bean counter.”

  “Amen!” Archibald Meicklejohn bellowed from his place at the head of the table. “Tightfisted financial leadership is precisely what the Royal Tunbridge Wells
Tea Museum requires in the months ahead. The more parsimonious the better.”

  Nigel dutifully smiled at the comments made in jest and acknowledged the doctor’s earnest pleas with pensive nods. At least the trustees had loosened up during the past hour. They had arrived at three o’clock in a suitably dismal mood, each clutching a printout of the email Nigel had sent the previous afternoon. The grim document tallied the major antiquities currently owned by the Hawkers and estimated their total market value at more than forty million pounds.

  Nigel had surprised the trustees by beginning the special meeting on a lighter note. “You may wonder why I invited a dog, two cats, and a parrot to join us today. Well, on Monday I received the astonishing news that the museum inherited this menagerie and is duty bound to provide lifetime care.”

  “Don’t tell me that he went ahead and did it!” Iona wailed. “Despite my urgings, despite my warnings.”

  Nigel lifted three sheets of paper stapled together. “I presume that you are talking about this purportedly ironbound contract, entered into between Dame Elspeth Hawker and Nathanial Swithin.”

  “Bother!” Iona said. “On occasion, Nathanial can be a nincompoop.”

  “One shouldn’t blame Nate,” Marjorie said. “Dame Elspeth could be exceptionally persuasive.”

  “Especially when wielding her chequebook,” Sir Simon added.

  “A lifetime of care for these animals represents a significant financial commitment by the museum,” Archibald said. “I presume that we were properly compensated. If not, perhaps we can find a way to breach the contract.”

  “A total breach may not be necessary,” Iona said. “A court might conclude that we have honored the agreement if we find suitable homes for Dame Elspeth’s pets.”

  “That certainly seems fair,” Sir Simon said.

  “Not to me!” Dorothy said. “I feel duty bound to speak on behalf of those in the room who cannot speak for themselves—specifically, Cha-Cha, Lapsang, Souchong, and Earl. This board has a moral obligation to honor the spirit of the agreement made between Nathanial Swithin and Elspeth Hawker. We must provide compassionate care, as Dame Elspeth envisioned we would.”

  “I wholly agree,” the Reverend de Rudd said.

  “Who speaks for the other living things in this museum?” Matthew’s swivel chair clanked as he rocked forward. “Unrestrained cat clawing, bird perching, and dog sprinkling will do irreparable harm to the tea bushes and other plants in the tea garden.”

  “Not a problem, Matthew,” Nigel said. “We won’t allow the animals to run loose in the building or gardens. Our chief curator has come up with an ingenious scheme that divides the responsibilities for pet care among our administrative staff, our curators, and our tearoom. It seems to be working perfectly.”

  Nigel tilted his head toward Flick, who despite his obvious invitation to join in merely offered an affirmative grunt.

  That is not the Felicity Adams I know. Where is her eager smile? Nigel wondered. Or the rush of enthusiastic words about her latest accomplishment?

  Flick had seemed lost in thought since the meeting with Solicitor Bleasdale on Monday. She had spent most of the past forty-eight hours in the Tea Antiquities Gallery. Every time Nigel had walked by the entrance archway, there was Flick examining one of the Hawker-owned items on display.

  Figure out Flick later. There is work to be done now.

  Nigel had planned the day’s agenda with thorough attention to detail. After six months, he knew the trustees well enough to orchestrate a meeting that would actually lead to a decision.

  Nigel led off with a concise summary of the facts. He reviewed his white paper and described his conversations with Bleasdale about the Hawkers’ intentions to reclaim the antiquities. The trustees, all of them wealthy, understood both the nature of British inheritance taxes and the family’s need to sell off more than a third of Dame Elspeth’s estate. Most nodded grimly when Nigel explained how he and Flick had made ad hoc guesstimates of the collection’s current value.

  “I fear that your total is too low,” Dorothy said, “perhaps by as much as twenty million pounds. The market for the choicest items has never been better. Oh how I wish that Dame Elspeth had bequeathed the collection to the museum.”

  “I repeatedly urged her to do so,” Iona said. “Talk to your solicitor, I begged. Talk to your financial advisor, I pleaded. But she seemed—reluctant, I suppose is the right word. One can never fully comprehend another person’s motives.”

  “I don’t think Dame Elspeth truly accepted the notion that the antiquities belonged to her,” Vicar de Rudd said. “Perhaps a year ago she talked to me about wanting to revise the small signs on the exhibits throughout the museum. As I recall, she felt that the phrase “From the collection of Dame Elspeth Hawker” should be changed to “Owned Anonymously.”

