Dead as a Scone (21 page)

“This is supposed to be an informal get-together,” Nigel said.

“Unhappily, the circumstances have changed since we talked this morning, and so has the required agenda of our meeting. I feel that Archibald and Iona must participate.”

Flick felt the color rising in her cheeks.
Oh boy! This has to be about me.

Polly placed a speakerphone that resembled a large starfish on the table and positioned the device close to Marjorie and Flick. She dialed the phone and verified that both Archibald and Iona were on the line.

“Archibald here, from London,” came his voice out of the speakerphone, followed by, “Hello, everyone, this is Iona in Oxford.”

Marjorie began. “One hour ago, the chief constable of the Kent police informed me during a telephone call that our chief curator may—and these are his words—be mentally unstable. He assured me that the accusation she made to an agent of the Security Service was unsubstantiated to the point of being deranged and that I did not have to worry that one of my colleagues on the board of trustees is a cold-blooded poisoner.”

Flick sighed. How could she even begin to defend herself?

Marjorie took a breath and resumed talking. “The chief constable called me as a courtesy because of my position in local government. He also told me that while he has no intention of reporting the incident to the media, he won’t be able to deny it should word of your accusation leak out. In that event, we certainly will face an onslaught from the tabloid press, replete with garish headlines. The chief constable thought that ‘Dead as a Scone’ was a definite possibility, although he himself favors ‘Pantiles Peerage Poisoning Plot.’ ”

Vicar de Rudd and Dorothy McAndrews both chuckled. A laugh came from the speakerphone. Flick couldn’t tell if Archibald or Iona was responsible.

Marjorie brought her hand down on the sprawling conference table with enough force to make the top quiver. “You gave us your word, Dr. Adams. You even apologized for making a fuss when Elspeth passed away. Now you have made a much bigger one, a potentially disastrous to-do, that can’t possibly help our fund-raising efforts.”

Flick looked around the table at the other trustees. Dorothy McAndrews’s face wore a pinched
moue
, Matthew Eaton’s a peeved scowl, and Vicar de Rudd’s a pained grimace. The word
resignation
flitted through her mind. Did Marjorie expect her to “do the right thing” and commit professional suicide?

No way!

Flick fixed her gaze firmly on the decorative centerpiece of the conference table: a grouping of sixteenth-century Japanese artifacts and utensils designed for the traditional Japanese tea ceremony.
Chanoyu,
the common name of the ceremony, literally meant “hot water for tea.” Whoever planned the centerpiece clearly had tongue in cheek. Chanoyu’s main purpose was to create harmony among the partakers; actually having a cuppa was secondary. Consequently, a chawan, a communal bowl of tea, was shared by everyone in a highly stylized ceremony designed to encourage peace and serenity. Maybe it worked in Japan, but peace and serenity rarely made an appearance at meetings held in the museum’s boardroom. Today’s get-together had turned out to be especially noisy and chaotic.

And then the inexplicable happened. To Flick’s astonishment, Nigel abruptly took charge.

“Thank you, Marjorie, for bringing us up to date,” he said, “although I am growing weary of one-sided tirades against Dr. Adams.”

Flick risked a sideways glance at Marjorie. Surprise radiated from her vaulted brows, wide eyes, and parted lips. In a few seconds, she had recovered sufficiently to say, “I beg your pardon!”

Flick quickly looked away from Marjorie.
You took the words out of my mouth.
Why had Nigel, of all people, decided to defend her? A short time earlier, he had seemed an avid supporter of the police.

Nigel continued. “The presumption that underlies everything the chief constable said is that Felicity Adams must be wrong. Why are we all so quick to doubt what she says she observed?”

“Of course, she is wrong,” Marjorie said. “The idea that Elspeth was poisoned by one of us is wholly unthinkable.”

“I feel the same way,” Nigel said. “And yet, we have to acknowledge that Dr. Adams is neither crazy nor stupid. We know that to be true, even if MI5 and the Kent police think otherwise.”

