Dead as a Scone

by Ron Benrey

  Nigel abruptly snapped the manuscript shut. “I can understand why the Hawker family decided not to publish this book,” he said. “It is a miracle that one of them didn’t shoot Philip Oxley when he presented his finished manuscript. He clearly had learned enough to cast doubt on the legend of Desmond Hawker.”

  Nathalie frowned. “Do you think it is true?”

  Nigel sighed. “ ’Fraid so. The chapter I read has a definite ring of truth. The manuscript also seems very well written by an author who knows how to begin a chapter with a fitting epigraph. ‘The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.’ ”

  Flick didn’t try to restrain the rush of righteous anger she felt. “I don’t care about miscellaneous quotations from Shakespeare!” she nearly shouted. “What did you read in the stupid chapter?”

  Nigel laughed, but the amusement on his face drained away quickly as Flick stared him down. “An incredible story, actually,” he said. “Oxley is somewhat sketchy on the details, but he asserts that Desmond Hawker betrayed Neville Brackenbury and was, in fact, responsible for his partner’s personal bankruptcy in 1876. Rather than help save his friend, Desmond used the occasion to drive Brackenbury out of their partnership.”

  “In short,” Flick said, “Oxley assumed that the old rumors were true.”

  Nigel nodded. “Time passed. Desmond Hawker thrived as a solo tea merchant, while Neville Brackenbury faltered and failed. He died in 1883, still in debt, leaving his wife and children destitute. They apparently migrated to Canada, where one might assume the story would end.”

  “However, it did not,” she volunteered.

  “Fast-forward to a Sunday morning in May 1925. Sir Basil Hawker; his wife, Gwyneth; and their two young children, Edmund and Elspeth, are at Lion’s Peak asleep in their beds. You will recall that Gwyneth was Sir Basil’s second wife. His first wife, Sarah, died almost thirty years earlier giving birth to Mary Hawker, who married Harry Evans in 1920.”

  “Is that significant?”

  “Not in the least. What really matters is that at approximately six o’clock in the morning, a fast-moving fire began on the ground floor, toward the rear of the house, and rapidly engulfed one-third of the original structure—including the bedrooms. By a near miracle, three members of the family escaped without injury. Elspeth Hawker, age five, pulled loose from her mother, ran back into the house in a futile attempt to rescue a caged songbird, and was burned—badly enough, it seems, to require a series of five surgeries over the next two years.”

  “Oh my, poor Elspeth.”

  “Enter the fire brigade. Because Decimus Burton had built Lion’s Peak well, the firemen brought the blaze under control before it destroyed the house. When the gutted wing cooled enough to be examined, the authorities found an empty petrol can.”

  “An arson fire?” Flick asked.

  “Yes. They also found the body of a man, presumably the arsonist. He obviously had miscalculated how quickly the fire would spread. He was too badly burned to be identified, and in any event, forensic identification was in its infancy in 1925.”

  “Case closed.”

  “Not so fast,” Nigel said wryly. “The arsonist apparently wanted the reason for the fire to be known throughout Tunbridge Wells. On the Monday morning after the fire, an anonymous letter arrived at the Kent and Sussex Courier. It had been posted on Saturday. The letter itself was quite short. ‘The person responsible for the destruction of Lion’s Peak offers a lesser-known verse from scripture about thievery in response to a verse known to many in Tunbridge Wells.’ Neatly copied below was a verse from...” Nigel began to thumb through the pages.

  “The book of Zechariah,” Nathalie said. “Specifically, chapter five. The writer of the letter used the King James Version.

  Let me read you the passage in a modern translation.” She reached for a black, leather-bound Bible on a small table near her chair. She opened it and began to read.

  “I looked again—and there before me was a flying scroll! He asked me, ‘What do you see?’ I answered, ‘I see a flying scroll, thirty feet long and fifteen feet wide.’ And he said to me, ‘This is the curse that is going out over the whole land; for according to what it says on one side, every thief will be banished, and according to what it says on the other, everyone who swears falsely will be banished. The Lord Almighty declares, ‘I will send it out, and it will enter the house of the thief and the house of him who swears falsely by my name. It will remain in his house and destroy it, both its timbers and its stones.’ ”

  Nathalie let the Bible drop into her lap. “Please continue with the story, Nigel. You tell it better than Philip Oxley did.”

