by Ron Benrey
Matthew Eaton stared angrily at Flick. “I have no idea what you are talking about.” He spit his words at her, but Nigel could readily see the fear blossoming in Matthew’s mind.
“I’m afraid you’re being disingenuous with us, Matthew.” She shook her head in an exaggerated gesture of sadness. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Did you notice how sweet Alain made the Grand Marnier soufflé? I’m sure you did. After all, you ate two full helpings.”
Matthew stared at Flick, his eyes widening. “I don’t believe you!”
“Turnabout is fair play. Don’t you agree?”
“You wouldn’t!” he said hoarsely. “Other people ate the soufflé, too.”
“Perfectly true. But I didn’t eat anything. Neither did Nigel or Conan.”
Matthew whimpered. His face was pale, his mouth distorted in a terrified grimace.
Archibald spoke up again. “Nigel, please explain the meaning of this bizarre performance.”
So far so good, Nigel thought. It is time to reel in our big fish.
Flick glared back at Matthew Eaton and resisted the urge to feel sorry for him. Of course, the man is frightened. He knows that enough oleandrin will stop his heart. He’s wondering when the initial symptoms will begin—a growing discomfort in his gut, a faint flutter of his heartbeat.
She looked across the table when Nigel said, “It is my intention to explain everything, Archibald. Although I will need Matthew’s help to tell the full story.”
Nigel stood and moved around the table alongside Matthew’s chair. His commanding presence, his obvious strength of character, made Flick wince at her earlier impression that he had the mind, heart, and imagination of a bean counter.
“Matthew,” Nigel said evenly. “I believe that I can convince Conan to release you in far less than two hours if you tell us why you are so upset.”
Matthew hesitated, then finally said, “We need help. We need to go to the hospital.”
“Why do we need help, Matthew?”
Another hesitation. “We have all been poisoned. Those of us who ate the food during tea break.”
Gasps came from all corners of the table. Nigel ignored them. “What kind of poison, Matthew?”
“Oleander leaves. In the tea Flick gave to our chef to prepare the food.”
“Bloody hell!” Sir Simon said softly.
The other participants reacted to the palpable concern in the doctor’s voice. Flick could make out only a few snippets of the loud torrent: “What does he mean?” “Who’s been poisoned?” “I don’t feel sick.” “I thought the scones tasted off.” “Someone call an ambulance.”
Archibald shouted, “Silence!”
“Thank you, Archibald,” Nigel said. He turned back to Matthew. “Did you put oleander leaves in Flick’s tea?”
Matthew let his head bob up and down.
“I can’t hear you, Matthew,” Nigel said.
“Yes, blast it! I put the oleander leaves in her tea.” Matthew moaned. “It wasn’t supposed to hurt anybody. Flick would have spotted the oleander before she drank the tea.” He peered beseechingly at Flick, clearly wanting to convey that she had not been in any danger. She forced herself to disconnect from Matthew’s frantic eyes and also to keep her expression neutral, free of the fury she felt.
“That seems an odd thing for you to do, doesn’t it?” Nigel’s voice was soft, almost comforting. “What was your purpose?”
“I wanted to frighten her,” Matthew said, almost too quietly for Flick to hear.
“Ah. And why did you want to frighten her, Matthew?”
Flick held her breath. They were getting close. Matthew gazed hither and yon like a cornered animal.
“I had to,” he said with a dry sob.
“Why?”
“Because she knew.”
“What did she know?”
“About…” he began. He abruptly gave a slight shake of his head.
“What did Flick know?” Nigel pressed.
Matthew drew a long breath and let it out slowly. “She knew what I did to Elspeth Hawker.”
“Tell us about that, Matthew.”
