The Final Crumpet by Ron Benrey, Janet Benrey Page B

would be furious if she discovered he had forgotten to bring her along.
    Perhaps she never has to know? Perhaps she’ll forget about the meeting? Perhaps the sun will rise in the west?
    “Your cameras clearly represent the pinnacle of discreet surveillance,” Nigel said. “I wish I had the time to finish the game, but I must get back to my other duties.” He silently added, Not to mention restoring my relationship with Felicity Adams.
    He shook Garwood’s hand, wished him well, and made a mental note to have Conan prepare an easy-to-follow map of the surveillance network. He would never remember the locations—or the disguises—of the dozen tricked-up TV cameras hidden inside the building.
    Nigel was huffing slightly when he reached the third floor.
    Why not, he thought, visit Flick right now? Chances are, she’s cooled down. He made for the curators’ wing.
    No joy. After not finding either Flick or Cha-Cha, he asked a white-coated curator working at a large comparator microscope.
    “Flick took Cha-Cha for a walk,” the woman said, not looking up from her eyepiece. “She left about twenty minutes ago.”
    “Thank you,” Nigel mumbled. Well, he was off the hook for not bringing Flick to meet Niles Garwood—but what possible reason did she have to take a walk in midafternoon?
    Feeling curiously glum, Nigel tramped to his office. He found Polly Reid placing a thick envelope in a prominent position atop his desk
    “This letter came in the morning post,” she said, “but I just got around to opening it. I didn’t notice the proof of delivery certificate.” Polly made a little grimace. “We have a bit of a fuss concerning Cha-Cha. It seems that our dog killed a prize ferret. The owner of the deceased champion—a Mr. Bertram Holloway—is claiming significant damages.”
    “A ferret? When and where did Cha-Cha dispatch a ferret?”
    “According to this complaint, the ferret breathed his last on the Sunday following Dame Elspeth’s funeral. It happened somewhere in her vast back garden. We received Cha-Cha and the other animals the following day—a Monday. I looked it up.”
    Nigel yanked the letter out of its envelope and snapped, “How can the museum be responsible for something that happened before we took custody of the mutt?”
    “That is a question I suggest you put to Solicitor Bleasdale, sir—especially in your present aggravated mood. I’ve written his private number on the back of the envelope.”
    “Mea culpa.” Nigel held up his hands in mock surrender. “Forgive me for shooting the messenger.”
    Polly responded with a “forget it” wave of her hand as he dialed his telephone.
    “Bleasdale here,” spoke a curt voice. Nigel countered with, “Owen, ditto.”
    A deep sigh. “These frequent calls from the museum are becoming tedious. I shall soon consider billing you for my time.”
    “While you’re at it, Barrington, consider the enormous fee you will earn when our loan closes and we purchase the Hawker collection from your clients.”
    Another deep sigh. Nigel imagined the portly solicitor wringing his hands in despair. Bleasdale did not like to be reminded of his nineteenth-century first name.
    “How may I be of assistance, Nigel?” the attorney asked.
    “I have here in front of me a paper that says the museum is about to be sued by a lunatic named Holloway, who seeks to recover the exorbitant cost of a prize ferret that Cha-Cha is accused of murdering the day before you delivered him to us.”
    “A lunatic? Not at all—Bertram Holloway is the very model of a sane and stable gentleman. He owns the estate adjacent to Lion’s Peak I believe he was on quite friendly terms with Dame Elspeth.”
    “You know the man?”
    “Indeed. He approached me and described his distress. I, of course, referred him to you.”
    “Ah. Then you know that stable Mr. Holloway wants five thousand pounds compensation for a dead ferret.”
    “That does seem a lot of money for a small mammal,