Dead as a Scone (10 page)

“Very clever, indeed,” Conan said. “Earl the grey. Get it, sir? Earl grey. Like the tea.”

Nigel smiled. He relished good puns, but this wasn’t the time to admit it. “Despite their witty names, Mr. Bleasdale, the museum can’t accept these animals. What would we do with them?”

“I suggest daily feeding and watering for the lot,” Bleasdale said, “plus in the case of the dog, occasional walks—perhaps on the Common, across the road.”

“You understood perfectly well what I meant. This is a museum, not a kennel.”

“To the contrary, Mr. Owen. Your predecessor entered into a binding contract that Elspeth Hawker’s heirs intend to enforce. I am certain that you have a signed memorandum of contract somewhere in your files, but I will save you the trouble of looking. Alfred Hawker located a copy of the document among Dame Elspeth’s papers. I brought it with me.” He tapped his breast pocket. “The Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum is now the official caregiver to these orphaned creatures.”

Nigel sensed triumph in the solicitor’s proclamation. Before he could invent an appropriate reply, Margo McKendrick said, “Sir, a busload of guests just arrived in the car park. You might want to continue your discussions away from the general public.”

Nigel made a command decision. “Bird, cats, dog, solicitor, security chief—everyone up to the Hawker Suite!”

Conan Davies, birdcage in arms, led the entourage. Bleasdale, amidships, toted a pet carrier in each hand. Nigel, holding firmly on Cha-Cha’s lead, brought up the rear. The dog trotted with untroubled self-confidence into the museum’s snug service elevator.

This is not the first time you have ridden upstairs,
Nigel realized. He recalled the lumpy canvas bag that Elspeth Hawker often carried into the museum.
Your mistress was a smuggler.

The door slid shut, and a shrill cockney voice filled the elevator: “Can I have a cuppa? It’s better than a cracker.”

“The blooming parrot talks!” Conan bellowed. Nigel saw the cage begin to fall and helped Conan reposition it in his arms.

“Indeed your new
rara avis
talks,” Bleasdale said. “In fact, African Greys are reputed to be the smartest of all birds and can be compared in intelligence to a five-year-old human child, although they usually display the emotional development of a typical two-year-old.” He chuckled. “By the way, Earl is only ten years old, a mere pup by parrot standards. The museum can expect to care for him for, oh, sixty more years.”

“Put a sock in it,
Barrington,”
Nigel said.

Nigel saw that his gibe had its intended effect: Bleasdale’s smug simper faded. But before anyone—or anything—could speak another word, the elevator door opened on the second floor. Nigel, who had been last getting into the elevator, instantly became first getting out, propelled by a startlingly strong tug on the lead he had wrapped around his wrist. Cha-Cha, who from Nigel’s perspective looked like a miniature Siberian husky towing a sled, yanked him straight to the door of the Hawker Suite then sat down on its haunches.

Bloody undisciplined hound.

Nigel worked the push-button combination lock and turned the knob. The small dog zoomed through the partially ajar door. Nigel’s hand flew through the opening, but the rest of him took a second or two to catch up.

“Cha-Cha!” Flick said cheerfully. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

The dog bounded over and licked her face—an easy task because Flick was sitting on the floor near the window that overlooked the tea garden, surrounded by piles of papers, books, metal business tins, and open corrugated cartons.

Of course! She’s packing up Elspeth’s belongings.

Nigel gingerly stepped between a carton of file folders and a framed photograph of Harriet and Alfred sitting side by side in a garden. Judging from the ratio of unpacked clobber to taped-and-labeled boxes, Flick had half the job completed. She seemed in a much-improved mood today.

Hurray! The last thing he needed today was a fresh temper tantrum from Felicity Adams.

“Pardon, sir,” Conan Davies said from the doorway. “Where should I set the birdcage?”

Nigel quickly scanned the room. “Why not the small round conference table to the left of the chief curator?”

Bleasdale, glaring all the while, followed Conan inside and stacked the two cat crates on the floor, beneath the cage.

“These felines are not used to confinement,” Bleasdale said stiffly. “I suggest you release them at your earliest convenience.”

Nigel saw furry blue faces pressing against the screens.
Blimey! Blue cats with orange eyes.
He tried to think. He had been foolish to bait a visiting solicitor a few minutes before important negotiations began in earnest. Perhaps he could mend the fence he had thoroughly demolished.

“Mr. Bleasdale,” he said, “I congratulate you on your in-depth knowledge of these animals. Would you know how well the cats and the dog get along?”

“Splendidly,” Bleasdale replied, a decidedly frosty tone in his voice. “Your museum may not own its antiquities, but it now possesses a happy little family.”

Nigel forced himself to smile at the solicitor’s malevolent taunt.

It is going to be a long afternoon.

Flick surveyed the crowd of men and animals that had mysteriously gathered around her. Nigel Owen appeared perturbed, Conan Davies befuddled, Earl stoical, Lapsang and Souchong annoyed, and Cha-Cha—well, he had acted uncommonly friendly for a Shiba Inu. She quickly sorted out the one creature she hadn’t met before. The heavyset man in the custom-tailored suit must be Bleasdale, the solicitor.

What were they all doing here?

Why was Bleasdale glaring daggers at Nigel?

And how was she going to get up? The rather tight skirt she had on would rise to her hips if she tried to stand.

Bleasdale answered her third question by offering his hand. “You are Dr. Adams, are you not?” He pulled her to her feet, introduced himself, and gave a slight bow. “I saw your photograph in the museum’s annual report. Very becoming.” He waved gracefully at the clutter on the floor. “By any chance, are you assembling Dame Elspeth’s miscellany for shipment to the family?”