“I had no choice! None at all. Dame Elspeth saw me in the Tea Antiquities Gallery.” Matthew’s voice suddenly grew cold. The dam broke. He might have been talking about another person, in another time, as he recounted the details of how he had murdered Dame Elspeth. Flick found it hard to pay attention to his almost clinical recitation of his trip to Tonbridge to purchase a supply of Seconol from an illegal drug dealer…of his theft of a jar of lingonberry preserves from the pantry and a large jam pot from the kitchen…of the clever slight of hand he employed to place the lethal jam pot in front of Elspeth…of his knowledge of Elspeth’s bad heart and his hope that her death might be seen as suicide.
“And you did all that only because Elspeth saw you replacing real antiquities with counterfeits?” Nigel said.
Matthew leapt to his feet. This time Conan did not return him to his chair. “The antiquities are all mine!” Matthew shouted. “The whole Hawker collection belongs to me. Desmond Hawker stole the lot from my ancestor Neville Brackenbury. I am his great-grandson, his legal heir. I planned to take only a few of them—the objects my grandfather cared about. Elspeth had no right to stop me.”
Flick could not keep silent. “You don’t get it, do you? Elspeth wanted you to have the antiquities your family claims. She spoke to Nigel about a thief having to pay double. In her mind, Desmond Hawker was the thief, not you. I’ll bet that Elspeth saw you in the Tea Antiquities Gallery on several different occasions. She said nothing about your thefts of the Tunbridge Ware tea caddies. But she drew the line when you took an antiquity that hadn’t been acquired by Neville Brackenbury.
Desmond Hawker bought the tansu chest long after Neville Brackenbury died. That’s why Elspeth decided to put a stop to your thefts.”
Matthew looked up at Flick, his eyes full of misery. “Everything I took…you will find in my basement. But this is no time to worry about Tunbridge Ware or tansu chests. I need a doctor. We all do.”
“Actually, you don’t.” Nigel spoke without any triumph in his voice. He, too, seemed to feel pity for Matthew. “The canister of Assam tea that Flick gave to the chef was stored inside her credenza. The canister you tainted with oleander has been in the possession of Mr. Pennyman—correction, Detective Inspector Pennyman—since this morning.”
Matthew Eaton seemed to collapse as Flick watched. His legs gave way beneath him and he slumped down into his chair without any help from Conan.
As if on cue, the door opened and Pennyman returned to the boardroom. “Quite an interesting third act you put on,” Pennyman said. “However, there is still one aspect of this case that needs to be resolved.” Pennyman turned to Sir Simon. “Dr. Clowes, you concluded that Dame Elspeth Hawker died a natural death.” It was a simple statement, but also clearly a question.
Sir Simon frowned. “Yes, but upon reflection, I now withdraw my initial determination as…ah, premature.”
Pennyman simply nodded. He and Conan Davies escorted Matthew Eaton out of the boardroom.
An embarrassed simper from Sir Simon Clowes wasn’t much of an apology, Flick thought, but under the circumstances it was probably all she would ever get. The other trustees looked equally sheepish, but they, too, seemed unable to say eight simple words: “You were right, Flick, and we were wrong.”
Well, at least they’ve stopped complaining about being poisoned.
“Moving right along...” Nigel said as he sat down in his place at the table.
Several trustees gawked wide-eyed at him. Marjorie spoke first. “We can’t possibly continue this meeting today. Not after what just happened.”
“Oh, but we must keep going,” Nigel said. “We have a serious issue to resolve. If Matthew Eaton is correct, his family has a prior claim to the so-called Hawker antiquities.” Nigel looked squarely at the Hawkers. “Where does that leave our agreement?”
Had Harr
iet and Alfred been stone statues, they might have offered a livelier reaction to Nigel’s question. The pair stared vacantly at the wall with pale horror-struck faces, apparently unable to move, or speak, or even breathe conspicuously.
Bleasdale, too, seemed to have been rendered immobile, but he had turned a bright shade of red, and Flick could sense that his mind was racing madly, trying to find an appropriate way out of this unforeseen—and thus unplanned for—morass.
Serves you right, you rotter. You tried to cheat us from day one.
She and Nigel had guessed right: Harriet, Alfred, and Bleasdale knew all about Elspeth’s provenance concerns. Their solution had been simple: Sell the collection to the museum as fast as possible.
