Antiques Fate (6 page)

I called, “Will you finish today, do you think?”

He gazed down at me. “With the plaster, yup. But I gotta come back tomorrow to paint it.”

“You know what would be wonderful? A ceiling mural! It would give people something to look at during the sermon.” Counting organ pipes gets old.

“I'm not
that
kind of painter,” he said.

“Well, I didn't really think you were. It was just an idea. Anyway, I don't imagine the church could afford a really nice mural like that.”

“I dunno. Might be able to now.”

“Oh?”

Fred squatted on his scaffold and wiped excess plaster from the trowel with a rag. “Yup. Millie left considerable money to the church. In her will.”

“Well, what a lovely bequest! How much exactly?” My neck was aching from craning up, but such are the sacrifices of crime detection.

“Not sure, Mrs. Borne. I only know because I accidentally overheard a little somethin', when she was telling Chad about it.”

“How did that go over with her grandson?”

“Chad about blew a gasket. The boy was
not
pleased.”

“Perhaps he's not Episcopalian.”

“I don't think he's anything at all, exceptin' a pain in the . . . somethin' you don't mention in church.”

So Millie had left the church a substantial amount. Interesting.

“What about Father Cumberbatch?” I asked. “Is he aware of the bequest?”

“That I can't tell you.”

The young cleric hadn't
seemed
to know about it. Or had he just been playing his cards close to his collar?

From above came a voice—not a heavenly one, just Fred's: “Look, Mrs. Borne, I probably shouldn't even've mentioned it.”

“Not to worry, dear, my lips are sealed, and your words are in the vault.” That was a mixed metaphor, but what did a handyman know about metaphors? “Besides, the will's contents will soon become public knowledge.”

“I guess. Not my business. Why are you interested? Out-of-towner and all.”

“Oh, I just like to fit in wherever I go. See you at seven!”

My next stop was the Old York Museum, ostensibly to learn more about the history of the village, but in reality to seek owner Barclay Starkadder's thoughts on Millie's supposedly failing faculties.

Located on Cambridge, the museum was a large three-story redbrick English baroque house with a central triangular pediment at its top, hipped roof dormers, and rows of white-painted sash windows. Sweeping steps led up to a stone porch with an intricately carved walnut door, attached to which was a brass plate, reading HOURS: T
UES
-S
AT
, 10
AM
-5
PM
. S
UN
2
PM
-6
PM
. C
LOSED
M
ONDAYS
.

The entrance was unlocked and I stepped into a foyer onto an industrial-type mat as a bell over the door rang shrilly, making me jump a trifle. An oriental carpet-runner guided me into a grand central hallway overseen by a sparkling antique crystal chandelier and a massive walnut grandfather clock, its brass pendulum swinging slowly. On the walls hung gilt-framed oil portraits of long-departed Old Yorkians, their stern eyes appraising me.

Find me lacking if you like, fellas,
I thought.
I'm here and you're gone!

To my left was a parlor fully furnished in the baroque period—ornate couches and chairs of walnut and ebony, plush Persian rugs, green velvet curtains with tasseled draw backs, gilded mirrors, and expensive wall tapestries. A red velvet rope drawn across the threshold prevented a more thorough inventory of the room. I felt as if I'd just entered the residence of English nobility—a duke, let's say, circa Queen Anne.

To my right was a library, also cordoned off, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases housing a vast collection of leather-bound volumes. A grand piano dominated one end, while a huge fireplace (unlit) consumed the other, around which clustered an assortment of ornately carved chairs in the Tudor and Georgian styles.

One could imagine my imaginary handsome duke seated before a roaring fire, enjoying his pipe and brandy, a Great Dane slumbering at his feet, as an expensive Edison phonograph played Beethoven's Piano Concerto no. 5 in E-flat Major, entitled
Emperor—
but perhaps I've gone too far.

As I stood agape in the grand hall, stunned by the opulence around me, a rustling sound drew my attention down the corridor leading to the back of the house.

A woman seemed to be floating toward me. Her blue eighteenth-century floor-length gown, its taffeta material the source of rustling, had a voluminous skirt, tight bodice, high lace neck, and full sleeves. Beneath a large black hat with plumes, the woman's raven hair cascaded in ringlets to slender shoulders.

The apparition spoke. “Welcome. I'm Brenda Starkadder. I'm assistant curator here at the museum.”

“Thank heavens. For a moment I thought I'd encountered a spectral spirit.”

Her laugh had a snort in it that brought the moment down to earth. “That's rather the intended effect. But sometimes I startle patrons, in my vintage attire and wig.” She shrugged. “It's part of the attraction.”

As lovely as her costume was, Brenda herself was certainly
not
the attraction. Terming her features as plain would be kind: protruding brown eyes, wide nose, thin lips, weak chin. I guessed her age at about forty.

“Dear, may I assume your father is Barclay Starkadder, the curator?”

“If you do, you'll be wrong. Barclay's my uncle. My parents are no longer living.”

“How terribly sad. Does your uncle own the museum?”

“No. The house and antiquities belonged to one of the trustees who left everything to the town, but our family has managed it for years.”

I smiled and raised a forefinger. “ ‘There have always been Starkadders at Cold Comfort Farm!' ”

The bulging eyes blinked. “Pardon?”

“The book? Stella Gibbons? The movie? Kate Beckinsale? Anything ring a bell?”

“I'm afraid not. But I can tell you one thing.”

“Please do.”

“There
have
always been Starkadders in Old York.”

