Dead as a Scone (7 page)

Nigel had hired five classic Daimler DS420 limousines to convey the private mourners to the second gathering—a public service of thanksgiving for the life of Dame Elspeth held at St. Stephen’s Church. It commenced at ten o’clock sharp and was also celebrated by Vicar de Rudd. The significantly larger crowd in the church included three reporters and two news photographers, expertly shepherded by Stuart Battlebridge. Nigel had grown up in the Church of England, and although he had stopped attending regularly, he felt comfortable with the liturgy. He selected the three hymns sung by the choir: “Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah,” “Alleluia! Sing to Jesus!” and “Lord of the Living.” Marjorie Halifax presented the tribute. She spoke, Nigel thought, as if she had known Elspeth her entire life.

The third, blessedly final, component was a reception for family and friends in the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom on the ground floor of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum. It began at eleven, with Nigel as one of the ushers. He took up position next to a sign explaining that in 1840 the Duchess of Bedford, one of Queen Victoria’s ladies-in-waiting, had invented the English afternoon tea—a meal of tea, thin sandwiches, and small cakes—to overcome the “sinking feeling” she felt in the late afternoon. Nigel managed to nod solemnly as mourners passed by, but he did not feel in a mood to chitchat. When Iona Saxby said, “This is a distressing day for us all,” he muttered under his breath, “You should have been here yesterday.”

The previous two days of Nigel’s life had been a pandemonium of telephone calls, faxes, and emails. He had, as he anticipated, done all of the organizing for the funeral. He had even foreseen the challenge of dealing with the two Hawker heirs.

On Thursday morning, he had driven out to Lion’s Peak to visit Alfred Hawker and Harriet Hawker Peckham—who apparently had taken up joint residence in the family manse upon receiving news of Elspeth’s death. As Nigel recalled, Harriet owned a bungalow in Rusthall, a self-contained village about a mile west of the Tunbridge Wells town centre. Alfred rented an in-town flat on Claremont Road.

The Hawker house on Pembury Road was an oversized sandstone “villa” that seemed…well, lumpy was the first word that came to Nigel’s mind. The interior—at least the foyer, hallway, and sitting room that he saw—were filled with Art Deco furniture. Nigel decided that the pile must have been decorated by Basil Hawker during the 1930s and left unchanged since.

As usual, the junior Hawkers appeared underfed.

Harriet, a thin reed of a woman, greeted Nigel with a limp hand and a skeptical smile. She was in her midfifties but seemed older. Alfred, as scrawny as his sister, was younger by a few years. Both siblings shared watery brown eyes, long narrow noses, and thin, dark hair streaked with gray. Nigel followed the pair into the sitting room. They sat together on a small brocade-covered sofa. He chose a round-sided, scalloped back chair that proved to be less comfortable than it appeared at a distance.

“Please accept my sincerest condolences for your loss,” Nigel said.

“Thank you,” Alfred said. “Aunt Elspeth was our—”

Harriet cut her brother off in midsentence. “We can’t offer you refreshments this morning, Mr. Owen, because we’re alone in the house and fending for ourselves. Dame Elspeth’s housemaid abandoned her post and fled to her sister’s home in Brighton.”

Nigel nodded noncommittally. The “housemaid” in question was more of a live-in companion than a servant. Katherine Quarles, a robust, rosy-cheeked woman in her early seventies, often accompanied Elspeth to the museum. Nigel knew she had been with Elspeth for nearly fifty years. He made a mental note to find out if she needed transport to the funeral.

Harriet continued. “It will be best to get right to the matters at hand.”

Nigel reached into his breast pocket. He had thought ahead and prepared a tentative list of people who might want to attend Elspeth’s funeral. Harriet scanned the two sheets of paper, occasionally scowling, occasionally shaking her head.

“There must be a hundred names here,” she said with a final grimace.

“One hundred and nine,” Nigel admitted.

Harriet frowned. “It is certainly true that our famous ancestor, Desmond Hawker, was flamboyant by nature. Dame Elspeth, however, lived a highly private life. She would hardly approve of entertaining a crowd of strangers. We believe that a small, discreet funeral attended by only her inner circle would be most in keeping with her wishes.” She glanced at Alfred. “Isn’t that right?”

Alfred’s head bobbled up and down like a wind-up doll.

Nigel managed another vague nod, although he felt like laughing in Harriet’s face. Harriet’s fabled stinginess, not Elspeth’s “wishes,” had driven her response. He had expected and prepared for just such a prospect.

“I believe you are right, Mrs. Peckham,” Nigel said, through gritted teeth. “Therefore let me offer a suggestion. We begin the day with private interment here at Lion’s Peak, then follow with a public memorial service and a reception at the museum.”

Alfred looked puzzled. “Doesn’t holding an interment first put the cart before the horse, so to speak?”

“Not really,” Nigel said. “Vicar de Rudd assures me that interment-first funerals have become quite common.”

“An excellent idea, Mr. Owen,” Harriet said, her voice bubbling with contentment. “I take it that the museum plans to sponsor the reception.”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Peckham. We will provide refreshments for the mourners.”

“Flowers, too?”

“I will contact the florist this morning.” Nigel comforted himself with the thought that since Harriet was a widow, Alfred a bachelor, and neither had children, the pair certainly must be the last of the Hawkers.

“And a good job, too,” Nigel muttered as he left Lion’s Peak.

He telephoned Vicar de Rudd as he drove back to the museum.

“I know that Alfred and Harriet can be difficult,” the vicar had said, “but remember that this is a time of great pain for them. We must make allowances.”