Pity that Elspeth never showed you Desmond Hawker’s copybook. Then you would have known that the Hawker family owned the antiquities legally, if not morally.
Bleasdale snapped out of his catatonia: “If we do the deal quickly, I see absolutely no potential liability to the museum. You are buyers in good faith. The Limitations Law will protect you in the long run.”
But what happens during the short run, before the six-year time limit cuts off claims?
The evening before, Flick and Nigel had discussed what to do in this very situation. “We do the right thing,” Nigel had said. “We tell Bleasdale about the copybook, and we carry on with the purchase.”
“I agree,” Flick had said. “There has been too much treachery and deceit surrounding the Hawker antiquities. We don’t need to add any more.”
But there’s no reason not to make Bleasdale sweat a little before we tell him.
“Gosh,” Flick said, “all of this legal wrangling is a bit frightening to me. Do we really want to move ahead under these circumstances?”
Flick felt a twinge of guilt when Bleasdale looked stricken again and replied with a stammered “But…but…but…” Perhaps the time had come to fess up.
“Of course, you feel that way, Dr. Adams. Any nonattorney would.”
It took Flick a brief instant to realize that Iona Saxby had chimed in. “Frankly,” Iona went on, “it seems highly unlikely that Matthew Eaton will ever be able to prove that he is the rightful owner of the Hawker antiquities. Moreover, I believe that he forfeited any equitable rights to asset his claim when he murdered Elspeth Hawker. In short, I see no legal or moral reason not to proceed.”
Unabashed joy crossed Barrington Bleasdale’s face.
“Yes!” he shouted. “My thoughts exactly.”
“However...” Iona said. “Dr. Adams did make a cogent observation. The museum will have some additional risk, minimal though it may be. An appropriate change of terms definitely seems appropriate, don’t you agree, Mr. Bleasdale?”
Bleasdale’s eyes narrowed as lawyerly resolve replaced joy. “An appropriate change of terms…” he echoed. “Well, I suppose that the owners might be willing to sell the antiquities at a discount compared to their appraised value—say 10 percent.”
“Say 40 percent.”
“Twenty-five percent.”
“Done!” Iona said.
The talk of percentages revived Harriet Hawker Peckham as effectively as a vial of smelling salts. “We can’t sell at a discount,” she hissed at Bleasdale. “We won’t have enough money to pay all the inheritance taxes.”
“Dump Lion’s Peak!” Bleasdale snapped at his client. “Neither of you wants the old eyesore anyway.” He added in a more even tone, “The museum will buy all the old clobber at once. They have offered you a fair deal—take it!”
Flick held her breath. Should she have mentioned Desmond’s copybook earlier? More to the point, should she mention it now? Probably not. If the Hawkers’ solicitor thought they had a fair deal, why should she disagree?
“In that case, we have a deal,” Iona said.
“In that case, let’s celebrate,” Archibald said, standing up. “I suggest we all adjourn to Hammond Bistro in the Pantiles and get our evening off to a proper start.” He clapped a hand on Nigel’s shoulder. “And should our discussion during dinner lag, we can chat about Nigel becoming the museum’s permanent director when his contract as acting director is up.”
“What?” Nigel seemed dumbfounded.
“It makes perfect sense, Nigel. You better than anyone else understand the work to be done in acquiring and paying for the Hawker antiquities. Why would we want to change horses in midstream?”
“I don’t know…” Nigel said without thinking.
“That was another rhetorical question, Nigel. You don’t have to answer it.” Iona had immediately taken Archibald’s vacated chair. She leaned so close to Nigel that Flick wondered if Iona had decided to climb into his pocket.
“Of course, we don’t want to change horses,” Iona cooed at Nigel. “Nor do we want to waste time on finding a replacement. You have found your ideal niche at the museum.” She flashed a catlike smile that triggered a look of abject terror on Nigel’s face. “Now, about this evening. I suspect that dinner will be over fairly early…”
Flick crumpled up a sheet of paper and lobbed it at Nigel. Curiously, it also hit Iona. They both looked up at her.
