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

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
    M uch 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