“Speaking of allowances—Harriet asked me to make a request of you. She would like bells to toll before the service of thanksgiving.”

The cell phone fell silent. “Bells?” the vicar said at last. “I regret that we don’t have a bell tower at St. Stephen’s.”

“When I attempted to explain that well-known fact, Harriet said, ‘Don’t be silly. All churches have bells.’ ”

“But…but…that makes no sense at all.”

“A perfect description of Harriet Hawker Peckham!” Nigel said triumphantly.

Now, two mornings later, he saw lights at the end of two tunnels. Minutes from now, Elspeth’s funeral would be history. And in a mere six months, he would be free of the whole Hawker clan.

I’ll be back in glorious London where I belong.

The notion made him smile.

“A penny for your thoughts,” said a woman’s voice.

“Sorry?” He turned.

Flick Adams, an amused smile on her face, handed him a tall, cool glass. “You seem relaxed for the first time in days. I thought you might like something to drink.” She added, “I figured you would want sherry punch rather than tea.”

“Thank you. Sherry punch is perfect.”

“I also wanted to offer my compliments.”

“For what?”

“For taking charge of Elspeth’s funeral. You did a magnificent job.”

“Ah…yes…well…”

“I’ll let you get back to your duties. I’ve been told that it’s bad form to interrupt a Brit when he’s standing guard.”

Nigel sipped his sherry punch and watched Flick walk back to the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom. He noticed with some surprise that she appeared remarkably fetching this morning in her tailored black dress. When he first met Flick, Nigel concluded that she didn’t fit the mold of chief curator. A proper curator should be a gangly, stoop-shouldered scientist—the usual boffin with horn-rimmed glasses. But Felicity Adams was a lovely brunette with fine features who looked younger than her thirty-six years. The label “corn-fed beauty” had straightaway come to mind.

“Excuse me, sir. Are you Mr. Nigel Owen? The acting director of the museum?”

The second voice that disrupted Nigel’s pondering was masculine—and not the least bit pleasing.

“I am he,” Nigel owned up to the roundish, potbellied, middle-aged man who had surprisingly appeared before him.

“My name is Bleasdale,” the man said. “I am a solicitor, currently in the employ of Harriet Hawker Peckham and Alfred Hawker.”

Nigel gestured with his glass. “You will find your clients inside yonder tearoom.”

“Actually, I came to see you.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“In that event, how can I be of help, Mr. Bleasdale?”

“It is a simple matter,” Bleasdale replied. “I want to make an appointment to meet with you. At your convenience, naturally, but no later than the close of business on Monday, next.”

“May I inquire as to the nature of our meeting?”

“Again—a simple matter. When the last will and testament of the late Dame Elspeth Hawker goes to probate, Mrs. Peckham and Mr. Hawker will be recognized as coexecutors of the estate and also as legal owners of all family property. Upon receiving the grant of representation from the probate registry, they plan to retrieve the various artifacts and antiquities on loan to this museum. I have been asked to act on their behalf to make arrangements for the expeditious return of said property.”

It took awhile for Nigel’s mind to make sense of the barrage of legal jargon. “Are you talking about the museum’s antiquities?” he said finally. “The clobber on display in this building?”

Bleasdale arched his ample brows. “
Your
valuables are yours to keep. The Hawkers seek only the return of
their
property. Specifically, the several thousand items originally lent to the museum by Mary Hawker Evans. Paintings, antiques, bric-abrac, knickknacks, books, maps, curios, and the like.”

“May I ask why they want the items returned?” Nigel asked, although the answer was patently obvious.

“To sell them, of course. Dame Elspeth’s estate must pay mammoth inheritance taxes to our friends at Inland Revenue. Forty percent of her estate will need to be sold. It comes down to a simple choice for Harriet and Alfred. Sell this collection or sell Lion’s Peak.” He handed Nigel a business card. “As you might imagine, my clients would prefer the museum to purchase the pieces from the estate. We can discuss all that on Monday. Is two o’clock good for you?”

“As good as any other time,” Nigel said somberly. The enormity of “several thousand items” had begun to hit home.

Bleasdale glanced circumspectly to his left and right. “Perhaps I shouldn’t reveal this, but you will soon learn that Dame Elspeth left the museum a tidy cash bequest. It will make a good start on the purchase price.”

For one merry moment, Nigel thought about emptying his half-f glass of sherry punch atop the solicitor’s pomaded head. In the end, discretion and British reserve won the day. Nigel held his tongue—and his drink—as Bleasdale waddled away.

Flick Adams ignored her thumping heart and, with as much professional detachment as she could muster, asked, “How much time do we have?”

Nigel Owen, sitting behind his desk, gave a feeble wave. “Months at most, I should say. Certainly no longer than a half year.”

“Aren’t there procedural ways to delay the process? Things a devious lawyer can do?”

“Not when one is dealing with death duties.” Nigel shrugged. “The Inland Revenue expects payment promptly
—
on most assets within six months of a death. After that they tack on interest charges, which further reduce the value of the estate. Bleasdale may resemble the Michelin Man, but his chubby face glows with the boundless confidence of a solicitor who is wholly prepared to deal with any legal maneuvering that will cost his clients money. In short, bid farewell to the Hawker antiquities.”

Flick was standing in the corner of Nigel’s office, next to the window with the spectacular view of the museum’s gardens. She counted nine visitors strolling among the tea bushes—not a large crowd for a Saturday. But then, the museum had not opened to the public until one, after the mourners had left the reception. As a further discouragement to local tourism, the afternoon had turned bleak and chilly.