  “There’s more?” Flick asked.

  “A minor media flurry in Tunbridge Wells,” he said. “The editor of the Courier knew a good revenge story when he saw one. He also liked catchy headlines. For the next week or so, locals read and talked about ‘the Flying Scroll Vendetta.’ ”

  “Did the newspaper propose a reason for revenge?” Flick asked.

  “Successive front pages floated several theories—from malevolent tea exporters in China to a lunatic cabal of Desmond’s former competitors. The story petered out when the police lost interest in identifying the dead arsonist.”

  “And he never has been identified.”

  “Never,” Nigel said grimly, “although Philip Oxley makes a fairly strong case for the arsonist being a long-lost relative of Neville Brackenbury.”

  Nathalie chimed in again. “That is a possibility only if one believes that the commodore treated Neville badly. As you noted, the only evidence that Oxley could find to support his theory were vague reports of century-old rumors.”

  Nigel gave a seemingly reluctant nod. “I grant you that the direct evidence is sketchy, but Oxley cites many rumors of Desmond’s wrongdoing. One begins to think that the presence of smoke indicates fire.”

  Flick turned to Nathalie. “What did Elspeth think when she reread the manuscript?”

  “She left more confused than when she arrived. I urged her to take the manuscript with her, but she felt she had exhausted its possibilities.”

  Flick looked at the document resting in Nigel’s upturned hands. “Nathalie, may I borrow the manuscript for a few days?”

  A shadow of doubt crept across the woman’s face. “I suppose so, although I would prefer that you don’t make a copy for the museum library. I know Elspeth would disapprove.”

  Flick held up her right hand. “I promise!”

  “Well, then, keep it as long as you like. The only reason I ever open the manuscript is to look at the photographs.”

  Flick paused a moment, not sure what photographs Nathalie meant. Nigel came to her rescue by opening the manuscript to the middle pages. He showed her the two photos of Desmond Hawker.

  “The great man himself,” Flick said. “Middle-aged and beyond.”

  “Much more than that,” Nathalie said. “These are before-and-after photographs. Before he became a changed man. And after. See how he gained peace—the ‘peace that surpasses understanding.’ ”

  Flick examined the photos with her curator’s eye. The men they depicted were clearly different. The second Desmond looked honorable; the first man looked like a wealthy scoundrel. Was it a mere quirk of photography—or something more?

  Nathalie continued. “The first Desmond is worldly and sinful. The second is salt and light.” Nathalie peered first at Flick, then at Nigel. “I hope you understand. It is the Christian’s responsibility to be the salt of the earth and the light of the world—to do right and show the way by example.”

  Flick noticed out of the corner of her eye that Nigel was tapping his wristwatch. He had told her he wanted to be on the road back to Tunbridge Wells no later than two thirty in the afternoon. It had just turned three.

  Exchanging good-byes with Nathalie took another ten minutes. She urged them to visit again; both Flick and Nigel promised they would. She found a treat for Cha-Cha, and
she insisted on walking with them to the door. “Give my regards to Tunbridge Wells,” she said. “I miss my little city.”

  Flick suddenly spun around. She moved back to the sepia-toned photograph she had looked at earlier and held it up for Nigel to view.

  “Nigel, you haven’t seen this fascinating photograph of Elspeth at age fourteen. It was taken on the beach at Brighton.”

  He peered at it for a few seconds. “Yes, quite lovely.”

  As they rode down in the lift, she said, “Did anything about the photo strike you as odd?”

  “Other than your bizarre interest in it?” He shook his head. “It seemed a routine aging snap of a teenaged girl.”

  “Did you note what Elspeth was wearing?”

  “Some sort of formal white dress—with long sleeves.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Sorry. I haven’t a clue what you are getting at.”

  “I think I’ve just figured out why Sir Simon Clowes lied to everyone.”

