by Ron Benrey
Stuart sprang to his feet. “I like it! The self-taught amateur who outpaces her professional colleagues. That has definite possibilities.” He moved to a whiteboard affixed to the wall behind his desk, picked up a red marker, and wrote in bold letters, AMATEUR OUTDOES THE EXPERTS!
“What else did she do?” Stuart asked Nigel excitedly.
Nigel stared at his hands. What else did Elspeth do? He couldn’t think of a single thing, other than she claimed to have discovered “an exceedingly clever thief.”
You can’t talk about that.
Happily, the muse of epitaphs provided Stuart Battlebridge with an answer to his own question. “I know!” He spun back to his whiteboard. “We can say that Elspeth died while working to improve the museum she esteemed above all else.” He wrote, DIED IN HARNESS!
“Isn’t that a bit… well, grisly?” Archibald asked.
“Not at all!” Stuart answered over his shoulder. “I presume that they carried Elspeth out feet first? If so, she fulfilled the requirements of the hackneyed old cliché.”
“Possibly,” Archibald admitted. “But let’s not exceed the bounds of good taste.”
Nigel listened in amazement as Stuart, oblivious to interruption, continued on a roll: “English reporters love tales of captains going down with their ships. We will point out that Elspeth went down at her museum.” He wrote A LIFE OF GREAT PERSONAL SACRIFICE! on the board and simultaneously asked, “Does anyone remember what she ate and drank before her death?”
“Indeed I do!” Nigel said, joining in the spirit of the moment. “As usual, Elspeth ate raisin scones with her favorite Danish lingonberry preserves and clotted cream. She drank several cups of estate Darjeeling.”
“Magnificent!” Stuart roared. “Dame Elspeth Hawker died sipping tea and munching scones while standing at the helm of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum.”
“I beg your pardon!” Archibald tried to get Stuart’s attention. Nigel bit back a smile as Archibald added somewhat testily, “As the chair of the trustees, I stand at the helm of the museum.”
Stuart refused to be corrected—or slowed down. He wrote with extravagant strokes: FALLEN MUSEUM LEADER EXPIRES AFTER ENJOYING HER LAST AFTERNOON TEA! “Of course,” he said, “we must employ poetic license. A wholesome Scottish marmalade has more editorial appeal than some obscure Danish jelly. And a hearty workingman’s cuppa, perhaps brewed with an extra measure of PG Tips, seems more appropriate for Dame Elspeth than a tarted-up Darjeeling.”
Nigel felt a buzzing on his hip: a call coming in on his cell phone. What now? Only a handful of people had his number. Nigel moved the phone to his ear and shielded the microphone with his hand. “Nigel Owen.”
“Good evening, Nigel,” spoke a well-modulated voice. “William de Rudd here.”
“Ah! Vicar!” Nigel said guardedly. Why would the vicar of St. Stephen’s Church be calling at this hour?
“The Hawker family needs your help. Both Alfred and Harriet are distraught over their aunt’s unexpected death.”
“Are they?” Nigel tried to hide his skepticism. He had met the younger Hawkers twice. They both seemed hard as nails—hardly the sort to grieve over Elspeth. Nonetheless, they were the lawful heirs to the Hawker estate and now deserved the deference that the museum had paid to their two aunts. “What sort of help do they require?”
“Alfred and Harriet have no experience planning a funeral. I assured them that your staff would provide all necessary assistance in their time of crisis.”
Nigel swallowed a groan. His “staff ” consisted of one administrative assistant he shared with Flick. He would have to do most of the work himself.
“When would they like… ah… us to begin?”
“The Hawkers expect a visit from you tomorrow morning.”
Nigel snapped the phone shut with more force than necessary. The sharp snap echoed around the office, but neither Archibald nor Stuart, now standing together near the whiteboard, seemed to notice. It took Nigel a moment to realize they were negotiating how Elspeth should be described in the obituary. Stuart favored “legendary grande dame of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum”; Archibald preferred the less flashy “oldest trustee of a well-known museum in Kent.”
“Tell the truth, Elspeth,” Nigel muttered, as he peered skyward, “did you have any idea when you woke up this morning how much tumult you would create today?”
Flick lifted her half pint of English cider as Matthew Eaton said, “We raise our glasses to Dame Elspeth Hawker—a lovely lady and a fine friend. She had a good innings, then passed swiftly in old age. One can hardly ask for better than that.”
