Dead as a Scone Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Ron Benrey
you sure about that? I mean the physician part.”
“Absolutely. He’s also my physician. And the vicar’s.” She made a face. “I suppose Sir Simon assumed that you knew. All the other trustees do.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
“Good! Now, how long will you need to restore your charming face? I represent a hungry bunch.”
“Five minutes?” It was as much a question as an answer.
“Done! We shall await you on the ground floor.”
Flick used most of the five minutes to think.
Maybe she had been too hasty in conjuring up a stone wall? Maybe there was a way to undo what Sir Simon had done. Marjorie Halifax had been right. Flick had learned a lot about Elspeth Hawker. Possibly enough to figure out why someone would want to murder a harmless, eighty-four-year-old spinster. In her forensics classes, she had shown great skill at deducing valid conclusions from limited facts. Why not apply those skills now?
For example: If Dr. Clowes wanted to kill a patient, he wouldn’t need to do it publicly. Therefore, someone else was probably responsible.
Seven suspects left on the list.
Another example: If Dr. Clowes’s diagnosis was a surprise to Flick, it must have amazed the poisoner. He—or she — couldn’t have expected a doctor to ignore the signs of barbiturate poisoning and jump to a faulty conclusion. Therefore, whoever had poisoned Elspeth must have invented a devious way to feed her the drugs.
A third example: Sir Simon adamantly stuck to his guns despite Flick’s noisy protests. Therefore, he has a reason for wanting Elspeth’s death to be considered natural.
Not bad! Not bad at all.
All was silent when Flick left her fourth-floor office—or should she say third floor? Flick had figured out English money and had mastered driving on the left rather than the right, but floor numbers in England still caught her off guard. She often had to remind herself that one flight up is the first floor in England, not the second. Her office on the museum’s fourth story was on the third floor.
From the outside, the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum resembled a large Georgian manor house, but inside it was more like an office building, with a utility core toward the rear that housed the main staircase, the elevator, the fire exits, and the rest rooms. The useful space on each floor wrapped around the core like a large U.
The top floor U was divided into three areas:
The right “stroke” was the curators’ wing, encompassing Flick’s office, the curating staff room (divided into cubicles), the Conservation Laboratory, and a small office for the docents.
The bottom “stroke”—running along the front of the museum—contained the Hawker Memorial Library and the boardroom.
The left “stroke” accommodated the administrative staff offices. The director’s office was a mirror image of the chief curator’s, except that it overlooked the museum’s gardens and the greenhouse. Life is unfair, Flick thought the first time she saw the spectacular view that Nigel Owen neither appreciated nor understood. The Hawker Foundation’s money had done the impossible. Hot water flowing through subterranean pipes gently heated the screened, open-air garden, so that tropical tea shrubs could grow outdoors in England. Not exceptionally fine tea, mind you, but then the garden’s purpose was to educate visitors, few of whom had seen a live tea bush.
Flick sprinted down the main staircase, a lovely marble-stepped affair with dark oak banisters and risers. The four trustees were waiting near the Welcome Centre kiosk on the ground floor. Marjorie Halifax flashed another of her high-voltage politician smiles, and Matthew Eaton extended his arms to hug Flick; but neither Iona Saxby nor Dorothy McAndrews acted especially eager to dine with her. Iona, wearing a sprawling blue hat that matched her eyes, gave Flick a decidedly dyspeptic glance and straightaway made for the bronze front doors. Dorothy offered a lukewarm smile from
“Absolutely. He’s also my physician. And the vicar’s.” She made a face. “I suppose Sir Simon assumed that you knew. All the other trustees do.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
“Good! Now, how long will you need to restore your charming face? I represent a hungry bunch.”
“Five minutes?” It was as much a question as an answer.
“Done! We shall await you on the ground floor.”
Flick used most of the five minutes to think.
Maybe she had been too hasty in conjuring up a stone wall? Maybe there was a way to undo what Sir Simon had done. Marjorie Halifax had been right. Flick had learned a lot about Elspeth Hawker. Possibly enough to figure out why someone would want to murder a harmless, eighty-four-year-old spinster. In her forensics classes, she had shown great skill at deducing valid conclusions from limited facts. Why not apply those skills now?
For example: If Dr. Clowes wanted to kill a patient, he wouldn’t need to do it publicly. Therefore, someone else was probably responsible.
Seven suspects left on the list.
Another example: If Dr. Clowes’s diagnosis was a surprise to Flick, it must have amazed the poisoner. He—or she — couldn’t have expected a doctor to ignore the signs of barbiturate poisoning and jump to a faulty conclusion. Therefore, whoever had poisoned Elspeth must have invented a devious way to feed her the drugs.
A third example: Sir Simon adamantly stuck to his guns despite Flick’s noisy protests. Therefore, he has a reason for wanting Elspeth’s death to be considered natural.
Not bad! Not bad at all.
All was silent when Flick left her fourth-floor office—or should she say third floor? Flick had figured out English money and had mastered driving on the left rather than the right, but floor numbers in England still caught her off guard. She often had to remind herself that one flight up is the first floor in England, not the second. Her office on the museum’s fourth story was on the third floor.
From the outside, the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum resembled a large Georgian manor house, but inside it was more like an office building, with a utility core toward the rear that housed the main staircase, the elevator, the fire exits, and the rest rooms. The useful space on each floor wrapped around the core like a large U.
The top floor U was divided into three areas:
The right “stroke” was the curators’ wing, encompassing Flick’s office, the curating staff room (divided into cubicles), the Conservation Laboratory, and a small office for the docents.
The bottom “stroke”—running along the front of the museum—contained the Hawker Memorial Library and the boardroom.
The left “stroke” accommodated the administrative staff offices. The director’s office was a mirror image of the chief curator’s, except that it overlooked the museum’s gardens and the greenhouse. Life is unfair, Flick thought the first time she saw the spectacular view that Nigel Owen neither appreciated nor understood. The Hawker Foundation’s money had done the impossible. Hot water flowing through subterranean pipes gently heated the screened, open-air garden, so that tropical tea shrubs could grow outdoors in England. Not exceptionally fine tea, mind you, but then the garden’s purpose was to educate visitors, few of whom had seen a live tea bush.
Flick sprinted down the main staircase, a lovely marble-stepped affair with dark oak banisters and risers. The four trustees were waiting near the Welcome Centre kiosk on the ground floor. Marjorie Halifax flashed another of her high-voltage politician smiles, and Matthew Eaton extended his arms to hug Flick; but neither Iona Saxby nor Dorothy McAndrews acted especially eager to dine with her. Iona, wearing a sprawling blue hat that matched her eyes, gave Flick a decidedly dyspeptic glance and straightaway made for the bronze front doors. Dorothy offered a lukewarm smile from