  Fourteen

  Could Flick be right?

  Nigel gazed through the windscreen at the road, driving carefully but not paying attention as his favorite haunts in central London flashed by. His mind was trying to come to terms with Flick’s latest brainstorm.

  A week ago, he would have scoffed at her idea. But he had come to know Flick much better during the past few days. He had begun to admire her and, perhaps more to the point, was increasingly willing to trust her judgment. There was a certain logic in her notion that Sir Simon Clowes had protected Dame Elspeth in death the way many others had apparently protected her in life.

  English nobility—even minor nobility—takes care of its own.

  He glanced sideways at Flick, who was browsing the pages of Philip Oxley’s manuscript. What would she do if he agreed with her conclusion? She could be as unpredictable as a nutter at times, making downright lunatic decisions when she latched on to a duff idea. With a bit of encouragement, she might telephone Kent police or possibly even MI5.

  But perhaps this wasn’t such a duff idea after all?

  “Assuming you have guessed right about the good doctor,” he said guardedly, “what do you intend to do about it?”

  “Talk to him. We should visit him this evening.”

  “Today? We?”

  Nigel abruptly applied the brakes and steered left across the yellow line into a no-parking zone. The driver in the car behind honked in annoyance as she veered around the stopped BMW.

  “Yes and yes,” Flick said. “The faster I get Dr. Clowes to change his story, the better for everyone concerned. And it has to be ‘we.’ He’ll agree to see you, but he might hang up the phone if I call him. Besides, you probably have his private number. I don’t.”

  Nigel nodded. Six months ago, he had taken the trouble to store the private telephone number of every trustee in his cell phone. Without protest, he pushed the button on the steering wheel that turned on the Bluetooth link between his smartphone and the BMW’s audio system. His mouth suddenly felt dry. He was about to run the risk of alienating an important trustee, but somehow that didn’t seem as important as making Flick Adams happy.

  Nigel moistened his lips with his tongue. “What should I say?”

  “The truth. We need about fifteen minutes of his time later this evening.”

  Nigel nodded again. He pushed another button on the steering wheel and said, “Call! Doctor Clowes!” A gentle beep announced that the voice-operated system had understood his command and dialed the number.

  The doctor answered on the third ring.

  “Yes?”

  “Nigel Owen here, Sir Simon.” He took a deep breath, then began again. “Here’s the thing. I am with Felicity Adams. We have to see you, preferably later today.”

  “About?”

  “A museum-related issue. It would be inappropriate to discuss it over the telephone.”

  “A bit short notice for a business meeting, don’t you think? In any case, my wife and I are entertaining dinner guests this evening.”

  Every fiber in Nigel’s body wanted to yield, to apologize for disturbing a busy physician. Nonetheless, he pressed forward. “It is important that we meet with you today, Sir Simon, otherwise I wouldn’t ask. We need only fifteen minutes. Possibly less.”

  Sir Simon made an unhappy grunt. “Do you know where my house is?”

  “In Rusthall, on Manor Park.”

  “I plan to leave my surgery at five thirty. I will arrive home no later than six. You can have ten minutes.” He rang off without saying good-bye.

  “That went reasonably well,” Nigel said brightly, struggling to keep the foreboding he felt out of his voice. Sir Simon was merely irked at him now. He would be utterly furious when Flick finished presenting her latest conjecture.

  You didn’t really want a posh position in healthcare.

  “It’s almost four,” Flick said. Nigel lifted his head and saw her nervously surveying the slow-moving afternoon traffic. She went on, “Can we make it to Tunbridge Wells by six?”

  “We will make it—although I shall have to drive like Sterling Moss.”

  The thought straightaway cheered Nigel. There was nothing like sustained heavy-duty driving to take one’s mind off everything else. “I think we will try a different route going back. Rusthall is west of Tunbridge Wells. I propose we make for Rusthall via East Grinstead.”

  “I’m game—even though I don’t know where East Grinstead is.”