Flick found it odd to hear herself talked about in the third person, but she kept staring at the iron
kama
kettle and brick
furo
stove in the
chanoyu
centerpiece.
Where is Nigel going with this?

“This morning,” Nigel said, “I witnessed a similar harangue delivered by a detective inspector on the chief constable’s staff. I became aware of a curious thing as I listened to him scold Dr. Adams. None of us has ever asked her to explain why she adamantly insists that Dame Elspeth did not die a natural death. I, for one, would like to hear what she has to say.”

The room fell silent. Matthew finally broke it. “Upon reflection, I agree with Nigel. We have been rather reticent to hear Dr. Adams out.”

“I suppose we must give her the opportunity,” Dorothy said stiffly.

“I concur,” Iona said over the speakerphone.

Archibald spoke up. “Do I hear any disagreement from the trustees?” He paused to listen. “As there are no objections, now seems the perfect time—if Dr. Adams is willing.”

Flick realized that everyone was watching her attentively. She nodded and managed a half smile. “Okay. Give me a moment to gather my thoughts.”

“I know how to use that moment,” the vicar said. “We traditionally open our meetings with prayer. Today we’ll take a prayer break in the middle.”

Flick exchanged a knowing smile with Nigel. Three months earlier, Flick had asked him about the custom. “Put a clergyman on the board of trustees,” he had said, “and you get opening prayers—it’s as simple as that.”

Vicar de Rudd cleared his throat and spoke a simple prayer for wisdom and discernment.

Flick said a robust “Amen.” Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the trustees miraculously received an extra helping of wisdom and discernment?

Flick looked around the table. Five of the six people on her list of suspects were in the room or listening on the telephone. Only Conan Davies, the least likely suspect, was absent. High odds, indeed, that she would explain her conclusions to the person responsible for poisoning Elspeth Hawker. Her presentation took shape in her mind. She would talk about everything, except Elspeth’s little black book.

That’s my ace in the hole.

Flick began. “I was halfway through my talk on tea tasting when I noticed that Elspeth had fallen asleep. I remember thinking to myself,
How unusual.
She always managed to stay awake during my presentations, no matter how dull. Thirty minutes later, we discovered that Elspeth was dead. She expired without a single warning of distress—quite literally died in her sleep. Again, I remember thinking to myself,
That’s also unusual.

“I moved to Elspeth’s side when Sir Simon did. Her pupils looked dilated and her face had a bluish tint. Most telling of all, despite the boardroom being unusually warm that afternoon, her skin felt icy cold. Those are obvious symptoms of barbiturate poisoning. A likely candidate is secobarbital sodium, a fast-acting drug. A sufficient overdose can kill in less than two hours. I believe that Elspeth was poisoned during our tea break.”

Dorothy raised a hand. “But we all ate the same food.”

“Not quite. Elspeth had her personal pot of lingonberry preserves, which she alone consumed. Alain Rousseau’s preserves are sweet enough to camouflage the bitter taste of a barbiturate.”

“Why?” Matthew asked. “Why would anyone want to kill Dame Elspeth?”

“To silence her. Elspeth uncovered a systematic scheme to exchange bona fide antiquities in the Hawker collection with forgeries.”

Iona’s disembodied shout filled the room. “How do you know that?”

Flick hesitated. “She communicated her discoveries to me.”

“What discoveries?” Dorothy snapped. “Elspeth wasn’t qualified to determine the authenticity of anything.”

“Possibly true. But she knew the Hawker antiquities well enough to recognize when an old familiar friend had been replaced with an imposter.”

Flick couldn’t be sure, but had she just glimpsed a look of recognition on Nigel’s face? It seemed the expression of someone who just had an
Aha!
moment.

Dorothy resumed her attack. “That is pure speculation! Give me a list of these so-called forgeries. I will have them examined.”

