Free Dead as a Scone by Ron Benrey, Janet Benrey

crockery, silver, and woodenware.”
    “We’ll keep a basement full of old papers and lose our finest antiquities. Is that your idea of a fair trade?”
    “I admit it’s not a perfect solution, but one must make the best of one’s circumstances.”
    “Wow! Didn’t you forget to say, ‘Stiff upper lip, old chap’?”
    “There’s no need to be snippy.”
    “Here!” Flick lobbed the register of on-loan items to Nigel. She thrust out her jaw and threw back her shoulders, hoping that her demeanor would further signal her displeasure. “You’ll need this on Monday, when you and the Hawkers’ lawyer plan the destruction of my museum.”
    He caught the binder against his chest and said softly, “Flick, I’m only trying to help.”
    “The way you can help is by figuring out a way to save our collections. We need good ideas, not dumb solutions. You have a reputation for being smart. Prove it!”
    Flick watched Nigel’s face go pale. He walked away, shaking his head.
    Why did you do that?
    “You’re mad at the Hawkers and the British tax system,” she murmured, “but you took it out on poor Nigel. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”

Five
    A t 1:35 on Monday afternoon, Nigel said, “Thank you, Iona. I appreciate your wise advice,” and hung up his telephone. He lifted the business card that lay on his desk—“B. Bleasdale, Solicitor”—and ran his fingernail over the raised lettering.
    “Iona says you’re a clever boots,” he said to the card. “Near the top of your class, not a lawyer to be trifled with. She also told me that the B stands for Barrington, a forename you detest.” Nigel pronounced the lawyer’s full name slowly, enunciating the five syllables separately. “Bar–ring–ton Bleas–dale . Poor blighter. Your mother must have been a fan of Jane Austen. No wonder you grew into an overachiever at law.”
    Nigel had spent the morning arranging an emergency meeting of the board of trustees for Wednesday afternoon to deal with the collections crisis. The trustees were none too eager to gather again at the museum so soon after Elspeth’s funeral, but all eventually agreed. And then he called Iona Saxby back to talk about the legal options available to the museum.
    Iona had listened patiently to his summation of the facts, then said, “You don’t need me to tell you how often this happens in England, Nigel. A wealthy person dies, inheritance taxes must be paid, and family treasures travel to the auction block.”
    “I’m sure that Elspeth would have wanted the antiquities kept on display.”
    “If so, she had every opportunity to write a proper will that bequeathed them to the museum or at the very least to do some shrewd tax planning. Failing that, we have no alternative but to disgorge the antiquities upon the family’s demand. Harriet and Alfred will be empowered to decide which of the estate’s assets to sell. According to their solicitor, they already have reached a decision.”
    “Is there nothing the law can do?”
    “This is a matter where common sense is more important than law. Every child understands the principle that a borrowed item must be returned upon the request of the rightful owner. The Hawker family lent their property to the museum in good faith for purposes of exhibition, and they now ask for it back. The fact that one generation of Hawkers did the lending and another generation the asking back is essentially immaterial. I wish I had something more to offer you, Nigel, but the crux of the issue is clear-cut: Harriet Hawker Peckham and Alfred Hawker own the antiquities and we do not.”
    Nigel replied with a forlorn grunt. “Now you sound like Solicitor Bleasdale.”
    “Frankly, I am astonished that Bleasdale saw a need to become personally involved in this matter. Reclaiming lent property is the sort of trivial chore I pass to my paralegal. One doesn’t send a three-star chef to fry up a plate of fish and chips.”
    Iona’s out-of-the-blue culinary metaphor left Nigel