Dead as a Scone (20 page)

Bad cop, good cop?
Nigel wondered.
And if so, why?

He led them into his office. No sooner had the police officers crossed the threshold than Cha-Cha leapt off the sofa, skirted the edge of the room, and padded out the door—tail tightly curled and ears drooping.

Nigel bit back a snicker.
A dog that doesn’t like coppers.

He waved at the just-vacated sofa. “Please make yourselves comfortable.” He moved a visitor’s chair to face the sofa, and the three sat down.

“May I offer you a spot of tea?” Nigel said. “They tell me our tearoom brews the best in town.”

“No, thank you,” Pennyman said. “We are pressed for time; I will get right to the matter at hand.”

Nigel sat up straight. This plod sounded as unhappy as he looked.

Pennyman continued. “I asked for you in the lobby as a courtesy because you are in charge of this institution. Our business is actually with one of your employees.” He trained an inquiring expression on his colleague.

“Dr. Felicity Adams,” Kerr said, then added, “Oh! Sir, your suit.”

“Good heavens!” Nigel said when he saw that DI Pennyman was sitting in a
pool
—there was no other word to describe it—of dog hair approximately the same color as the sofa’s rust-colored upholstery. “I didn’t appreciate how much a Shiba Inu sheds.” He raced back to his desk and retrieved a clothes brush from the bottom drawer. “My apologies.”

Pennyman stood and brushed his jacket and pants legs.

“You want to see Dr. Adams,” Nigel prompted.

“In fact, I am here to caution Dr. Adams.” Pennyman handed the clothes brush to Kerr. “You have a go.” He spoke to Nigel. “Yesterday she engaged in a rather unfortunate conversation with an MI5 agent named Nicholas Mitchell.”

Flick, you didn’t!

“Dr. Adams conveyed her suspicions about the alleged homicide of Dame Elspeth Hawker.”

Flick, you did!

Nigel blurted out, “There’s been no murder at our museum.”

But hang around, chaps. Things might change.

“We know that, Mr. Owen.” Pennyman straightened his jacket. “Where might we find Dr. Adams?”

“Follow me!”

They tramped purposefully through the lobby, around the staircase, and into the curating wing. The door to Flick’s office stood open; Nigel could hear the
clickety-click
sound of skilled typing on a computer keyboard. He strode into the room without knocking, the two detectives close behind. Flick peered up at him—he fancied that was a look of annoyance on her face—and said, “Nigel! What a surprise.”

He saw a flash of rusty red out of the corner of his eye. Once again Cha-Cha had fled from the minions of the law. Nigel made a mental note to discover how a Shiba Inu could spot the peelers.

“Dr. Adams”—Nigel wanted to sound formal as well as exasperated—“this is Detective Inspector Pennyman and Detective Constable Kerr, both with the Kent police. They have come to see you in an official capacity.”

Nigel expected to see astonishment, shock, even consternation, but Flick merely rocked back in her swivel chair and nodded. The only emotion he could detect was…
satisfaction?

Please don’t make it worse, Flick!

Pennyman and Kerr chose visitors’ chairs in front of Flick’s desk. Nigel took a side chair near the back wall. He hadn’t been asked to stay, but then he hadn’t been asked to leave, either.

Pennyman wasted no time on pleasantries. “Dr. Adams, we have information to the effect that you reported a homicide by means of poison to a security agent employed by Her Majesty’s Government. Not a routine homicide, mind you. Rather, the intentional murder of a dame commander of the British Empire by one of the seven other trustees in attendance that day—each one a leading citizen in his or her own right. Is our information correct?”

“Mostly.”

“I prefer
totally.”
Pennyman’s hands rested on his knees, his fingers drumming a tattoo that Nigel could hear ten feet away. “Do you have any idea the turmoil you caused at Kent Police Headquarters?”

Flick started to say something, but Pennyman kept talking. “Agent Mitchell felt duty bound to report your conclusions. His report traveled to his superior, who forwarded it immediately to the chief constable, who—as you Americans are apt to say—had a cow.”

Flick started to smile then seemed to think better of it.

“The lights blazed late last night in Maidstone, Dr. Adams. I trust your ears burned with equal ferocity, because countless unpleasant things were said about you by many unhappy police officers.”

“I didn’t intend to inconvenience anyone, Detective Inspector, but in retrospect I’m delighted that my comments to Agent Mitchell prompted the Kent police to launch an investigation into Elspeth Hawker’s unexplained death. I have a lot to tell you about her murder and the motive behind it. You will conclude, as I did, that Elspeth was poisoned because she discovered a major theft of antiquities from this museum.”

Nigel’s heart hammered. His discussion with Elspeth Hawker on the day she died replayed in his mind like a DVD on fast-forward. He had not mentioned Elspeth’s suspicions to anyone, but somehow Flick had tumbled to the notion of an “exceedingly clever thief ” loose in the museum. He had ignored the suggestion, more or less banished the idea to the far corners of his memory. But here it was again. Could both Elspeth and Flick be wrong?

Or are they both right?

Nigel realized that he was clenching and unclenching his hands nervously. Even though no one was watching him, he gripped the sides of his knees.
You can’t just sit here like a dummy, he told himself. Quite possibly the police are pillorying Flick unfairly. Make a decision.

He faced a simple question. Should he tell the police what Elspeth said to him? Flick was out on a limb by herself. A bit of corroboration certainly would give her some comfort.

