Dead as a Scone (32 page)

Flick suddenly spun around. She moved back to the sepia-toned photograph she had looked at earlier and held it up for Nigel to view.

“Nigel, you haven’t seen this fascinating photograph of Elspeth at age fourteen. It was taken on the beach at Brighton.”

He peered at it for a few seconds. “Yes, quite lovely.”

As they rode down in the lift, she said, “Did anything about the photo strike you as odd?”

“Other than your bizarre interest in it?” He shook his head. “It seemed a routine aging snap of a teenaged girl.”

“Did you note what Elspeth was wearing?”

“Some sort of formal white dress—with long sleeves.”

“Exactly!”

“Sorry. I haven’t a clue what you are getting at.”

“I think I’ve just figured out why Sir Simon Clowes lied to everyone.”

Fourteen

Could Flick be right?

Nigel gazed through the windscreen at the road, driving carefully but not paying attention as his favorite haunts in central London flashed by. His mind was trying to come to terms with Flick’s latest brainstorm.

A week ago, he would have scoffed at her idea. But he had come to know Flick much better during the past few days. He had begun to admire her and, perhaps more to the point, was increasingly willing to trust her judgment. There was a certain logic in her notion that Sir Simon Clowes had protected Dame Elspeth in death the way many others had apparently protected her in life.

English nobility—even minor nobility—takes care of its own.

He glanced sideways at Flick, who was browsing the pages of Philip Oxley’s manuscript. What would she do if he agreed with her conclusion? She could be as unpredictable as a nutter at times, making downright lunatic decisions when she latched on to a duff idea. With a bit of encouragement, she might telephone Kent police or possibly even MI5.

But perhaps this wasn’t such a duff idea after all?

“Assuming you have guessed right about the good doctor,” he said guardedly, “what do you intend to do about it?”

“Talk to him. We should visit him this evening.”

“Today?
We?”

Nigel abruptly applied the brakes and steered left across the yellow line into a no-parking zone. The driver in the car behind honked in annoyance as she veered around the stopped BMW.

“Yes and yes,” Flick said. “The faster I get Dr. Clowes to change his story, the better for everyone concerned. And it has to be ‘we.’ He’ll agree to see you, but he might hang up the phone if I call him. Besides, you probably have his private number. I don’t.”

Nigel nodded. Six months ago, he had taken the trouble to store the private telephone number of every trustee in his cell phone. Without protest, he pushed the button on the steering wheel that turned on the
Bluetooth
link between his smartphone and the BMW’s audio system. His mouth suddenly felt dry. He was about to run the risk of alienating an important trustee, but somehow that didn’t seem as important as making Flick Adams happy.

Nigel moistened his lips with his tongue. “What should I say?”

“The truth. We need about fifteen minutes of his time later this evening.”

Nigel nodded again. He pushed another button on the steering wheel and said, “Call! Doctor Clowes!” A gentle beep announced that the voice-operated system had understood his command and dialed the number.

The doctor answered on the third ring.

“Yes?”

“Nigel Owen here, Sir Simon.” He took a deep breath, then began again. “Here’s the thing. I am with Felicity Adams. We have to see you, preferably later today.”

“About?”

“A museum-related issue. It would be inappropriate to discuss it over the telephone.”

“A bit short notice for a business meeting, don’t you think? In any case, my wife and I are entertaining dinner guests this evening.”

Every fiber in Nigel’s body wanted to yield, to apologize for disturbing a busy physician. Nonetheless, he pressed forward. “It is important that we meet with you today, Sir Simon, otherwise I wouldn’t ask. We need only fifteen minutes. Possibly less.”

Sir Simon made an unhappy grunt. “Do you know where my house is?”

“In Rusthall, on Manor Park.”

“I plan to leave my surgery at five thirty. I will arrive home no later than six. You can have ten minutes.” He rang off without saying good-bye.

