Free Dead as a Scone by Ron Benrey, Janet Benrey Page A

feeling hungry. He had worked through lunch, and Bleasdale wasn’t due for another fifteen minutes. That left ample time to zip down to the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Pity they didn’t do fish and chips.
    Nigel had risen halfway out of his chair when his telephone rang. The caller-ID panel proclaimed “ WELCOME CENTRE KIOSK. ”
    Rats! The eager beaver lawyer had come early.
    Nigel immediately began to formulate a plan B. He would send down for refreshments for both Bleasdale and himself. He snatched up the receiver.
    “Owen here.”
    “It’s me, sir. I’m at the welcome desk.”
    Nigel easily recognized Conan Davies’s gravelly voice. But why would the museum’s chief of security stand duty at the Welcome Centre kiosk? And what were those odd sounds he could hear in the background?
    Davies continued. “There’s a gentleman here to see you. A Mr. Bleasdale.”
    Nigel thought he heard a dog bark, but he must have been mistaken. Only guide dogs and working dogs accompanying handicapped guests could enter the museum—and they almost never barked.
    “Send Mr. Bleasdale right up,” Nigel said.
    The noises in the background became even louder. Nigel distinguished chirping, a squeak, and what might have been mewing.
    “It would be better for you to come down here, sir. We have an issue with the animals.”
    Animals? “Did you say animals, Conan?”
    “A small dog, sir. And a big bird. And two stout cats.”
    “None of the above is allowed in the museum, Conan. You know that—you wrote our rule book.”
    “We need you down here, sir.” Nigel heard a sense of urgency in Conan’s words, coupled with a plea for help.
    “Oh, very well. I’m on my way.”
    The last flight of steps offered Nigel an all-inclusive view of the Welcome Centre kiosk, but what he saw made no sense at all.
    Margo McKendrick, the museum’s unflappable greeter, a petite woman of sixty, stood outside her kiosk staring with furrowed brow at the three objects sitting on her normally pristine marble countertop: two medium-sized plastic airline pet containers and one oversized birdcage that measured at least four feet tall. Inside the cage perched a large gray bird that Nigel recognized as a member of the parrot family. It had a charcoal colored beak and red tail.
    Conan Davies, wearing an equally displeased expression, held a dog lead in his right hand. The small dog attached to the other end resembled a fox: perhaps fifteen inches tall, compactly built, with a thick reddish coat and patches of white on its neck, legs, and puffy cheeks. It had small pointed ears, triangular eyes, a rather impudent arched tail held high, and a smile on its face.
    That dog is definitely grinning at me, Nigel thought. Why not? Solicitor Bleasdale is grinning at me, too.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Owen,” Bleasdale said. “Because we were scheduled to meet today, I chose to kill two birds with one stone, although”—he tipped his head toward the parrot—“that comes across as a clumsy metaphor given the circumstances. I have brought Dame Elspeth’s pets to the museum. The Hawker heirs thought you would want them immediately.”
    “Me want her pets? Why would they—or you—think that?”
    Nigel watched the contentment on Bleasdale’s countenance turn to puzzlement that morphed into concern and finally became resignation.
    “Oh dear!” the solicitor said. “My clients assumed, incorrectly it appears, that the acting director of this museum would have full knowledge of the contractual arrangements made between the institution and Dame Elspeth Hawker.”
    The small dog made a yodel-like bark that trailed off into a high-pitched lamenting whimper. Had it recognized the name of its late owner? Nigel wondered.
    “What contractual arrangements?” he asked.
    “I have never acted for Dame Elspeth, but I can repeat what my clients told me. Approximately one year ago, Dame Elspeth became concerned that her cherished pets might