And put you out on the limb, too.

Pennyman gave a harsh laugh. “There
was
an investigation, Dr. Adams. We concluded it last night. The Kent police are completely satisfied with the death certificate signed by Dame Elspeth’s personal physician. Sir Simon Clowes was less than ten feet away when she died. He determined that her death was caused by occlusive coronary artery thrombosis. Not an unusual medical condition in an eighty-four-year-old woman. I interviewed Sir Simon last night and would rather not repeat what he said about your diagnostic skills. Suffice it to say that a graduate degree in food chemistry from an American university”—he made “American” sound vaguely like an insult—“does not empower you to challenge the reasoned conclusion of a trained British cardiologist. In short, Dr. Adams, there has been no homicide and we have no need to consider a motive.”

He leaned across the edge of Flick’s desk, pointed a finger at her, and said, “If you feel that the museum has suffered a theft, I invite you to file a report at the Tunbridge Wells police station. However, I urge you to think very carefully should you ever talk to the police again. You are perilously close to being arrested on a charge of wasting police time.”

Pennyman nodded to Kerr. “Section 6 of the Criminal Law Act clearly states,” she said, “that ‘Where a person causes any wasteful employment of the Police by knowingly making to any person a false report intending to show that an offence has been committed, or to give rise to apprehension of the safety of any persons or property, or intending to show that he has information material to any Police enquiry, he should be liable.’ ”

Pennyman took over again. “Your extremely foolish behavior violated English law and diverted a dozen senior officers from other essential business, not to mention from their families. I have the power to impose an on-the-spot fine of eighty pounds and, if I choose, to arrest you. However”—he eased back in his chair—“I merely will caution you today that any further unsubstantiated cries of murder will bring a swift response from me.”

Nigel held his breath. Flick and Pennyman stared at each other across her glass-topped desk. She broke the strained silence. “Thank you, Detective Inspector, I appreciate your candor. I know where I stand now. I apologize for any bother I caused the police. You will hear no more unsubstantiated cries of any kind from me.”

Nigel began to breathe again.

“Splendid!” Pennyman and Kerr rose as if one. “Good-bye to you both.”

Nigel acknowledged their departure with a feeble wave. He hoped that DC Kerr wouldn’t spot the new veneer of dog hair on the back of her boss’s suit until they reached their car. Cha-Cha must prefer the visitor’s chair in this office.

He watched Flick staring into space, lost in thought—obviously thinking about something. She had been ready to tell her story to the police, but DI Pennyman had cut her off. Nigel felt guilty for not supporting Flick when he had the chance, but he also felt curious. For the first time since Elspeth Hawker died, he wondered…

What does Flick know that I don’t?

“I have to stop acting like a nitwit,” Flick murmured as she sat alone in the boardroom waiting for Nigel and the four local trustees to arrive. She felt irritated at the brainless decision she had made the day before. She knew better than to blindly trust an MI5 agent. How often had her uncle complained about the FBI? “Those Feds love to make local cops look stupid. That’s why we never tell ’em anything they don’t absolutely, positively need to know.”

Then again, maybe the Kent police deserved to look stupid. DI Pennyman did come across as rather dense when he threatened to charge her with wasting police time.

“I charge you with letting a murderer go unpunished.”

No one in authority seemed willing to listen to reason.
Correction!
That wasn’t quite true. The real problem was that everyone gave Sir Simon Clowes more respect than he deserved. He was Elspeth’s doctor. He was in the room when she died. He signed her death certificate. End of story.

But the story didn’t end there. The real ending was yet to be told. There were two distinct possibilities: Either Dr. Clowes made a stupid mistake or else he deliberately concealed the cause of death.

The first didn’t feel right, and the second—well, why would a respected physician suppress the truth? His behavior made no sense unless he had poisoned Elspeth, but that didn’t feel right, either. Her early opinion hadn’t changed. As Elspeth’s personal physician, he could have found a more convenient venue for murder than a trustees’ meeting.

Flick wanted to cringe at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Elspeth might not receive the justice she deserved merely because her own doctor was sitting a few feet away as she unwittingly consumed a lethal dose of barbiturates.

She looked up when the door creaked open. Nigel came in, followed by Giselle Logan pushing a tea trolley. Nigel took the chair to Flick’s right. “Margo McKendrick just called,” he said. “Marjorie and the others are on their way up.”

Flick acknowledged his presence with a small nod.
He doesn’t even deserve that after storming into my office at the head of an invading army.

“We both know that I have nothing to contribute to this worthless meeting,” she said. “What are you going to tell them?”

“I don’t have much choice.” Nigel shrugged. “I will say what Marjorie Halifax wants to hear. That we will recommend that the museum take on debt up to its eyeballs and pay the appraised value for the Hawker collection.”

“Sounds good to me. Once you placate Marjorie, I’m going home. I’ve had more than enough fun for one day.”

Flick heard voices outside the door. The four local trustees swooped into the room—the lot of them dour-faced. Close behind marched Polly Reid, the administrative assistant whom Flick shared with Nigel.

Now what’s going on?

Flick peered at Nigel; he also seemed bewildered by Polly’s unexpected arrival.

Marjorie sat down opposite Flick. She began talking as she carried cups of tea to their seats. “Nigel, I have taken the liberty of asking Ms. Reid to arrange for Archibald Meicklejohn and Iona Saxby to telephone into our meeting. Unfortunately, Sir Simon remains unavailable.”