“Nigel, you seem to have forgotten about our staff meeting. We have time for a quick dinner with everyone, but we’ll have to get back to the museum promptly afterward.”
“Staff meeting?” Iona said incredulously.
“Oh dear, yes. So much to do—in fact, we may be working most of the weekend. Could be all hours of the day and night.”
“On what?” Iona said.
“On what?” Nigel repeated.
Flick managed to kick Nigel’s ankle under the table.
“I meant to say, on everything!” he said quickly. “We have thousands of details to worry about now that we are acquiring the Hawker collection.”
“In fact, I would like to press you into service in the Conservation Laboratory right now—just for a few minutes before we leave for dinner.”
Nigel freed himself from Iona’s near embrace.
“Indeed! A pressing matter. Well, then let’s press on.”
Flick led him out of the boardroom.
“About our staff meeting tonight…” he said.
“What about it?”
“Do we have an agenda?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“Oh yes!” Nigel slid his arm around Flick’s waist and pulled her closer. “I definitely have an agenda.”
They began to laugh and walked faster toward the Conservation Laboratory.
Discussion Questions
1. Nigel Owen took a job that he feels (initially) doesn’t really match his skills. He’d prefer to be in a larger city with more opportunities for a “successful manager,” but he compromises and accepts the job, hoping that he’ll move on sooner rather than later. Sometimes a compromise works well, other times it does not. Have you compromised in a similar situation? Were you glad you did?
2. Felicity Adams (Flick) describes herself as a woman who won’t take no for an answer. It was one of the things she liked most about herself. Others may have found this personality trait annoying. What personality trait would best describe you? How has this helped your career or the work you do?
3. The museum where Flick and Nigel work may be forced to close down, which will require they both search for new jobs. Have you every faced the threat of a loss of job? How did you handle it? Did you feel secure that God would keep his promises and provide?
4. Dame Elspeth suspects that the museum antiques were acquired by her family ‘under less-than-honorable circumstances’. What would you do if you found out that a family member acquired goods by less-than-honorable means? Would you urge them to return it? Would you tell them to get rid of it quickly, or would you enjoy the goods anyway as there probably isn’t anything you can do about the situation?
5. Suppose your family suffered huge financial losses at someone else’s hands and stood no chance of being made whole again. What would you do? Would you forgive th
e person responsible for your pain and move on? Or would you forever seek a way to punish the person who caused so much unnecessary anguish?
6. Commodore Desmond Hawker was known as a cold-blooded businessman. His later-in-life conversion to Christianity left many skeptics who refused to believe he’d had a change in heart. But he sought to make amends for the evil he’d done and became a genuine man of faith. Have you met someone who has had a similar change of heart? Do you have trouble reconciling the “earlier” and “later” behaviors? If you do accept that such transformation is possible, to what do you attribute the change of heart?
7. Commodore Hawker was able to take advantage of his business partner with knowledge that he could have shared. Sometimes, in our daily lives, we come across information that may advantage us and disadvantage those close to us. How do you handle such information? Do you feel obliged to share? Or do you keep your find a secret an “let the chips fall where they may”?
About the Authors
Ron and Janet Benrey have been a writing team for nearly two decades. They’ve co-written nine romantic suspense novels, beginning with “Little White Lies.” Despite their authorial togetherness, Ron and Janet have dissimilar backgrounds:
Janet has been a literary agent, the editorial director of a small press, an executive recruiter, and a book publicist. Janet earned her degree in Communication (Magna cum Laude) from the University of Pittsburgh.
Ron has been a writer forever—initially on magazines (his first real job was Electronics Editor at Popular Science Magazine), then in corporations (he wrote speeches for senior executives), and then as a novelist. Over the years, Ron has authored ten non-fiction books. His latest is “Know Your Rights: A Survival Guide for Non-Lawyers.” Ron holds degrees in electrical engineering, management, and law.