Dead as a Scone (42 page)

“I’ve never seen scones this lovely golden color before,” Marjorie cooed. “They are beautiful.”

“I will relay your compliment to Chef Rousseau, Mrs. Eaton,” Giselle said. “He tried a new recipe today.”

“Add my congratulations for the superb lemon tart,” Archibald said.

“May I suggest that you also try a spoonful of sorbet, Mr. Meicklejohn,” Giselle said. “Tart and sorbet go very well together.”

“This soufflé is magnificent!” Matthew Eaton gushed, a spoon still in his mouth.

“Have another,” Nigel said. “I don’t really care for Grande Marnier.”

The feeding frenzy lasted a full fifteen minutes. Nigel exchanged occasional fleeting looks with Flick and Conan, both of whom had moved away from the tea trolleys and were sipping cups of tea. Marc Pennyman remained seated at the table, his face aglow with curiosity. Nigel watched him for a few moments.
Of course, the detective inspector is curious. He is wondering if we can pull it off.

Getting Pennyman to attend had taken a good deal of “prevailing” when they called him early that morning. Fortunately, the DI knew Conan Davies by reputation. Although he doubted Nigel and entirely distrusted Flick, Pennyman finally had been won over by Conan’s pleas and assurances.

He had arrived at ten but had nearly headed back to Maidstone five minutes later when Nigel explained his plan.

“That is daft as a brush,” Pennyman said. “I will have no part of it.”

Conan Davies patiently reviewed the accumulated evidence and showed Pennyman how the thefts had been committed. He also explained how the microphones on the conference table fed a voice-operated tape recorder in Polly Reid’s office to capture everything said in the boardroom during a meeting.

“I see where you want to go with this,” Pennyman said with the hint of a grin on his lips, “and I don’t suppose that I will jeopardize my career by merely sitting through the first act of your farce and remaining in the immediate vicinity to see the final denouement, on the off chance you succeed.” His face hardened. “However, it might be better for all concerned if a sworn officer of the Kent police does not attend the middle act.”

“A very wise observation,” Conan had said. “It is highly likely that Detective Inspector Pennyman will receive a telephone call at an appropriate time during the trustees’ meeting.”

At a few minutes past five o’clock, Nigel rapped the table with his knuckles. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is time to regroup at the table. I have a question for you: How did you enjoy the food today?”

The volley of enthusiastic applause from the hard-to-please trustees surprised Nigel. Alain Rousseau had more than met Nigel’s challenge; he had clearly outdone himself.

“Now we can tell you the
whole
story,” he said. “I am excited to reveal that our distinguished trustees and our honored guests have been the first to taste a new line of sweets and savories that Giselle plans to serve in the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom.”

“Here! Here!” Archibald cried out.

“Three cheers for the chef!” Vicar de Rudd shouted even louder. Nigel hoped no one would actually begin hip-hip-hooraying. Providentially, no one did.

He went on. “What makes these new dishes especially noteworthy is that all of them are flavored with tea leaves.”

“I don’t believe it!” Dorothy said. “You can’t mean that those scrumptious savory shrimp are made with tea.”

“And certainly not the Grand Marnier soufflé,” Matthew said.

“Or the scones,” Marjorie put in.

“Well, if you don’t believe me,” Nigel said, with mock distress, “perhaps you will believe Giselle Logan.” He added, “Giselle, please explain our concept to our doubting trustees.”

Giselle gave a slight bow. “Let me start by saying that cooking with tea is quite common in Asia and has been for centuries. There are countless soups, sauces, marinades, entrees, and desserts that contain tea leaves—or tea oil, which is made by pressing the seeds of a tea plant. As you have just discovered, tea adds new flavors and smells to familiar dishes.” She spread her hands. “Please do not feel upset if we fooled you. At first, many people do not recognize the presence of tea in cooked foods. However, we believe that visitors to our museum will be eager to try dishes made with tea.”

“Are we going to publish a cookbook?” Marjorie asked.

“What a grand idea,” Flick said. “That can be one of our first fund-raising ventures.”

Nigel exchanged the faintest of smiles with Flick. Now Marjorie Halifax could take credit for an idea that Flick had mentioned to Augustus Hoskins more than a week earlier. The councilwoman had a jubilant look on her face and seemed to be viewing Flick from a much rosier perspective than previously.

Marjorie decided to ask another question. “What kinds of tea did Alain use in the treats we just enjoyed?”

Giselle spoke up first. “In fact, Alain used only
one
tea
—
a high-quality, estate-grown Assam. The idea is to feature a different tea every month and choose specific sweets and savories that make the best use of each one.”

