by Ron Benrey
Nigel sensed triumph in the solicitor’s proclamation. Before he could invent an appropriate reply, Margo McKendrick said, “Sir, a busload of guests just arrived in the car park. You might want to continue your discussions away from the general public.”
Nigel made a command decision. “Bird, cats, dog, solicitor, security chief—everyone up to the Hawker Suite!”
Conan Davies, birdcage in arms, led the entourage. Bleasdale, amidships, toted a pet carrier in each hand. Nigel, holding firmly on Cha-Cha’s lead, brought up the rear. The dog trotted with untroubled self-confidence into the museum’s snug service elevator.
This is not the first time you have ridden upstairs, Nigel realized. He recalled the lumpy canvas bag that Elspeth Hawker often carried into the museum. Your mistress was a smuggler.
The door slid shut, and a shrill cockney voice filled the elevator: “Can I have a cuppa? It’s better than a cracker.”
“The blooming parrot talks!” Conan bellowed. Nigel saw the cage begin to fall and helped Conan reposition it in his arms.
“Indeed your new rara avis talks,” Bleasdale said. “In fact, African Greys are reputed to be the smartest of all birds and can be compared in intelligence to a five-year-old human child, although they usually display the emotional development of a typical two-year-old.” He chuckled. “By the way, Earl is only ten years old, a mere pup by parrot standards. The museum can expect to care for him for, oh, sixty more years.”
“Put a sock in it, Barrington,” Nigel said.
Nigel saw that his gibe had its intended effect: Bleasdale’s smug simper faded. But before anyone—or anything—could speak another word, the elevator door opened on the second floor. Nigel, who had been last getting into the elevator, instantly became first getting out, propelled by a startlingly strong tug on the lead he had wrapped around his wrist. Cha-Cha, who from Nigel’s perspective looked like a miniature Siberian husky towing a sled, yanked him straight to the door of the Hawker Suite then sat down on its haunches.
Bloody undisciplined hound.
Nigel worked the push-button combination lock and turned the knob. The small dog zoomed through the partially ajar door. Nigel’s hand flew through the opening, but the rest of him took a second or two to catch up.
“Cha-Cha!” Flick said cheerfully. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”
The dog bounded over and licked her face—an easy task because Flick was sitting on the floor near the window that overlooked the tea garden, surrounded by piles of papers, books, metal business tins, and open corrugated cartons.
Of course! She’s packing up Elspeth’s belongings.
Nigel gingerly stepped between a carton of file folders and a framed photograph of Harriet and Alfred sitting side by side in a garden. Judging from the ratio of unpacked clobber to taped-and-labeled boxes, Flick had half the job completed. She seemed in a much-improved mood today.
Hurray! The last thing he needed today was a fresh temper tantrum from Felicity Adams.
“Pardon, sir,” Conan Davies said from the doorway. “Where should I set the birdcage?”
Nigel quickly scanned the room. “Why not the small round conference table to the left of the chief curator?”
Bleasdale, glaring all the while, followed Conan inside and stacked the two cat crates on the floor, beneath the cage.
“These felines are not used to confinement,” Bleasdale said stiffly. “I suggest you release them at your earliest convenience.”
Nigel saw furry blue faces pressing against the screens. Blimey! Blue cats with orange eyes. He tried to think. He had been foolish to bait a visiting solicitor a few minutes before important negotiations began in earnest. Perhaps he could mend the fence he had thoroughly demolished.
“Mr. Bleasdale,” he said, “I congratulate you on your in-depth knowledge of these animals. Would you know how well the cats and the dog get along?”
“Splendidly,” Bleasdale replied, a decidedly frosty tone in his voice. “Your museum may not own its antiquities, but it now possesses a happy little family.”
Nigel forced himself to smile at the solicitor’s malevolent taunt.
It is going to be a long afternoon.
Flick surveyed the crowd of men and animals that had mysteriously gathered around her. Nigel Owen appeared perturbed, Conan Davies befuddled, Earl stoical, Lapsang and Souchong annoyed, and Cha-Cha—well, he had acted uncommonly friendly for a Shiba Inu. She quickly sorted out the one creature she hadn’t met before. The heavyset man in the custom-tailored suit must be Bleasdale, the solicitor.
What were they all doing here?
Why was Bleasdale glaring daggers at Nigel?
And how was she going to get up? The rather tight skirt she had on would rise to her hips if she tried to stand.
Bleasdale answered her third question by offering his hand. “You are Dr. Adams, are you not?” He pulled her to her feet, introduced himself, and gave a slight bow. “I saw your photograph in the museum’s annual report. Very becoming.” He waved gracefully at the clutter on the floor. “By any chance, are you assembling Dame Elspeth’s miscellany for shipment to the family?”
“Yes, I am.” Flick hoped that she looked less amused than she felt. She had imagined Bleasdale as a foppish seventeenth-century courtier, dispensing English chivalry with a trowel.
“Excellent! I shall be delighted to take any boxes you have completed back to Lion’s Peak,” Bleasdale said. “My firm’s minivan is parked in the rear. It was the easiest means of transporting Elspeth’s pets to the museum.”
The pets! No wonder Nigel looks upset.