“Yes, I am.” Flick hoped that she looked less amused than she felt. She had imagined Bleasdale as a foppish seventeenth-century courtier, dispensing English chivalry with a trowel.

“Excellent! I shall be delighted to take any boxes you have completed back to Lion’s Peak,” Bleasdale said. “My firm’s minivan is parked in the rear. It was the easiest means of transporting Elspeth’s pets to the museum.”

The pets! No wonder Nigel looks upset.

She had meant to confer with Nigel about Elspeth’s contract with the museum. Elspeth had often talked to her about it—and had even expressed a wish or two about her pets’ long-term living arrangements.

First things first.

Flick pointed at three sealed and stacked boxes. “Those are ready to go.”

Conan spoke up. “Shall I arrange to have them taken to the loading dock and placed in Mr. Bleasdale’s minivan?”

“Please do,” Flick and Nigel said simultaneously. His voice was much louder—a clear signal that any orders given to Conan this afternoon should come from him.

Flick moved away from the piles of paper, sat on the edge of the table, and crossed her arms.

It’s all yours, pal.

“Where’s my tea?” Earl squawked unexpectedly. “You promised me a crumpet.”

Flick sprang to her feet. Bleasdale laughed out loud. “Surprisingly, the bird does enjoy a crumpet on occasion,” he said to her, “complete with bitter orange marmalade, I’ve been told. Which reminds me: There are several pet-related accessories in my van.” He began to count on his chubby fingers. “Two cat litter boxes, three water bowls, three food bowls, two cases of cat food, two fifteen-kilo packages of dog kibble, a thirty-kilo sack of parrot food, and a box full of sundry treats and toys.”

Nigel rolled his eyes. “Conan, please inform Giselle Logan that we need to commandeer a shelf in her pantry.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll move these boxes downstairs and see to the pet supplies.” The big man lifted the stack of cartons as if they were empty.

“Take extra care with the one on top,” Flick said. “I packed Elspeth’s personal items inside it.”

The thought brought a new round of tears to her eyes. Earlier that day, while disassembling the well-equipped “survival kit” in Elspeth’s desk, Flick had gone through five tissues and a paper towel. Elspeth had carefully organized three drawers on one side of her desk to hold a roll-up toiletries pouch, a makeup box, two extra pairs of eyeglasses, a first-aid box, a sewing box, three teacups and saucers, a small electric teakettle, a packet of tea bags, a bottle of vitamin tablets, two bottles of ink for her fountain pen, an extra fountain pen, a pair of sensible shoes, several packages of stockings, a supply of dog food and doggie treats, a Bible, and an ancient copy of the
Book of Common Prayer,
with her name inscribed in a neat, childish hand. Elspeth had even managed to squeeze in a silvery roll of duct tape.

Flick blew her nose in a sixth tissue and said, “If no one objects, I will let the cats out of their crates.”

Nigel surprised her. “Not quite yet.” He addressed the solicitor: “Mr. Bleasdale, why don’t we meet here rather than in my office? What more fitting venue than the Hawker Suite to talk about the Hawker collection. Besides, I think it will be useful for Dr. Adams, our chief curator, to observe our discussion.”

Bleasdale nodded at Nigel, then beamed at Flick. She smiled back, not sure how else to react.

What is Nigel playing at?
On Saturday, he had made it abundantly clear that he alone would meet the Hawkers’ lawyer. And the word “observe” seemed to indicate that he didn’t want Flick to actually participate.

A likely answer gelled in her mind.
Bleasdale is miffed at Nigel for some reason, but he seems to like me. Therefore, Nigel asked me to stay. Men can be such jerks.

“Shall we sit down?” Nigel gestured grandly toward the small sofa adjacent to the round conference table. He dragged over an austere wooden side chair for himself, leaving the more comfortable upholstered seating for Flick and Bleasdale. The solicitor sat down facing Nigel and promptly crossed his arms; Flick nestled into the far end of the sofa, where she could watch both men without pivoting her head. Cha-Cha, still pinioned to Nigel’s wrist with the lead, curled up at Nigel’s feet.

“This morning,” Nigel began, “I read the museum’s original contract with Mary Hawker Evans. It calls for any items lent to us by the Hawker family to be returned upon ninety days’ notice. Is that your understanding of the terms, Mr. Bleasdale?”

The solicitor replied with a begrudging nod and a stiff “Correct.”

“I presume that the ninety-day period will be measured from the date the museum receives such notice from the executor of Dame Elspeth’s estate.”

“Also correct. Alfred Hawker and Harriet Hawker Peckham are the coexecutors. I shall advise them in their duties.”

“When do you expect the Probate Registry to issue the grant of representation to the Hawker heirs?”

Flick did a quick Britain–to–United States translation. In Pennsylvania, the register of wills granted letters testamentary to the executor of the estate. Otherwise the process of settling an estate sounded pretty much the same. A court dealing in wills and estates would give the Hawkers the authority to demand the return of the items on display.

“Oh, one suspects it will happen quickly,” Bleasdale said. “Dame Elspeth died testate, and her will was prepared by an excellent solicitor. I am confident that her estate is fully in order.”

“Then our antiquities could be gone in as little as five or six months,” Nigel said gloomily.

“Not necessarily.” Bleasdale leaned forward, as if he were sharing a secret with Nigel. “I suspect that our impromptu meeting on Saturday left you with the impression that the Hawkers are unreasonable folk. In fact, Harriet and Alfred fully understand that their best course of action is to work out a flexible arrangement with you that will enable the museum to acquire the Hawker collection.”