“Do you know which Assam Alain chose?” Iona asked.

“No. But Dr. Adams does. I believe she provided the tea.”

Nigel locked his eyes on the yellow pad in front of him and began counting the lines. This was the question they had been waiting for, a perfect opportunity to set the hook. It was Flick’s job to answer the question. She had to do it all by herself.

“It is one of my favorite teas,” Flick said. “A bold, tippy tea from the Mangalam Estate. I ordered a full canister two weeks ago. I kept the canister tucked away in my office, on my credenza, just for this occasion. I didn’t even brew a pot for myself, just to make certain that Alain would have enough for today.”

Nigel risked a glance at Matthew. A few minutes earlier, his face had been a picture of contentment. Now he looked pensive, perhaps preoccupied with thoughts of canisters on Flick’s credenza. Nigel could almost see thoughts forming in the landscaper’s mind.
Does she have more than one canister? How full was the canister I found before I added the handful of crushed oleander leaves?

Perfect! The fish is firmly on the line. Now to let him run a bit.

Nigel sat back in his chair. “The purpose of our meeting today is to review the terms of our purchase of the Hawker antiquities. Mr. Bleasdale has prepared a draft purchase agreement for the trustees’ consideration. It is”—Nigel tipped his head toward the solicitor—“a quite straightforward document that sets down in writing a proposal that Mr. Bleasdale and I discussed some two weeks ago. Let us spend the next, oh, fifteen minutes or so reviewing the provisions.”

Nigel had been optimistic. It took nearly thirty minutes to review the various provisions in the purchase agreement. The most important was the simplest: two independent appraisers
—
one chosen by the Hawkers, one by the museum—would value each antiquity. The museum would pay the average of the two estimates of worth, unless the difference between the two exceeded 10 percent of the low valuation. In that event, a third expert would reappraise the antiquity and the parties would conduct negotiations to establish a price satisfactory to both.

There was a knock on the door. It opened sufficiently for Polly Reid to poke her head into the boardroom and say, “Sorry, Mr. Owen. There is a call for Mr. Pennyman. Quite important, the gentleman says.”

Pennyman stood and quietly made his way out of the room. He pulled the door shut behind him with a solid thump.

It had been Conan who decided that the “second act” was about to begin. He had keyed the TALK button on his cell phone and rung Polly’s extension as a signal to summon Pennyman to his nonexistent telephone call. One look at Matthew Eaton’s darting eyes and sweating brow convinced Nigel that Conan had chosen the perfect time.

Nigel tapped his copy of the draft with his pen. “Now that we all understand the terms of the agreement,” he said, “I would like to open the floor to questions, comments, and suggestions from the trustees. I believe it is critical that we resolve any concerns today so that we can move ahead quickly with the appraisals.”

Marjorie Halifax thrust her hand in the air, visibly keen to ask the first question.

“Yes, Marjorie,” Nigel said amiably.

Before Marjorie could begin to talk, Matthew jumped in. “I am sorry to interrupt, Marjorie, but I just remembered that I have an engagement this evening. I think the agreement is brilliant, and I agree that we should move ahead with dispatch. Now, if you will excuse me…”

Matthew tried to stand up, but Conan had slipped silently behind his chair. A broad hand pushed Matthew back down in his seat.

“Are you mad?” Matthew turned his head to look at Conan.

“Not that I am aware of, sir.”

The other trustees gaped at the sight of Conan restraining Matthew. Archibald was the first one to react. “Conan, please explain your actions immediately.”

“It’s quite simple, Mr. Meicklejohn. I am ensuring that Mr. Eaton remains in his seat.”

Matthew was almost as tall as the chief of security, but not as strongly built. He tried to stand again, but Conan pushed him down with more force than before.

“Get out of my way, you fool!” Matthew shouted.

“No, Mr. Eaton,” Conan said. “Anyone else can leave the boardroom whenever they want to, but not you, sir. Not for at least another two hours. Isn’t that right, Dr. Adams?”

“Correct,” Flick replied. “An hour has passed since the start of our tea break. A total of three will be more than sufficient—won’t it, Matthew?”

Nigel glanced around the table. The other trustees appeared shocked by Conan’s wholly untypical behavior. Their expressions ranged from simple perplexity to outright disbelief. The Hawker heirs were both slack-jawed with confusion. Bleasdale gazed at Matthew with unconcealed avarice—no other solicitor was better positioned to represent Matthew Eaton in his upcoming lawsuit against Conan Davies and Felicity Adams.

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?”