“That went reasonably well,” Nigel said brightly, struggling to keep the foreboding he felt out of his voice. Sir Simon was merely irked at him now. He would be utterly furious when Flick finished presenting her latest conjecture.

You didn’t really want a posh position in healthcare.

“It’s almost four,” Flick said. Nigel lifted his head and saw her nervously surveying the slow-moving afternoon traffic. She went on, “Can we make it to Tunbridge Wells by six?”

“We will make it—although I shall have to drive like Sterling Moss.”

The thought straightaway cheered Nigel. There was nothing like sustained heavy-duty driving to take one’s mind off everything else. “I think we will try a different route going back. Rusthall is west of Tunbridge Wells. I propose we make for Rusthall via East Grinstead.”

“I’m game—even though I don’t know where East Grinstead is.”

On this leg of their trip, Nigel’s optimism in his driving skills proved warranted. They passed through East Grinstead scarcely an hour later. Rusthall lay less than ten miles ahead. Nigel allowed himself to relax a notch. Although the sun had set, the rain had stopped and traffic was moving smartly.

He looked at Flick and said, “Do you realize that we are currently on the road to Tunbridge Wells?”

“Yep. Directly behind the 291 Metrobus. The exhaust fumes are making me sick.”

“Actually, I had Nathalie Stubbings’s words in mind. Specifically, her description of Desmond Hawker’s late-in-life conversion to Christianity.”

“Oh that.”

He stopped talking to steer the BMW through a roundabout and pass the bus, then he said, “Your tone signals that you don’t believe Desmond had a genuine change of heart. Why are you so skeptical?”

Flick didn’t reply, which surprised Nigel. She never had any difficulty stating—and arguing—her opinions. Yet he sensed an almost palpable reluctance to answer this question.

“Well, let me tell you what I think,” he said. “I can’t say whether his heart was truly refurbished, but I am willing to accept that Desmond Hawker mellowed as he grew older. He seems to have done many good things in the latter years of his life, a fact that has set me thinking. My mother taught me to attend chiefly to what people do, not what they say. She often reinforced the principle with a line from scripture: ‘By their fruit you will recognize them.’ ”

This time, Flick responded with an indifferent “I suppose so.”

Nigel went on. “The simple truth is that Desmond Hawker turned into an astonishingly fruitful old man. He built a church, gave away half of his huge fortune to create a foundation to promote the betterment of humanity, and apparently helped a crowd of locals in Tunbridge Wells.” He patted the top of Flick’s right hand with his left hand. “If I am willing to give the old robber baron the benefit of the doubt, why are you disinclined?”

Nigel glanced routinely at the rearview mirror and realized that Flick had leaned to the right and was peering intently at his reflection.

“You’re the businessperson in this car,” she said. “Everything I know about commerce came from the handful of business courses I took back in graduate school. But I still remember what my management professor told us on the first day of class. ‘The Japanese say that business is war. They are absolutely right.’ He went on to explain that the language of business is full of military jargon. Business people devise strategies, attack competitors, defend territories, dominate markets, wage competitive battles. One of our textbooks for the course was Sun Tzu’s
The Art of War,
written in China about 500 BC. I can only recall one of Sun Tzu’s tenets. ‘All warfare is based on deception.’ ”

Flick leaned back against her seat. “Can anyone who lives with that kind of dog-eat-dog mind-set for forty years magically change his thinking? My problem is that I can’t stop seeing Desmond asking, ‘How do I come out on top?’ and ‘What’s in it for me?’ ” She sighed. “Show me
one
businessperson who really changed his or her stripes and then maybe I’ll believe that Desmond Hawker did it.”

Nigel kept his eyes on the road, wondering for a moment if Flick had intended her last comment as an indirect slap in his face—a veiled criticism of his day-to-day ethics and behavior.
Probably not.
She had stated the kind of sweeping generality that many people outside of commerce spout about businesspeople. He remembered a joke that had made the rounds in London a year earlier.
Question: How can one tell when a businessperson is lying? Answer: His or her lips are moving.

