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

outlive her, as they in fact have done. And so she made an agreement with your predecessor. The museum agreed to take charge of the animals upon her death and maintain them until their natural demise. The Hawker heirs understand that Dame Elspeth agreed to a generous stipend as consideration for the museum’s commitment. They feel that the time is ripe for you to keep your end of the bargain.”
    Nigel peered into one of the pet crates. Two enormous orange eyes peered back at him. He turned to Conan Davies and said, “Does any of this sound familiar?”
    The big man nodded. “I’m afraid it does, sir. As I recall, Nathanial Swithin, the former director, did make such an agreement. Dame Elspeth felt—well, not to put too fine a point on it—reluctant to have the younger Hawkers take charge of her pets should she no longer be able to care for them.”
    Nigel looked down. The foxy face was studying him with rapt attention. “What sort of dog is that?” he asked.
    “A Shiba Inu,” Bleasdale said, “an ancient Japanese breed known for its intelligence, inquisitiveness, love of human interaction, infrequent barking, robust independent streak, and a compelling instinct to chase and kill small animals. Because of the latter, Harriet Hawker Peckham recommends that you never take the dog outdoors without its lead.” He added, “His name is Cha-Cha.”
    Nigel’s curiosity overpowered his reluctance to continue this inane conversation. “Why would Elspeth name a Japanese dog after a Latin dance?”
    “Begging your pardon, sir,” Margo said. “Cha is the name for tea in much of the world, including Japan. It strikes me that Dame Elspeth chose a tea-related name for her dog.”
    “And for her other pets as well,” Bleasdale said amiably. “The cats—both female British Shorthairs—are named Lapsang and Souchong. And the bird, an African Grey parrot, is named Earl.”
    “Very clever, indeed,” Conan said. “Earl the grey. Get it, sir? Earl grey. Like the tea.”
    Nigel smiled. He relished good puns, but this wasn’t the time to admit it. “Despite their witty names, Mr. Bleasdale, the museum can’t accept these animals. What would we do with them?”
    “I suggest daily feeding and watering for the lot,” Bleasdale said, “plus in the case of the dog, occasional walks—perhaps on the Common, across the road.”
    “You understood perfectly well what I meant. This is a museum, not a kennel.”
    “To the contrary, Mr. Owen. Your predecessor entered into a binding contract that Elspeth Hawker’s heirs intend to enforce. I am certain that you have a signed memorandum of contract somewhere in your files, but I will save you the trouble of looking. Alfred Hawker located a copy of the document among Dame Elspeth’s papers. I brought it with me.” He tapped his breast pocket. “The Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum is now the official caregiver to these orphaned creatures.”
    Nigel sensed triumph in the solicitor’s proclamation. Before he could invent an appropriate reply, Margo McKendrick said, “Sir, a busload of guests just arrived in the car park. You might want to continue your discussions away from the general public.”
    Nigel made a command decision. “Bird, cats, dog, solicitor, security chief—everyone up to the Hawker Suite!”
    Conan Davies, birdcage in arms, led the entourage. Bleasdale, amidships, toted a pet carrier in each hand. Nigel, holding firmly on Cha-Cha’s lead, brought up the rear. The dog trotted with untroubled self-confidence into the museum’s snug service elevator.
    This is not the first time you have ridden upstairs, Nigel realized. He recalled the lumpy canvas bag that Elspeth Hawker often carried into the museum. Your mistress was a smuggler.
    The door slid shut, and a shrill cockney voice filled the elevator: “Can I have a cuppa? It’s better than a cracker.”
    “The blooming parrot talks!” Conan bellowed. Nigel saw the cage begin to fall and helped Conan reposition