  On this leg of their trip, Nigel’s optimism in his driving skills proved warranted. They passed through East Grinstead scarcely an hour later. Rusthall lay less than ten miles ahead. Nigel allowed himself to relax a notch. Although the sun had set, the rain had stopped and traffic was moving smartly.

  He looked at Flick and said, “Do you realize that we are currently on the road to Tunbridge Wells?”

  “Yep. Directly behind the 291 Metrobus. The exhaust fumes are making me sick.”

  “Actually, I had Nathalie Stubbings’s words in mind. Specifically, her description of Desmond Hawker’s late-in-life conversion to Christianity.”

  “Oh that.”

  He stopped talking to steer the BMW through a roundabout and pass the bus, then he said, “Your tone signals that you don’t believe Desmond had a genuine change of heart. Why are you so skeptical?”

  Flick didn’t reply, which surprised Nigel. She never had any difficulty stating—and arguing—her opinions. Yet he sensed an almost palpable reluctance to answer this question.

  “Well, let me tell you what I think,” he said. “I can’t say whether his heart was truly refurbished, but I am willing to accept that Desmond Hawker mellowed as he grew older. He seems to have done many good things in the latter years of his life, a fact that has set me thinking. My mother taught me to attend chiefly to what people do, not what they say. She often reinforced the principle with a line from scripture: ‘By their fruit you will recognize them.’ ”

  This time, Flick responded with an indifferent “I suppose so.”

  Nigel went on. “The simple truth is that Desmond Hawker turned into an astonishingly fruitful old man. He built a church, gave away half of his huge fortune to create a foundation to promote the betterment of humanity, and apparently helped a crowd of locals in Tunbridge Wells.” He patted the top of Flick’s right hand with his left hand. “If I am willing to give the old robber baron the benefit of the doubt, why are you disinclined?”

  Nigel glanced routinely at the rearview mirror and realized that Flick had leaned to the right and was peering intently at his reflection.

  “You’re the businessperson in this car,” she said. “Everything I know about commerce came from the handful of business courses I took back in graduate school. But I still remember what my management professor told us on the first day of class. ‘The Japanese say that business is war. They are absolutely right.’ He went on to explain that the language of business is full of military jargon. Business people devise strategies, attack competitors,
defend territories, dominate markets, wage competitive battles. One of our textbooks for the course was Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, written in China about 500 BC. I can only recall one of Sun Tzu’s tenets. ‘All warfare is based on deception.’ ”

  Flick leaned back against her seat. “Can anyone who lives with that kind of dog-eat-dog mind-set for forty years magically change his thinking? My problem is that I can’t stop seeing Desmond asking, ‘How do I come out on top?’ and ‘What’s in it for me?’ ” She sighed. “Show me one businessperson who really changed his or her stripes and then maybe I’ll believe that Desmond Hawker did it.”

  Nigel kept his eyes on the road, wondering for a moment if Flick had intended her last comment as an indirect slap in his face—a veiled criticism of his day-to-day ethics and behavior. Probably not. She had stated the kind of sweeping generality that many people outside of commerce spout about businesspeople. He remembered a joke that had made the rounds in London a year earlier. Question: How can one tell when a businessperson is lying? Answer: His or her lips are moving.

  Like all generalities, one could find some examples that proved the point and other examples that were completely contrary. During his early years in business, Desmond Hawker probably fell into the first category. Nigel hoped that his own career fell into the latter.

  “I can’t provide the proof you demand,” he said. “I am not certain if anyone can. The changes you want to see are not external like zebra stripes. If Desmond Hawker changed at all, it was on the inside. Something happened that transformed his thinking forever.”

  “What kind of something?”

  “Ah, that question we may be able to answer. One of us should browse among Desmond’s papers in the museum’s archives.” Nigel eased his foot on the accelerator. “We’ve just passed Rusthall Road. To get to Sir Simon’s house, we have to make a half-left turn onto Bishops Down Road and full-left turn onto Manor Park.”

  “Manor Park what?”

  “It is a lane, although its name is simply Manor Park.”

  Flick shook her head sadly. “Whatever.” She seemed to forget about English street-naming conventions when Nigel steered into the driveway and parked behind a large Jaguar sedan.