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Stuart answered over his shoulder. “I presume that they carried Elspeth out feet first? If so, she fulfilled the requirements of the hackneyed old cliché.”
    “Possibly,” Archibald admitted. “But let’s not exceed the bounds of good taste.”
    Nigel listened in amazement as Stuart, oblivious to interruption, continued on a roll: “English reporters love tales of captains going down with their ships. We will point out that Elspeth went down at her museum.” He wrote A LIFE OF GREAT PERSONAL SACRIFICE! on the board and simultaneously asked, “Does anyone remember what she ate and drank before her death?”
    “Indeed I do!” Nigel said, joining in the spirit of the moment. “As usual, Elspeth ate raisin scones with her favorite Danish lingonberry preserves and clotted cream. She drank several cups of estate Darjeeling.”
    “Magnificent!” Stuart roared. “Dame Elspeth Hawker died sipping tea and munching scones while standing at the helm of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum.”
    “I beg your pardon!” Archibald tried to get Stuart’s attention. Nigel bit back a smile as Archibald added somewhat testily, “As the chair of the trustees, I stand at the helm of the museum.”
    Stuart refused to be corrected—or slowed down. He wrote with extravagant strokes: FALLEN MUSEUM LEADER EXPIRES AFTER ENJOYING HER LAST AFTERNOON TEA! “Of course,” he said, “we must employ poetic license. A wholesome Scottish marmalade has more editorial appeal than some obscure Danish jelly. And a hearty workingman’s cuppa, perhaps brewed with an extra measure of PG Tips, seems more appropriate for Dame Elspeth than a tarted-up Darjeeling.”
    Nigel felt a buzzing on his hip: a call coming in on his cell phone. What now? Only a handful of people had his number. Nigel moved the phone to his ear and shielded the microphone with his hand. “Nigel Owen.”
    “Good evening, Nigel,” spoke a well-modulated voice. “William de Rudd here.”
    “Ah! Vicar!” Nigel said guardedly. Why would the vicar of St. Stephen’s Church be calling at this hour?
    “The Hawker family needs your help. Both Alfred and Harriet are distraught over their aunt’s unexpected death.”
    “Are they?” Nigel tried to hide his skepticism. He had met the younger Hawkers twice. They both seemed hard as nails—hardly the sort to grieve over Elspeth. Nonetheless, they were the lawful heirs to the Hawker estate and now deserved the deference that the museum had paid to their two aunts. “What sort of help do they require?”
    “Alfred and Harriet have no experience planning a funeral. I assured them that your staff would provide all necessary assistance in their time of crisis.”
    Nigel swallowed a groan. His “staff ” consisted of one administrative assistant he shared with Flick. He would have to do most of the work himself.
    “When would they like… ah… us to begin?”
    “The Hawkers expect a visit from you tomorrow morning.”
    Nigel snapped the phone shut with more force than necessary. The sharp snap echoed around the office, but neither Archibald nor Stuart, now standing together near the whiteboard, seemed to notice. It took Nigel a moment to realize they were negotiating how Elspeth should be described in the obituary. Stuart favored “legendary grande dame of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum”; Archibald preferred the less flashy “oldest trustee of a well-known museum in Kent.”
    “Tell the truth, Elspeth,” Nigel muttered, as he peered skyward, “did you have any idea when you woke up this morning how much tumult you would create today?”
     

     
    Flick lifted her half pint of English cider as Matthew Eaton said, “We raise our glasses to Dame Elspeth Hawker—a lovely lady and a fine friend. She had a good innings, then passed swiftly in old age. One can hardly ask for better than that.”
    There were murmurs of agreement and a throaty “Here! Here!” from Iona Saxby, seated in the chair next to Flick. Iona