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willing to bite the hand that fed him.
    Stuart droned on: “Sir Basil cleverly sold off the Hawker business assets to other companies at a significant profit before the Great Depression. He invested wisely and consolidated the family’s fortune. So, by 1930, the Hawker family was out of the tea business and enjoying a mostly quiet life of genteel leisure in Lion’s Peak, the oversized manor house that Desmond had built circa 1875. It can be found on the road to Pembury, some two miles northeast of where we sit.”
    Stuart pointed to the window behind Nigel to indicate the general direction before he continued. “As an aside, the commodore lured Decimus Burton out of retirement to design Lion’s Peak. Legend has it that Decimus thought Desmond a nouveaux riches lout, which explains why most students of architecture feel that the house is one of Burton’s lesser accomplishments to be seen in Tunbridge Wells. Lion’s Peak, however, made up in durability for what it lacked in aesthetic appeal. A serious fire, apparently set by a local lunatic, destroyed almost a third of the house in 1924 or 1925. Sir Basil was able to quickly rebuild and restore the old monstrosity.”
    Stuart shifted his position on the edge of the desk, presumably to a more comfortable one. “Returning to Sir Basil Hawker’s personal life,” he said. “Well, he had two wives during his eighty-five years. Sarah, wife number one, died while giving birth to Mary Hawker, way back in 1897. Gwyneth, his second wife, produced two children: Edmund and Elspeth, in 1918 and 1920, respectively. Gwyneth, incidentally, was killed by a V1 Buzz Bomb explosion during World War II.
    “Mary Hawker married Rupert Evans in 1921, was widowed in 1947, and took charge of the family when Sir Basil died in 1950. She encouraged the establishment of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum.
    “Meanwhile, Edmund Hawker—Mary’s half brother — lived his life as a bon-vivant wastrel and died at the mere age of seventy in 1988. However, he did manage to marry and father the next generation of Hawkers: Harriet and Alfred.
    “Elspeth Hawker chose a different path. She lived most of her life in self-imposed solitude. That changed when Mary Hawker Evans died in 1990. Elspeth surprised all and sundry by taking on the mantle of family leadership. She was by all accounts a benevolent despot, with few interests outside the museum.” Stuart added, “And today she died.”
    Nigel didn’t respond. He looked at Archibald in time to see the banker shake his head and say, “I see your point—dull as dishwater.”
    The room fell silent, giving Nigel a chance to brood over Archibald’s conclusion. If Stuart doesn’t write the silly obit, you’ll get stuck with the job.
    “Hold on a moment,” Nigel said. “I’ve had a thought. Elspeth Hawker wasn’t a sailor, so perhaps we can try a different tack. She spent the golden years of her life studying the museum’s collection of antiquities. One of our docents told me that Elspeth knew more about our dusty old clobber than our professional curators did.”
    Stuart sprang to his feet. “I like it! The self-taught amateur who outpaces her professional colleagues. That has definite possibilities.” He moved to a whiteboard affixed to the wall behind his desk, picked up a red marker, and wrote in bold letters, AMATEUR OUTDOES THE EXPERTS!
    “What else did she do?” Stuart asked Nigel excitedly.
    Nigel stared at his hands. What else did Elspeth do? He couldn’t think of a single thing, other than she claimed to have discovered “an exceedingly clever thief.”
    You can’t talk about that.
    Happily, the muse of epitaphs provided Stuart Battlebridge with an answer to his own question. “I know!” He spun back to his whiteboard. “We can say that Elspeth died while working to improve the museum she esteemed above all else.” He wrote, DIED IN HARNESS!
    “Isn’t that a bit… well, grisly?” Archibald asked.
    “Not at all!”