She had meant to confer with Nigel about Elspeth’s contract with the museum. Elspeth had often talked to her about it—and had even expressed a wish or two about her pets’ long-term living arrangements.
First things first.
Flick pointed at three sealed and stacked boxes. “Those are ready to go.”
Conan spoke up. “Shall I arrange to have them taken to the loading dock and placed in Mr. Bleasdale’s minivan?”
“Please do,” Flick and Nigel said simultaneously. His voice was much louder—a clear signal that any orders given to Conan this afternoon should come from him.
Flick moved away from the piles of paper, sat on the edge of the table, and crossed her arms.
It’s all yours, pal.
“Where’s my tea?” Earl squawked unexpectedly. “You promised me a crumpet.”
Flick sprang to her feet. Bleasdale laughed out loud. “Surprisingly, the bird does enjoy a crumpet on occasion,” he said to her, “complete with bitter orange marmalade, I’ve been told. Which reminds me: There are several pet-related accessories in my van.” He began to count on his chubby fingers. “Two cat litter boxes, three water bowls, three food bowls, two cases of cat food, two fifteen-kilo packages of dog kibble, a thirty-kilo sack of parrot food, and a box full of sundry treats and toys.”
Nigel rolled his eyes. “Conan, please inform Giselle Logan that we need to commandeer a shelf in her pantry.”
“Aye, sir. I’ll move these boxes downstairs and see to the pet supplies.” The big man lifted the stack of cartons as if they were empty.
“Take extra care with the one on top,” Flick said. “I packed Elspeth’s personal items inside it.”
The thought brought a new round of tears to her eyes. Earlier that day, while disassembling the well-equipped “survival kit” in Elspeth’s desk, Flick had gone through five tissues and a paper towel. Elspeth had carefully organized three drawers on one side of her desk to hold a roll-up toiletries pouch, a makeup box, two extra pairs of eyeglasses, a first-aid box, a sewing box, three teacups and saucers, a small electric teakettle, a packet of tea bags, a bottle of vitamin tablets, two bottles of ink for her fountain pen, an extra fountain pen, a pair of sensible shoes, several packages of stockings, a supply of dog food and doggie treats, a Bible, and an ancient copy of the Book of Common Prayer, with her name inscribed in a neat, childish hand. Elspeth had ev
en managed to squeeze in a silvery roll of duct tape.
Flick blew her nose in a sixth tissue and said, “If no one objects, I will let the cats out of their crates.”
Nigel surprised her. “Not quite yet.” He addressed the solicitor: “Mr. Bleasdale, why don’t we meet here rather than in my office? What more fitting venue than the Hawker Suite to talk about the Hawker collection. Besides, I think it will be useful for Dr. Adams, our chief curator, to observe our discussion.”
Bleasdale nodded at Nigel, then beamed at Flick. She smiled back, not sure how else to react.
What is Nigel playing at? On Saturday, he had made it abundantly clear that he alone would meet the Hawkers’ lawyer. And the word “observe” seemed to indicate that he didn’t want Flick to actually participate.
A likely answer gelled in her mind. Bleasdale is miffed at Nigel for some reason, but he seems to like me. Therefore, Nigel asked me to stay. Men can be such jerks.
“Shall we sit down?” Nigel gestured grandly toward the small sofa adjacent to the round conference table. He dragged over an austere wooden side chair for himself, leaving the more comfortable upholstered seating for Flick and Bleasdale. The solicitor sat down facing Nigel and promptly crossed his arms; Flick nestled into the far end of the sofa, where she could watch both men without pivoting her head. Cha-Cha, still pinioned to Nigel’s wrist with the lead, curled up at Nigel’s feet.
“This morning,” Nigel began, “I read the museum’s original contract with Mary Hawker Evans. It calls for any items lent to us by the Hawker family to be returned upon ninety days’ notice. Is that your understanding of the terms, Mr. Bleasdale?”
The solicitor replied with a begrudging nod and a stiff “Correct.”
“I presume that the ninety-day period will be measured from the date the museum receives such notice from the executor of Dame Elspeth’s estate.”
“Also correct. Alfred Hawker and Harriet Hawker Peckham are the coexecutors. I shall advise them in their duties.”
“When do you expect the Probate Registry to issue the grant of representation to the Hawker heirs?”
Flick did a quick Britain–to–United States translation. In Pennsylvania, the register of wills granted letters testamentary to the executor of the estate. Otherwise the process of settling an estate sounded pretty much the same. A court dealing in wills and estates would give the Hawkers the authority to demand the return of the items on display.
“Oh, one suspects it will happen quickly,” Bleasdale said. “Dame Elspeth died testate, and her will was prepared by an excellent solicitor. I am confident that her estate is fully in order.”
“Then our antiquities could be gone in as little as five or six months,” Nigel said gloomily.
“Not necessarily.” Bleasdale leaned forward, as if he were sharing a secret with Nigel. “I suspect that our impromptu meeting on Saturday left you with the impression that the Hawkers are unreasonable folk. In fact, Harriet and Alfred fully understand that their best course of action is to work out a flexible arrangement with you that will enable the museum to acquire the Hawker collection.”
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.”
