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

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.”
    Nigel nodded noncommittally. The “housemaid” in question was more of a live-in companion than a servant. Katherine Quarles, a robust, rosy-cheeked woman in her early seventies, often accompanied Elspeth to the museum. Nigel knew she had been with Elspeth for nearly fifty years. He made a mental note to find out if she needed transport to the funeral.
    Harriet continued. “It will be best to get right to the matters at hand.”
    Nigel reached into his breast pocket. He had thought ahead and prepared a tentative list of people who might want to attend Elspeth’s funeral. Harriet scanned the two sheets of paper, occasionally scowling, occasionally shaking her head.
    “There must be a hundred names here,” she said with a final grimace.
    “One hundred and nine,” Nigel admitted.
    Harriet frowned. “It is certainly true that our famous ancestor, Desmond Hawker, was flamboyant by nature. Dame Elspeth, however, lived a highly private life. She would hardly approve of entertaining a crowd of strangers. We believe that a small, discreet funeral attended by only her inner circle would be most in keeping with her wishes.” She glanced at Alfred. “Isn’t that right?”
    Alfred’s head bobbled up and down like a wind-up doll.
    Nigel managed another vague nod, although he felt like laughing in Harriet’s face. Harriet’s fabled stinginess, not Elspeth’s “wishes,” had driven her response. He had expected and prepared for just such a prospect.
    “I believe you are right, Mrs. Peckham,” Nigel said, through gritted teeth. “Therefore let me offer a suggestion. We begin the day with private interment here at Lion’s Peak, then follow with a public memorial service and a reception at the museum.”
    Alfred looked puzzled. “Doesn’t holding an interment first put the cart before the horse, so to speak?”
    “Not really,” Nigel said. “Vicar de Rudd assures me that interment-first funerals have become quite common.”
    “An excellent idea, Mr. Owen,” Harriet said, her voice bubbling with contentment. “I take it that the museum