Dead as a Scone by Ron Benrey, Janet Benrey Read Free Book Online

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