Dead as a Scone (11 page)

Flick found herself staring at Bleasdale. As if a switch had been thrown, his voice had become silky, free of any annoyance. The anger on his face was gone, replaced by a new expression bursting with empathy and concern. His hands lying open in his lap made him appear fully at ease.

The man is an emotional quick-change artist.

Nigel didn’t seem to perceive Bleasdale’s abrupt transformation. “Really?” he said in a surprised tone. “What sort of arrangement will allow us to complete such an acquisition?”

Bleasdale leaned even closer to Nigel. “Creative financing.”

“No one is that creative,” Nigel said with a sour laugh. “Our preliminary estimates of the value of the collection”—he glanced at Flick—“place the cost far beyond our resources.”

“As I said before—not necessarily.” Bleasdale spoke barely louder than a whisper. Flick had to strain to hear him. “If one were to find a levelheaded antiquities appraiser who understands true market value and who works quickly, a valuation satisfactory to Inland Revenue, the Hawkers, and the museum could be arrived at in perhaps three weeks. That is step one. Step two is to arrange a short-term loan to finance the inheritance taxes, a commonplace thing to do. Are you with me so far?”

Nigel nodded. “Appraise the collection and pay the taxes.”

“Now, for step three. The museum borrows the money to buy the antiquities. The collection itself will serve as collateral for a long-term loan—say payable over a comfortable ten years.”

“What about the down payment?”

“The Hawkers will accept a promissory note for the amount of the cash bequest you will receive from the estate.”

Flick’s mind raced.
Could it work?
Museums never would volunteer their antiquities as collateral for financial transactions, but this was a different situation. The Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum didn’t own the Hawker collection. The loan would help the museum purchase it in the first place. Ten years would be more than enough time to raise the necessary funds. It might work!

Flick waited for Nigel to ask another question, but he looked lost in thought. She jumped into the conversation. “Mr. Bleasdale, is this a theory or a real course of action?”

“The Hawkers have approved my choice of a qualified appraiser. The estate must complete step one and step two whether or not the museum decides to buy the collection. However…”
—
Bleasdale grinned from ear to ear—“I have also taken the liberty of approaching a financial institution in London that specializes in long-term loans collateralized by artwork and antiques. The ducks are in a row and ready to quack.”

Nigel snapped out of his musing. “You have given us much to think about, Mr. Bleasdale.”

“Think rapidly, Mr. Owen. If we begin immediately, the whole transaction can be completed within days of the grant of representation. Speed is of value to both sides.”

Bleasdale bowed again to Flick. “I am confident we will meet again soon, Dr. Adams.”

Flick took Cha-Cha off Nigel’s hands—literally—so that he could escort Bleasdale downstairs. She shut the door behind them and unlatched the cat crates. “If I remember what Elspeth told me,” she said softly, “cats of your size prefer not to be picked up.”

Flick was sitting on the floor once again, playing with the cats, when Nigel returned.

“They look like blue plush toys,” he said. “Big blue plush toys at that.” He turned the side chair around and sat down.

“The British Shorthair is a fairly docile breed. Quite friendly and not at all destructive.”

“Which is Lapsang and which is Souchong?”

Oh dear!

“As I recall,” Flick said, “Lapsang is the larger of the two.” It was a guess, but who would argue with her? Certainly not the cats.

“Where’s the pooch?” Nigel asked

“Look to your left. He came over to be near you when you came in. He’s definitely taken a fancy to you.”

Nigel reached down and scratched behind Cha-Cha’s ears. “What’s your opinion of Bleasdale?” he asked.

“Answer a question for me first. Why was he mad at you?”

“We had a slight
contretemps
in the lift. He behaved pompously and I overreacted. Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m skeptical about his remarkable change in demeanor. He turned off his anger like a faucet. It takes a great actor to do that. Or a consummate liar.”

Nigel made a face. “You’re playing detective again. Last week, you contrived the case of the conniving cardiologist. Today, you invented the incident of the insincere solicitor.”

Flick’s back stiffened.
Count to ten. Don’t let him make you mad.

“I watched Bleasdale closely,” she said evenly.

“As did I, and it happens that I am an excellent poker player.” He added, “I withdraw my question. You obviously presume he is up to no good.”

“I don’t presume anything. I don’t know
what
Bleasdale is up to.”

“I happen to think his scheme has merit.”

“I do, too. I just wish a lawyer less skilled at body language had proposed it.”

“Do you realize how silly that sounds?”

Count to ten again.

“Let’s talk about something else,” she said.

“I have the perfect topic,” Nigel said. “Animals. Specifically, what are we to do with them?”

“Elspeth hoped that her cats would have the run of the museum.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. Some people will be allergic to them during the day, and they might set off our burglar alarms at night.”

“Both good points,” she agreed. “In that case, I volunteer the curators’ wing on the third floor. They can live among our lab equipment—assuming, of course, that none of the curators have cat allergies. The combined square footage of the Conservation Laboratory and offices is comparable to a good-sized house. Best of all, they’ll have plenty of company all day.”

“Fine with me. What about the bird?”

“I propose to place him in the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom. We can put a large Victorian cage in the corner and make Earl a part of the ambience. Parrots and teahouses go together nicely.”

“That might work…” Nigel eyed Earl suspiciously. “Assuming his vocabulary doesn’t include any profanity.”

“I sincerely doubt that Elspeth Hawker taught her parrot how to curse.”