There were murmurs of agreement and a throaty “Here! Here!” from Iona Saxby, seated in the chair next to Flick. Iona punctuated her exclamation with a sensuous toss of her head that brushed the wide brim of her blue hat against Flick’s cheek.
Don’t flinch at Iona’s oversized hat. Don’t be annoyed that they’re toasting a murder victim. Act like one of the bunch.
Flick drank some cider and reminded herself that her mission this evening was to probe Elspeth’s relationships with the trustees. The trick was to be an effective observer—part of the proceedings but also separate.
Flick looked to her left and her right. Matthew’s toast had left the other trustees in a reflective mood. They sipped their drinks quietly, perhaps thinking about Dame Elspeth—or possibly their decidedly un-English surroundings. No oaken beams, no low ceilings and small windows, no fireplace roaring in the corner.
Hammonds Restaurant in the Swan Hotel billed itself as an “American-style bistro”—a curious sort of eating place, Flick thought, to be associated with a hotel that traced its wholly English roots back to the seventeenth century. The party of five was on the balcony, seated at a corner table that offered a bird’s-eye view of the modern interior. The window behind Flick faced Eridge Road, but she could look completely across Hammonds’s spacious dining room and central palm court and out the front windows into the heart of the Pantiles.
A nifty place to live.
The first document that Flick read when she became chief curator was a site report prepared in 1960 by a consultant to the Hawker Foundation. “If you choose to locate a museum in the city of Tunbridge Wells,” the author recommended, “a most sensible location would be on Eridge Road, south of the town centre, near the Pantiles, a well-established destination for visitors.”
Flick wasn’t surprised that the Hawker Foundation accepted this recommendation and purchased land less than a third of a mile away from the southern end of the Pantiles. She had made a similar decision on her initial visit to Tunbridge Wells and rented a second-story apartment on the Pantiles’s Lower Walk, opposite and down a short flight of steps from the famous colonnade.
She had written to her parents, “I have ‘let a flat,’ as the English say, in the old commercial centre of Tunbridge Wells. The Pantiles is a seventeenth-century pedestrian-only shopping street (what the Brits call a ‘precinct’) that could be the ancestor of a modern American strip mall. It is about two of our city blocks long. One side has a row of colonnaded shops—mostly selling antiques, clothing, jewelry, and food—with four-and five-story buildings above them.
“The place was named the ‘Pantiles’ when the walkways were paved with baked clay pantiles circa 1700. At the northern end is a spring, discovered in 1606, that yields iron-rich water. The stuff is supposed to be good for you, but I find it too bitter to drink. In any case, people traveled from far and wide to ‘take the waters,’ and shops grew up around the ‘dipping house.’ ”
A waiter interrupted Flick’s recollecting. She surprised herself by ordering steak salad. “An excellent choice!” Marjorie Halifax said loudly. “A proper meal is just the ticket for you tonight.” She looked at Flick over the top of her menu. “And there is no need to apologize again. As I told you in your office, we all understand your deep feelings for Dame Elspeth. Isn’t that right?”
There were four nods of agreeme
nt accentuated by the clinks of knives and forks against water glasses.
Flick did her best to look remorseful. “I of course regret that I allowed my love for Dame Elspeth to get in the way of my common sense.”
Don’t stop now! Get them on your side.
“Challenging Dr. Clowes in public was inappropriate and unwise,” Flick said evenly. “I won’t make the same mistake again.”
“Pity!” Iona said. “I admit it was fun to watch you push all of Sir Simon’s buttons at once. I have never seen him more exercised than he was this afternoon. Our Harley Street specialist can be rather pompous at times.”
Dorothy McAndrews, sitting across the table, brushed her long red hair away from her eyes and intoned in her gravely voice, “Well, I for one found your distress perfectly understandable, Dr. Adams. You are new to England, Pippa. Dame Elspeth became your friend and confidante—dare I even say it, a mother figure.”
Flick hesitated. The notion that Elspeth had become her substitute mother was laughable—but Dorothy seemed eager to have her insight acknowledged. “Perhaps you’re right,” Flick said. “Elspeth was exceptionally kind to me. I’m grateful that she took me under her wing and introduced me to many of the antiquities in our collection.”
Dorothy frowned. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but take everything she told you with a grain of salt. I see Elspeth Hawker as more of a dilettante than an expert, not even in the same league as the knowledgeable customers who frequent my antique shops. Her grasp of the museum’s holdings was a mile wide but only an inch deep—if you take my meaning.”
Flick forced herself to take a long, slow sip of cider. Don’t argue with her. Don’t tell her she’s wrong. Just listen!
