Dead as a Scone (38 page)

Flick had set up the drip coffeemaker alongside the sink in the corner of the laboratory that overlooked Eridge Road. Nigel poured, watched a large lorry roll toward Tunbridge Wells, and wondered what posterity would make of his checkered career. On occasion, he, too, had let his ambition run loose “at all costs.” But he had not played the big-business game as well—or should the word be
badly
—as had Desmond Hawker.

Had he lied? At times. Had he deceived? Everyone at his old company did. Had he used confidential business information to get ahead of a business rival? Once or twice. Had he caused grievous harm to anyone? He didn’t think so, but then neither had Desmond Hawker until many years later.

If there was a difference between Nigel Owen and Desmond Hawker, it was simply one of degree. Nigel had not coveted success enough to develop a true killer instinct. Probably that was why his company had declared him redundant while other higher-flying blokes in the organization were still at their jobs.

He would have a tough decision to make five months from now when his acting directorship came to an end. Did he really want another job in a building full of Desmond Hawker wannabes? There were decidedly pleasant aspects of his tenure at the museum, starting with the lack of a need to guard his back continuously. Oh, the trustees could be pains in the posterior, but Flick Adams was not after his job. His success did not imply her failure.

Another charming facet was the human scale of the museum. He could get his arms around the entire enterprise and take real pride when his management skills kept things running efficiently. And one might even argue that directing a museum promoted, in a modest way, the “betterment of humanity.”

He sipped his coffee slowly. What if he didn’t move back to London? What if he managed to find a full-time job along the lines of the one he had now? It certainly was worth pondering in the weeks ahead.

“Nigel.”

“Yes,” he replied hazily.

“Nigel!”

“Sorry!” He spun around to talk to Flick.

“It’s my turn to be a genius,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about our conclusion that our ‘exceedingly clever thief’ is a fourth-generation relative of Neville Brackenbury. Doesn’t that change our list of suspects?”

Nigel had difficulty swallowing the coffee in his mouth. “Blimey! When did I become such a dunderhead? Of course, it changes the blooming list. Archibald Meicklejohn is the blue blood among our trustees. He has a pedigree that goes back six hundred years. I have seen portraits of his ancestors; he looks just like them. There isn’t a chance in the world that he is kin to Neville Brackenbury. The same is true of Conan Davies, although his blood is plaid. Conan is indisputably Scottish through and through.” He added, “Who is left on the list?”

“Marjorie Halifax, Dorothy McAndrews, Matthew Eaton, and Iona Saxby.”

“A politician, an antiques expert, a landscape gardener, and an attorney.” He waved his hand disparagingly. “I find it hard to picture any of that lot skulking into your office and sprinkling a lethal dose of oleander in your Assam tea. Even more difficult to accept is the notion that one of those duffers possesses the required electronic skills to defeat our security system.”

Flick grimaced. “I keep remembering the alarm, then forgetting it again. We won’t move forward until we can work out how the thief dealt with the motion detectors.” She suddenly seemed energized with determination. “What time is it?”

“Twenty-two hundred hours. Ten o’clock.”

“Five p.m. in Pennsylvania. I’ve been meaning to bounce the alarm question off my uncle Ted. He’s probably still in his office.” She reached for the telephone on the top of the workstation, switched on the speaker, and dialed.

A gruff voice came forth: “Homicide. Detective Adams.”

“Hi, Uncle Ted, it’s Flick.”

“Speak of the devil. I yakked with your mother less than an hour ago. Half of our discussion was about you.”

“I’m sure it was,” she said quickly. “Anyway, we have an interesting…
issue
at the museum. We have experienced an after-hours theft or two, but we have a top-of-the-line security system.”

“And you are confused as to how the perpetrator could get past your foolproof burglar alarm.”

“Exactly.”

“Simple. There’s no such animal as a foolproof security system.” He chuckled. “You’ve described a variation on the classic ‘locked room’ mystery. There’s no way in or out of the room, except the thief managed to find one.” Another chuckle. “There’s always a way in and out.” His voice became serious. “I assume you have the usual perimeter sensors and motion detectors?”

“We do.”

“Then there are three likely explanations. One—it’s an inside job. Namely, one of your own staffers is the perp. Two—you have a security breach. The perp learned how to disable the system. Three—the most likely answer. Your perp goes to work when the alarm is switched off.”

“One or two may be possible, but not three. Our alarm is on whenever the museum is closed to the public.”

“No, it isn’t!” Ted said confidently. “If that were true, your cleaning people couldn’t do their jobs. Think about it—security systems get turned off a lot.”

“I will think about it. Thanks.”

“By the way…expect a call from your mother. She is disturbed that you seem to have no love life these days…” Flick yanked the receiver out of the cradle, which automatically turned off the speaker.

Nigel watched Flick blush. The wave of color sweeping along her cheeks seemed an extraordinary sight. He couldn’t resist smiling at her momentary embarrassment.

Nigel went to pour himself another cup of coffee while she wrapped up her call to her uncle. He moaned softly when he found scarcely a quarter cup left in the pot.

“What do you think about the third explanation?” Flick asked.

“I think we had better talk to Conan Davies.”

Nigel had Conan’s home number on a laminated card in his wallet. He dialed and put the call on speaker.