Archibald boomed over the speakerphone, “Not necessary, Dorothy. The entire Hawker collection will be appraised during the coming months. In fact, the valuation will prove—or disprove—the conclusions Dr. Adams has reached.”

Flick said nothing. She had located the last of the nineteen items that had earned a big red F from Elspeth. Every one was a clever forgery that looked authentic and might not be detected by a team of appraisers working at high speed to value a large collection for probate.

Archibald went on. “I think we can safely defer any additional discussion about Dr. Adams’s conduct until then.”

Flick saw Marjorie roll her eyes.
She’s disappointed. She acts like she expected the trustees to fire me.

Silence reigned until Nigel filled the vacuum. “Since we seem to have completed our revised agenda, perhaps we also can accomplish the original purpose of this informal meeting. Dr. Adams and I expect to present a proposal for acquiring the Hawker collection from the estate. With the trustees’ concurrence, I will express our interest to the Hawkers’ solicitor, tell him we are working out the specifics of our offer, and invite him to schedule the appraisal as soon as practical.”

Flick cast another glance at Marjorie. She was smiling. “Exactly what I had hoped to hear you say,” she said.

“I agree,” Archibald said. “However, when you talk to Bleasdale, impress upon him the need to sharpen his pencil. If we will purchase the whole collection, we expect the best possible price.”

“And tell him that we want a say in choosing the firm that does the appraisals,” Dorothy said. “There are some bad eggs out there. I know who they are.”

Flick let herself relax. The trustees had turned their attention away from her and toward the details of acquiring the Hawker antiquities. Nigel, too, seemed more at ease as he dutifully scribbled their suggestions on a yellow pad. Consequently, only Flick noticed Giselle Logan slip into the boardroom and crook her finger. The panicked look on Giselle’s face brought Flick to her feet. She moved alongside Giselle.

Not another disaster!

“We have a predicament, Dr. Adams,” Giselle said softly. “Alain Rousseau went home ill. His wife believes he has the flu and will be out of commission for several days. We won’t have fresh-baked scones and other tea cakes for the academic conference on Monday.”

“I thought we have a substitute chef on call.”

“We do. But he can’t arrive early enough on Monday morning to do all the extra baking. I’ll have to find a bakery in Tunbridge Wells that does proper scones.”

“Rats!” Flick whispered. “I promised the conferees a deluxe cream tea, with all the trimmings fresh from the oven. A genuine Mad Hatter’s Tea Party.”

Flick was still brooding when Archibald said, “I believe we have done enough business for a Saturday afternoon.” A few minutes later, she and Nigel were alone once more in the boardroom.

“You look like you lost a pound and found a penny,” he said.

“This has been a truly rotten day. And now I have to worry about scones.” She told Nigel about Alain Rousseau.

“Not a problem,” Nigel said. “I’ll take care of it.” He added, “Do you realize that you are gawking at me?”

“I’ve hardly begun to gawk. How do you plan to ‘take care of it’?”

“Leave it to me. The ‘scone king’ shall tend to the feeding of the ravenous academics.”

“You sound as mad as the Mad Hatter.”

He stood up and moved to the door. “Aren’t you going home?”

She shook her head. “No. I feel like moping some more.”

As the door closed behind him, Flick suddenly remembered that she hadn’t thanked Nigel for doing battle with Marjorie Halifax.

“Even more important,” she murmured, “I didn’t ask him why he stuck his own neck out for me.”

Ten

N
igel turned the key in the lock. Once he opened the museum’s side door, he would have sixty seconds to reach the alarm system panel hidden in the Welcome Centre kiosk and enter his personal access code.

“Get ready, Cha-Cha.” Nigel wrapped the dog’s lead twice around his hand. “Run!”

Nigel yanked his key free, zipped across the threshold, slammed the door behind him, raced through the fifty-foot-long hallway, passed the History of Tea Colonnade on his right and the gift shop on his left, skidded around the back side of the kiosk, tugged open the control panel door, and punched buttons on the keypad: 9-0-7-9-7-3.