Marjorie joined in. “I will not comment as to whether Dame Elspeth was a dilettante,” Marjorie said, “but her vistas were certainly limited. On several occasions I tried to interest her in local politics. As one of Tunbridge Wells’s leading citizens, she should have played a more active role in local governance. She insisted that she was too busy, either rummaging around in the basement of the museum or else tending to the roses in her garden.”
“I believe that ‘dilettante’ is a perfect word to describe Dame Elspeth,” Iona said. “History will record her as a rather capricious woman who lacked the earnestness—the gravitas—of her late half sister. The time she wasted with the items on display would have been better spent helping her fellow trustees with our management duties.” Iona added, “That won’t be a problem with the next generation of Hawkers. Alfred Hawker and Harriet Hawker Peckham are extremely interested in the future of the museum.”
“Like owls are interested in the future of field mice, I shouldn’t wonder,” Dorothy said. “After meeting thousands of customers, one gets to know the signs of avarice. I see them all over Harriet’s face whenever she visits the museum.”
Matthew Eaton chuckled. “Feel free to speak your mind, Dorothy. Tell us what you really think about our newest trustee.”
“You can’t be serious!” Dorothy said, all at once wide-eyed.
Iona reached over the table to pat Dorothy’s hand. “There always has been and always will be a member of the Hawker family on the museum’s board. I agree that Harriet is the most appropriate Hawker to succeed Dame Elspeth.”
Dorothy hefted her glass. “God save the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum.”
Flick joined in the laughter, considering all the while how she might turn the subject of the conversation back to Elspeth. She decided to ask a direct question.
“I’ve been told, Mr. Eaton,” she said, “that you are quite skilled at growing roses. Did Dame Elspeth ever ask your help for her garden?”
“She did not!” His tone carried more than a hint of annoyance. “I volunteered my horticultural expertise more than once, but she never took me up on my offer.”
“Consider yourself lucky!” said Dorothy McAndrews. “Since I became a trustee last year, I received dozens of requests from Dame Elspeth. Did I have a book she might borrow on nineteenth-century paintings? Did I employ an appraiser who specialized in fine china? Was anyone on my staff an authority on Tunbridge Ware?” Dorothy paused a moment. “In fact, she nearly drove me mad with calls about Tunbridge Ware.”
Flick noticed a sly smile appear on Dorothy’s face as she said, “I suspect that Elspeth regaled our new chief curator with long lectures on her favorite wooden antiques.”
Too many to count!
For about two hundred fifty years, local artisans in Tunbridge Wells produced useful wooden articles decorated with ingenious wooden mosaics. There were small boxes of every imaginable size and purpose, tea caddies, bowls, salad spoons, bookends, earrings, music stands, flower stands, spinning wheels, small tables, writing desks, cribbage boards, chess and backgammon boards—the list stretched on and on. During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, almost every shop in the Pantiles had some Tunbridge Ware for sale. The tea museum had an impressive collection of tea-related Tunbridge Ware, so Flick had a reason to become acquainted with its history. Elspeth knew the story of every antique thingamabob, toy, and doodad by heart. She also took Flick on “field trips,” as Elspeth called them, to see the large Tunbridge Ware collection at the Tunbridge Wells Museum and Art Gallery in the Civic Centre on Mount Pleasant Road. Elspeth had taught Flick all that she needed to know—and then some. And in the process, Flick had come to love one particular set of Tunbridge Ware tea caddies.
Before Flick could answer Dorothy’s question, Iona said, “I surrender. Please talk about anything but Tunbridge Ware. I can’t stand the awful stuff.”
Flick bit back a smile as she realized what had happened. Dorothy had turned the conversation to Tunbridge Ware to pay back Iona for her patronizing hand pat a few minutes earlier.
“I agree with Iona,” Matthew said gallantly. “Let us make a pact. Henceforth, for the remainder of this evening we will not bring up any of Dame Elspeth’s eccentricities or foibles. As my first schoolmaster might have said, we shall talk about the good things in her long life or nothing at all.”
Flick hoped that no one at the table heard her groan.
Four
Much to Nigel Owen’s relief—and thanks to his splendid planning—the funeral of Elspeth Olivia Hawker, dame commander of the British Empire, went off without a hitch on Saturday morning.
Elspeth’s interment in the family mausoleum at Lion’s Peak took place promptly at nine o’clock. This had been a private ceremony, limited to family members, the trustees, and the handful of museum employees who had come to know Elspeth well. Vicar William de Rudd officiated.
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.”