“Davies,” a gravelly, though sleepy, voice answered after six rings.

“Conan, I am sorry to disturb you so late, but I have a foolish question.”

“There are no foolish questions, sir.” Nigel heard a big yawn. “Just foolish hours of the day to ask them.”

“Yes, well, is there a time when the museum is closed and our motion detectors are switched off?”

“As a matter of fact there is, sir. Two hours each day immediately after closing. That’s when the cleaning crew and maintenance workers are in the museum.”

Nigel and Flick both slapped palms against their foreheads in exaggerated why-didn’t-we-think-of-that gestures.

Conan went on, “Of course, one of my guards is on duty in the kiosk on the ground floor. He inspects everything that is brought in or taken out of the building by after-hours personnel.” He added, hopefully, “Is that all, sir?”

“Thank you, Conan.”

“Good night, sir.”

Flick pointed to the empty coffee pot. “Shall I brew some more?”

“Actually, I would rather try a cup of your Assam.”

Her eyes became wide. “You want tea?”

“Indeed! In a teacup rather than a mug. And please put the milk in first.”

“I have a weird idea, if you are game,” Nigel said, peering at Flick over the top of his teacup. The boyish grin on his face made her wonder what he had in mind. There were all sorts of possibilities this late at night.

“How weird?” she asked warily.

“You be Elspeth for the next few minutes. Let’s figure out how she spotted the thief taking pictures and swapping counterfeit antiquities.”

Flick returned his grin with a big smile. “That’s a great idea. Where do I begin?”

“In the Hawker Suite, I should think.”

They walked down to the second floor. Flick stepped inside the Hawker Suite and swung the door ajar.

“Okay. I’m Elspeth Hawker and the museum has just closed.”

“Mmm.”

“What’s that?” she shouted through the gap.

“The cleaning crew is vacuuming the second-floor lobby,” he shouted back.

Nigel made the sound again, but it slowly faded away, leaving her in almost total silence. Flick found it quite easy to picture Elspeth standing at this very door, waiting patiently for the cleaning crew to move to the third floor as they worked their way from bottom to top of the museum.

Flick listened at the door. The building wasn’t completely silent, after all. She could hear cars going by on Eridge Road. And the tick of a clock somewhere nearby. And the wind whooshing around the corners of the building.

She opened the door. It creaked more than she had expected. The second-floor lobby was empty. She immediately understood the game that Nigel had invented. He would be an observer rather than a director. Her role was to think like Elspeth Hawker.

What did Elspeth know for certain? Only that one of the people on her list had engaged in systematic theft from the Tea Antiquities Gallery on the first floor.

What was Elspeth’s goal? To identify the thief so that she could reveal him or her later.

What was Elspeth’s first challenge? Get to the first floor as quietly as possible, in case the thief already was working inside the gallery.

Flick stepped outside the Hawker Suite. Elspeth would not have taken the elevator to the first floor; it was too noisy. Therefore, she must have used the staircase. Flick slipped off her trainers and tiptoed down in her stocking-covered feet. She was amazed by how little noise she made. The marble-sheathed steps didn’t groan or creak, even when she moved quickly.

Flick paused at the bottom of the staircase. To her right was the Tea at Sea Gallery; to her left, the Tea Antiquities Gallery; around the corner behind her, the Tea Processing Salon and the Tea Tasting Room.

Now what?

Flick could hear herself breathing. She felt uneasy standing exposed in the first-floor lobby. Elspeth must have felt the same way. Uncomfortable. Out in the open. Painfully vulnerable.

A hiding place. That’s what Elspeth would want.

Elspeth would have sought a secure vantage point
—
someplace she could watch the thief working inside the Tea Antiquities Gallery.

Elspeth would have taken her position before the thief arrived and then stayed put until after he or she had finished. Only then would Elspeth remount the stairs and spend a cozy night locked inside the Hawker Suite.

Flick slowly revolved on her shoeless heel.

The Tea at Sea Gallery was an open area with twenty low tables to display the various ship models and a dozen floor-to-ceiling exhibit panels standing close to the walls.

No place to hide.

The Tea Tasting Room seemed a more likely possibility. Its archway entrance provided a good view of the first-floor lobby area—and of anyone entering or leaving the Tea Antiquities Room. Flick padded into the Tea Tasting Room and stood silently in the corner next to the entrance.

No good. I would have to stick my nose around the archway to see anything.

And there was another weakness: The Tea Tasting Room was almost bare. With no available hiding places, Elspeth certainly would have felt nearly the same level of unease as in the first-floor lobby itself.

That left the Tea Processing Salon—a room full of machinery adjacent to the Tea Antiquities Room. Two wide archways in the shared wall connected the rooms.

Flick moved toward the Processing Salon, then changed her mind.

Do it the other way around. Begin in the Antiquities Room.

The rack that held the “All the Teas in China” Tunbridge Ware collection was set up in the northeast corner of the large gallery. Flick stood in front of the display and looked behind her into the Tea Processing Salon. She could see the gleaming pulleys of the cut, tear, and curl machine in the distance, but not much more. The big machine reminded Flick of an old printing press—a celebration of shafts, belts, and wheels. If Elspeth had positioned herself behind the iron frame, she would have been able to see through parts of the machine and easily observe the thief at work in the Tea Antiquities Gallery.