Like all generalities, one could find some examples that proved the point and other examples that were completely contrary. During his early years in business, Desmond Hawker probably fell into the first category. Nigel hoped that his own career fell into the latter.

“I can’t provide the proof you demand,” he said. “I am not certain if anyone can. The changes you want to see are not external like zebra stripes. If Desmond Hawker changed at all, it was on the inside. Something happened that transformed his thinking forever.”

“What kind of
something?”

“Ah, that question we may be able to answer. One of us should browse among Desmond’s papers in the museum’s archives.” Nigel eased his foot on the accelerator. “We’ve just passed Rusthall Road. To get to Sir Simon’s house, we have to make a half-left turn onto Bishops Down Road and full-left turn onto Manor Park.”

“Manor Park
what?”

“It is a lane, although its name is simply Manor Park.”

Flick shook her head sadly. “Whatever.” She seemed to forget about English street-naming conventions when Nigel steered into the driveway and parked behind a large Jaguar sedan.

“Wow! There must be big bucks in British cardiology,” she said breathlessly. “That is one mean house. Kind of a storybook cottage on steroids. How many million pounds do you suppose it’s worth?” She began to sing the vintage American song “You Gotta Have Heart.”

Nigel chuckled at Flick’s choice of words and music. Both seemed right on the mark. The large redbrick house was lit inside and outside to welcome the Cloweses’ anticipated dinner guests. It was chiefly Queen Anne style, with a host of the usual quaint details, including white stucco on the ground floor bricks, intricate gables (Nigel counted at least four roof peaks), tile facings, a forest of chimneys, and windows broken into dozens of small panes.

Nigel checked his watch. Ten before six. “The Jag is Sir Simon’s car,” he said. “He made it home early.”

They walked together to the front door. Nigel rang the bell. He heard the deep bark of a large dog somewhere inside. “Hope he’s friendly,” Flick said, voicing his thoughts.

A shadowed form approached the frosted glass-paneled front door. The door swung open and Sir Simon beckoned them inside.

“Welcome to you both,” he said courteously but unenthusiastically. “We can talk in my study.”

Nigel followed Flick inside into a well-appointed foyer with stone flooring, an ornate central lighting fixture, and a tall grandfather clock. Nigel heard the clink of dishes somewhere in the distance. The smell of food cooking reminded him that he was hungry.

A large, friendly golden retriever approached Nigel at a good clip, its toenails skittering on the stones. Sir Simon let the dog sniff Nigel and Flick—and accept a few head pats
—
before saying, “Elsie, go to the kitchen. Kitchen!” Elsie studied her master’s face for a few seconds, decided he was serious, then trotted back the way she had come.

Sir Simon led them into a large front room that overlooked the driveway. Nigel thought the furnishings decidedly masculine: dark wood paneling, tall bookcases, a stuffed water buffalo head on one wall. Dr. Clowes gestured to a pair of leather-upholstered armchairs near a large stone fireplace that must have been responsible for the slightly smoky smell lingering in the air. Nigel let Flick choose her chair, then he sat down in its mate. Sir Simon turned a high-backed wooden chair around to face the twin armchairs.

“Now, what is so important that it could not wait until tomorrow?” he asked Nigel.

Flick spoke before Nigel could answer. “Not what.
Who.
We’ve come to talk about Elspeth Hawker.”

Nigel winced at Flick’s blunt tone; he had planned to begin with a more tactful opening statement. But Flick’s lack of diplomacy seemed to have one useful effect: It startled Simon Clowes into quiet submission.

“Yes?” he said guardedly, his eyes suddenly wary. “What about Dame Elspeth?”

“Nigel and I learned this afternoon,” Flick said, “about a near-catastrophic fire at Lion’s Peak that injured Elspeth Hawker. She was five years old at the time.”