Free Antiques Fate by Barbara Allan

me.
    I turned, mildly startled. Possibly with the tiniest jump.
    Barclay Starkadder, well-trimmed beard and graying temples, might have been the dapper ghost of the older John Barrymore, before the great actor’s decline by drink had gotten too out of hand, at least. Unlike his niece, however, this Starkadder was no walking museum display, his three-piece brown tweed suit decidedly twenty-first century.
    â€œQuite lovely indeed,” I said, with just a touch of my posh English accent (Brandy wasn’t around, so I could get away with classing things up a bit). I pointed to an unusual pair of cups and saucers. “And what can you tell me about those? I can’t read the card from here.”
    â€œThey’re actually Derby chocolate cups—hence no handles—and Trembleuse saucers, circa 1794. The female paintings on the cups were done by Richard Askew. The background design on each is puce mark and crossed baton dots.”
    What an impressive authority. What a resonant voice. What a pompous arse.
    I said, “Simply exquisite. I do hope everything is well insured.”
    He ignored my question, which I admit was perhaps a tad gauche. “Welcome to our modest offering, Mrs. Borne. My niece said you wished to speak to me . . . ?”
    â€œYes, actually. I wanted to know if you thought Millie’s death was accidental.”
    â€œWhere in England are you from originally?” he asked with a frown. “I can’t place your accent.”
    I was not about to let him change the subject. “Millie’s death? Do you think it was an unintentional overdose of medication?”
    An eyebrow rose. He had an overly theatrical way about him that rubbed me wrong. He said, “Certainly you’re not implying anything untoward ?”
    â€œIf by ‘untoward’ you mean, do I think Millie was murdered, yes . . . I’m implying something very untoward happened.”
    â€œWhy on earth, madam, would you make such an assumption?”
    I raised an eyebrow. “I make such an assumption because of the obvious tension on display at the meeting last night between the two pro and con factions, regarding incorporation of your village.”
    The frown deepened. “Balderdash, woman. You make it sound like our meeting was obstreperous! The very idea that one of us would harm another who held a different viewpoint is utterly fatuous, and I refuse to palaver any further along such amphigoric lines.”
    ( Editor to Vivian: I trust you are accurately reporting what Mr. Starkadder said and are not taking this opportunity to show off your own vocabulary. If so, please edit.)
    ( Vivian to Editor: I swear to you that this is verbatim. My memory is highly implacable, and I would never attempt to pull off such a transparent cozenage.)
    I asked, “How do you stand on incorporation?”
    He pursed his lips. “Let’s just say I am quite content with the status quo.”
    â€œSo you vote no, then. And your niece—Brenda? What might her position be?”
    Barclay shrugged elaborately. “Frankly, we’ve never discussed it. And, one day, when she takes my place on the board, my niece can vote as she pleases. One can only hope that one has set an example, where honoring the past, and maintaining its virtues, are concerned. Now, madam, if you’ll excuse me . . . I have much to do.”
    He turned brusquely and walked away.
    I lingered, mulling over our conversation while pretending to study a mahogany tea box with copper bands, its placard saying it dated to the year of the Boston Tea Party.
    Fighting a sudden craving for tea, I departed the museum, took a left and walked half a block to a two-story Tudor-style brick building whose window quietly said, L ANCASTER R EALTY & L AND D EVELOPMENT . This was before business hours, but the door was open, which I always take as an invitation.
    The interior made no particular attempt to invoke the English village