“Then let’s give it a try. That leaves the—
the
—I forgot what kind of dog this is.”

“A Shiba Inu. Elspeth told me it means ‘small dog’ in Japanese.”

“Very apropos. Who cares for him?”

“The curators have the cats. It seems only fair that the administrative staff adopt the dog.”

Nigel frowned. “What happens at night and on weekends? We can’t simply lock the hound in my office when the museum is closed.”

“Another good point. I guess you and I can take turns bringing Cha-Cha home. A ‘joint custody’ agreement, so to speak.”

“Me?”

“Us. At least until we can work out a better arrangement.”

“I am not at all certain that pets are allowed in my flat.”

Flick pointed to a large canvas tote bag. “I was going to send that back to the Hawkers, but perhaps we’d better keep it.”

“How can a self-respecting dog not hate being carried about in a sack like contraband goods?”

“He’s used to it. Elspeth began to bring him to the museum when he was a puppy.”

“You knew about this?”

Flick felt herself blush. “ ’Fraid so. Elspeth was quite attached to Cha-Cha. She took him with her everywhere.”

Cha-Cha raised his head and made a soft yip.

“He seems to know when people talk about him,” Nigel said.

“I believe that’s his ‘I need to go out’ bark.”

“Oh.”

“I hung his lead on the coatrack.”

Nigel sighed. “Perhaps I’ll get lucky while strolling through the Common. I’ll think of a way to foist this animal on someone else.”

It was the word
foist
that set Flick to thinking when Nigel and Cha-Cha left. Elspeth cared too much for her pets to risk foisting them on strangers. If she had been warned about a “dodgy ticker,” to quote Marjorie Halifax, Elspeth immediately would have made detailed provisions for the pets.

“But she didn’t, did she?” Flick said to Lapsang—
or possibly Souchong
—who had rolled over to have its tummy rubbed. As Flick crouched down to oblige, her cat’s-eye view of the office revealed an object attached beneath the wooden side chair that Nigel had just vacated.

She crawled closer to the chair and saw that two crossed strips of duct tape held a small metal box to the underside of the seat. She peeled the tape loose. The box was an old tobacco tin—Brophy’s Finest Pipe Tobacco—that opened on one end. She snapped the hinged flap aside and saw a small leather-bound notebook wedged into the can. It took several tugs—and lots of rocking—to pull the notebook out.

Flick had just sorted hundreds of samples of Elspeth’s clear, large handwriting; without doubt, Elspeth had written the words, numbers, and symbols on the first nineteen pages. She moved to Elspeth’s desk, sat down, and turned on the lamp. She realized vaguely that both cats had followed her across the room and were taking turns rubbing against her ankle, but she was too engrossed to care.

It’s some sort of diary or logbook.

The lined pages were covered with abbreviations:
Mos.—Ptn.—Pat.—Mos. Constsy.—T.W.—R.R.—Col. Mkgs.—Devs.—Reg.
And numbers:
50%—75%—100%.
And occasional complete words, such as
Hunan, Anhui, and Yunnan.
Most of the entries had been neatly inscribed with a fountain pen, but on the top right corner of every page, Elspeth had used a red marker to write a large
F
. Each page also had an obvious date neatly printed near the top. The dates spanned a nine-month period that culminated less than a month earlier.

She flipped the pages back and forth for nearly ten minutes. The notebook must have something to do with tea. Hunan, Anhui, and Yunnan were all tea-growing regions in China. Perhaps these are Elspeth’s tea-tasting notes?

Don’t be silly!

Flick took a deep breath and urged herself to think methodically. “There really are two questions to answer,” she murmured aloud. “What does the content mean? And why would Elspeth work so hard to hide it?”

Wrong!

“You know the notebook was hidden,” she said in full voice. “That’s the starting point. What kind of diary would Elspeth want to hide?”

Flick stared at the pages. She turned them slowly.

What am I looking at? What does F stand for?

A chill as strong as an electric shock ran down Flick’s spine.

F stands for Fake! Or Fraud! Or Forgery!

Like tumblers falling in place inside a lock, the abbreviations began to make sense. “T.W.” for Tunbridge Ware. “Mos.” for mosaic. “Ptn.” for pattern and “Pat.” for patina.

Figure out the rest later.

More tumblers dropped into slots. Each page represented a different antiquity—most of them pieces of Tunbridge Ware. The abbreviations described the specific characteristics of each item.

The notebook documented Elspeth’s home-brew evaluations of nineteen different antiquities on display. Elspeth had identified a group of forgeries in the museum—including many of her favorite Tunbridge Ware items.

The lock opened. Someone had replaced the originals with fakes. Someone who realized Dame Elspeth had discovered the deception.

The someone who poisoned Elspeth.

Flick addressed Souchong—or possibly Lapsang. “I knew it had to be murder,” she said. “No one believed me, but now I have a solid piece of evidence.” She laughed. “And you know what? The notebook means that Nigel Owen is off my list of suspects. The antiquity thefts began long before he arrived at the museum.”

Six suspects left. Five trustees and Conan Davies.

Almost without meaning to, Flick flipped through the pages of the notebook. All of the pages in the middle were blank, but Elspeth had written eight names on the very last page:

Archibald Meicklejohn?

Marjorie Halifax?

Dorothy McAndrews?

Sir Simon Clowes

Matthew Eaton?

William de Rudd

Iona Saxby?

Conan Davies?