  “What pray tell does that signify?” Archibald said.

  “I assumed that Dame Elspeth was speaking from humility. Her tone suggested that she did not feel worthy to possess such riches.”

  “Moving right along,” Nigel said, “the signs on our exhibits are the least of our worries. We have to face the fact that the majority of antiquities currently on display in the museum will likely vanish during the coming six months.”

  He paused for a barrage of sighs, groans, and growls from the trustees—plus another “Bother!” from Iona.

  “I believe that we have three options available to us,” Nigel went on. “Option one is to accept the inevitable. We bite the bullet and change the mission of the museum, perhaps becoming an academic institution that is primarily research oriented.”

  “No!” Dr. Clowes smacked the table with his palm. “That is not what Mary Hawker Evans had in mind forty-odd years ago. This museum was built to be a proper museum.”

  “Well spoken, Sir Simon,” Marjorie said. “Also remember that in our role as a proper museum, we have developed into a leading tourist destination in Tunbridge Wells. If we give up our collection—if we tinker with our mission—we will destroy the soul of this institution.”

  “Exactly!” Dorothy said. “Somehow we must prevent our antiquities from being dispersed around the world. The collection on display in this building is a national treasure.”

  Archibald glanced at Flick. “Does our chief curator have anything to add?”

  Flick replied softly, “Quite simply, I would consider it a failure of our leadership and a colossal tragedy if we did nothing to stop the loss of the antiquities on display.”

  “Here! Here!” Iona said.

  “Yes indeed!” the reverend agreed.

  Archibald turned toward Nigel. “The consensus of the trustees is that option one is not an option. We will not go gentle into that good night.”

  Nigel surveyed the table and saw a unanimous volley of nods.

  He cleared his throat and began again. “Option two would be to engage in a delaying action. We don’t have to return the antiquities until ninety days—three full months—after a demand is made by the court-appointed executors of Elspeth’s estate. If we refuse to cooperate with the appraisers sent to value the collection, we can probably delay the grant of representation by the Probate Registry by three months more. Those six months might be enough time to raise sufficient funds to purchase a reasonable number of antiquities—say 20 percent of the collection.

  “On the upside, we will emerge with a sufficient number of major antiquities to remain a museum that welcomes the general public. The downside, alas, is that we will alienate the Hawker heirs and may incite them to take legal action against us.”

  “How can we function with only 20 percent of our exhibits?” Marjorie asked.

  “I’ve given that some thought,” Nigel said. “We will try to fill our empty galleries with traveling exhibits borrowed from universities and other museums.”

  “This is a tea museum,” Iona said. “Where can we find a sufficient number of suitable exhibits?”

  Nigel could feel the awkward smile on his f
ace. “I said ‘try to fill,’ Iona. It won’t be easy.”

  Steady on! You sound like a dunce.

  Nigel hated to make silly-sounding statements at trustee meetings. Everything he said, everything everyone said, flowed into four small microphones strategically placed on the conference table. The microphones sent their signals to a voice-operated tape recorder in Polly Reid’s office. It had been Nigel’s idea to record trustee meetings and then have Polly produce a written transcript. “A complete transcript is more useful than meeting minutes,” Nigel had said to her, “and there’s no need for you to waste time sitting through our tedious meetings.”

  Flick unexpectedly saved the day. “We’ll need to be creative about borrowed exhibits. For example, the Victoria and Albert Museum in London owns a collection of antique teddy bears that they lend out on a regular basis. I can envision a Teddy Bears’ Tea Party exhibit aimed at children, designed to teach them about tea.”

  Once again, Archibald took charge: “Option two certainly is not as bad as option one, Nigel, but it is not wholly desirable, either.”

  Nigel looked around the table. The nods and expressions signaled that the other trustees agreed with the chair. Nigel gave Flick a thank-you wink.

  Good. Now they are primed to hear the real plan.

  He took a deep breath. “Option three was actually proposed by the Hawkers’ solicitor. Mr. Bleasdale believes he can put together a so-called ‘creative financing’ package—structured around a ten-year chattel mortgage—that will enable us to acquire the entire Hawker collection in one fell swoop.” Nigel described the details, then concluded: “The downside to this option is that the museum will be encumbered by a large loan for the next decade. We will have to do almost continuous fund-raising and development work. However, we will be able to sell off some of the less desirable assets in the collection to reduce our outstanding debt. This is precisely what companies do after they borrow money to acquire other businesses.”