Read Online Dead as a Scone by Ron Benrey, Janet Benrey - Free Book Online
Authors: Ron Benrey, Janet Benrey
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to wear any clothing from England.”
“Nasty rebels!” Nigel said with a wink. “But I agree that the paintings are lovely.”
“I can’t begin to estimate their worth.”
“Several hundred thousand pounds at a minimum, one would think.”
“And then there are many related artifacts on display. English newspaper articles about the ‘outrages’ in the colonies. Other illustrations and cartoons. Tea chests of the late colonial era. An original parliamentary copy of the Tea Act of 1773. Rats!”
Nigel looked up from his writing. “Say again?”
“I can’t get used to the idea that all of this may disappear. The Hawkers own everything—except the tea bag exhibit.”
“Ah! I’ve wanted to ask you about that ever since my first look-see through the museum. It seems odd to me that a Yank invented the tea bag.”
Flick smiled. “Legend says that it happened in New York City, back in 1908. A tea merchant named Thomas Sullivan supposedly became annoyed with the cost of the little tin boxes he used to send samples to customers. So he switched to small silk bags. One of the recipients brewed a pot of tea by simply pouring hot water over the bag—and the rest is history.”
“From your tone, I assume the legend isn’t true.”
Flick pointed at a framed document. “That’s a copy of the U.S. patent issued in 1903 for a ‘tea leaf holder’ made out of fabric. Tom Sullivan seems to have received the credit for an invention actually made by two gentlemen named Lawson and McLaren.”
“Where next?” Nigel asked.
“We’re done with this floor. The only other permanent exhibit room is the Tea and Health Gallery—we own all of the displays.”
“And a fascinating read they are.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic. Studies have shown that tea is good for your teeth because it’s a natural source of fluoride, and it’s also brimming with flavonoids, antioxidants that have all sorts of healthful properties.”
“Coffee is good for the health, too. On many occasions it has kept me from falling asleep behind the wheel of my BMW.”
“Very droll.” Flick strode into the second-floor lobby, Nigel close behind.
“The small silver lining in this cloud,” he said, “is that we can immediately reclaim the square footage set aside for the Hawker family suite.” He pointed to a door labeled PRIVATE. “To begin with, I doubt Alfred or Harriet plans to spend any time in the museum. To end with, I see no need for us to provide the greedy rotters any office space in this institution.”
Flick caught her breath. He’s talking about Elspeth’s room.
Directly under Nigel’s office was an equivalent space on the second floor set aside as an office for the Hawkers. It had a large desk, a comfortable sofa, a private loo, even a small kitchen area. Mary Hawker Evans had occupied it sparingly—chiefly on days when the trustees met—but Elspeth had used it almost daily. “My pied-à-terre in Tunbridge Wells,” she often said. “My home away from home.”
“Someone will have to pack up Dame Elspeth’s kit,” Nigel said.
“I’ll put it on my list of things to do.” Flick sighed. She had intended to browse through the Hawker Suite as part of her efforts to gather additional facts about Elspeth’s relationships with museum people before her death, but her private investigation, if that was the right term for it, had run out of steam. Her plan had been both simple and vague: Engage trustees and museum employees in conversations about Elspeth and listen carefully to everything they said. Well, she had heard nothing the least bit irregular at her dinner with four of the trustees, or in a subsequent chat with Archibald Meicklejohn about her desire to add a professional tea taster to the museum’s staff, or in routine meetings with the curators and docents. Every passing day seemed to soften her conviction that Elspeth had been fed an overdose of barbiturates.
So much for your delusions of detective
“Nasty rebels!” Nigel said with a wink. “But I agree that the paintings are lovely.”
“I can’t begin to estimate their worth.”
“Several hundred thousand pounds at a minimum, one would think.”
“And then there are many related artifacts on display. English newspaper articles about the ‘outrages’ in the colonies. Other illustrations and cartoons. Tea chests of the late colonial era. An original parliamentary copy of the Tea Act of 1773. Rats!”
Nigel looked up from his writing. “Say again?”
“I can’t get used to the idea that all of this may disappear. The Hawkers own everything—except the tea bag exhibit.”
“Ah! I’ve wanted to ask you about that ever since my first look-see through the museum. It seems odd to me that a Yank invented the tea bag.”
Flick smiled. “Legend says that it happened in New York City, back in 1908. A tea merchant named Thomas Sullivan supposedly became annoyed with the cost of the little tin boxes he used to send samples to customers. So he switched to small silk bags. One of the recipients brewed a pot of tea by simply pouring hot water over the bag—and the rest is history.”
“From your tone, I assume the legend isn’t true.”
Flick pointed at a framed document. “That’s a copy of the U.S. patent issued in 1903 for a ‘tea leaf holder’ made out of fabric. Tom Sullivan seems to have received the credit for an invention actually made by two gentlemen named Lawson and McLaren.”
“Where next?” Nigel asked.
“We’re done with this floor. The only other permanent exhibit room is the Tea and Health Gallery—we own all of the displays.”
“And a fascinating read they are.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic. Studies have shown that tea is good for your teeth because it’s a natural source of fluoride, and it’s also brimming with flavonoids, antioxidants that have all sorts of healthful properties.”
“Coffee is good for the health, too. On many occasions it has kept me from falling asleep behind the wheel of my BMW.”
“Very droll.” Flick strode into the second-floor lobby, Nigel close behind.
“The small silver lining in this cloud,” he said, “is that we can immediately reclaim the square footage set aside for the Hawker family suite.” He pointed to a door labeled PRIVATE. “To begin with, I doubt Alfred or Harriet plans to spend any time in the museum. To end with, I see no need for us to provide the greedy rotters any office space in this institution.”
Flick caught her breath. He’s talking about Elspeth’s room.
Directly under Nigel’s office was an equivalent space on the second floor set aside as an office for the Hawkers. It had a large desk, a comfortable sofa, a private loo, even a small kitchen area. Mary Hawker Evans had occupied it sparingly—chiefly on days when the trustees met—but Elspeth had used it almost daily. “My pied-à-terre in Tunbridge Wells,” she often said. “My home away from home.”
“Someone will have to pack up Dame Elspeth’s kit,” Nigel said.
“I’ll put it on my list of things to do.” Flick sighed. She had intended to browse through the Hawker Suite as part of her efforts to gather additional facts about Elspeth’s relationships with museum people before her death, but her private investigation, if that was the right term for it, had run out of steam. Her plan had been both simple and vague: Engage trustees and museum employees in conversations about Elspeth and listen carefully to everything they said. Well, she had heard nothing the least bit irregular at her dinner with four of the trustees, or in a subsequent chat with Archibald Meicklejohn about her desire to add a professional tea taster to the museum’s staff, or in routine meetings with the curators and docents. Every passing day seemed to soften her conviction that Elspeth had been fed an overdose of barbiturates.
So much for your delusions of detective
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