Perhaps she was, as our Brit cousins say, having a laugh; but I did not pursue it. Instead I gestured to the grand staircase. “Where do those lovely steps lead? Obviously the second floor, but what will I find there?”

She pointed up. “A variety of British artifacts dating back to the seventeen hundreds. Top floor is closed off. If those stairs present a problem, ma'am, there are steps in back with a stair-lift.”

“Very thoughtful of you, dear, but I'm not an invalid just yet! Is your uncle around?”

“No, but he should be here any moment.”

I folded my hands at my bosom and smiled at her. “When he arrives, would you be so kind as to inform him that Vivian Borne would like a moment of his valuable time?”

“Of course.”

The bell over the door made me jump again, as a group of tourists entered. Brenda floated off to greet them. Such a lovely dress! Such a drab wearer. She was a figure out of Henry James, a spinster dolled up for nobody.

I headed up the staircase, finding myself tuckered at the top. After my gentle protest that I was not an invalid, I almost wished I'd taken that stair-lift.

Catching my breath, I wandered into the first of four rooms that yawned open off the wide wood-gleaming hallway. Here, a series of glass-top cases displayed the town's history: old faded photographs of the first trustees, early life in the village, the original town charter.

The second room contained manikins, male and female alike, dressed in period clothing. More display cases held other vintage fashion items, such as women's handbags and hair ornaments, and men's fobs and watches.

The third room I granted only a cursory look, where a panoply of weapons under glass were not as appetizing as pheasant (under glass?) (get it?). But even a glimpse revealed an impressive array of old pistols, rifles, swords, and daggers.

The fourth room was more to my taste, with its vast array of china, pottery, silver tea sets, and so forth. While some antiques were under lock and key, many were arranged on wall shelves behind velvet ropes.

One shelf of delicate china caught my eye, and I approached as close as I could, squinting at a compendium of Chelsea Red and Brown Anchor plates (so noted on white placards).

“Quite lovely, aren't they?” a deeply sonorous male voice intoned behind me.

I turned, mildly startled. Possibly with the tiniest jump.

Barclay Starkadder, well-trimmed beard and graying temples, might have been the dapper ghost of the older John Barrymore, before the great actor's decline by drink had gotten too out of hand, at least. Unlike his niece, however, this Starkadder was no walking museum display, his three-piece brown tweed suit decidedly twenty-first century.

“Quite lovely indeed,” I said, with just a touch of my posh English accent (Brandy wasn't around, so I could get away with classing things up a bit). I pointed to an unusual pair of cups and saucers. “And what can you tell me about those? I can't read the card from here.”

“They're
actually
Derby chocolate cups—hence no handles—and Trembleuse saucers, circa 1794. The female paintings on the cups were done by Richard Askew. The background design on each is puce mark and crossed baton dots.”

What an impressive authority. What a resonant voice. What a pompous arse.

I said, “Simply exquisite. I
do
hope everything is well insured.”

He ignored my question, which I admit was perhaps a tad gauche. “Welcome to our modest offering, Mrs. Borne. My niece said you wished to speak to me . . . ?”

“Yes, actually. I wanted to know if you thought Millie's death was accidental.”

“Where in England are you from originally?” he asked with a frown. “I can't place your accent.”

I was not about to let him change the subject. “Millie's death? Do you think it was an unintentional overdose of medication?”

An eyebrow rose. He had an overly theatrical way about him that rubbed me wrong. He said, “Certainly you're not implying anything
untoward
?”

“If by ‘untoward' you mean, do I think Millie was murdered, yes . . . I'm implying something very untoward happened.”

“Why on earth, madam, would you make such an assumption?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I make such an assumption because of the obvious tension on display at the meeting last night between the two pro and con factions, regarding incorporation of your village.”

The frown deepened. “Balderdash, woman. You make it sound like our meeting was obstreperous! The very idea that one of us would harm another who held a different viewpoint is utterly fatuous, and I refuse to palaver any further along such amphigoric lines.”

(
Editor to Vivian:
I trust you are accurately reporting what Mr. Starkadder said and are not taking this opportunity to show off your own vocabulary. If so, please edit.)

(
Vivian to Editor:
I swear to you that this is verbatim. My memory is highly implacable, and I would never attempt to pull off such a transparent cozenage.)

I asked, “How do
you
stand on incorporation?”

He pursed his lips. “Let's just say I am quite content with the status quo.”

“So you vote no, then. And your niece—Brenda? What might her position be?”

Barclay shrugged elaborately. “Frankly, we've never discussed it. And, one day, when she takes my place on the board, my niece can vote as she pleases. One can only hope that one has set an example, where honoring the past, and maintaining its virtues, are concerned. Now, madam, if you'll excuse me . . . I have much to do.”

He turned brusquely and walked away.

I lingered, mulling over our conversation while pretending to study a mahogany tea box with copper bands, its placard saying it dated to the year of the Boston Tea Party.

Fighting a sudden craving for tea, I departed the museum, took a left and walked half a block to a two-story Tudor-style brick building whose window quietly said, L
ANCASTER
R
EALTY
& L
AND
D
EVELOPMENT
. This was before business hours, but the door was open, which I always take as an invitation.

The interior made no particular attempt to invoke the English village theme—a receptionist's metal desk, vacant, a few straight-back chairs along the walls and lots of framed pictures (with written descriptions beneath) of properties in Old York.

The door to the office beyond was shut.

I knocked.

“Yes?” came an impatient, borderline nasty male voice.

“Mr. Lancaster? Vivian Borne. Might I have a word?”

A long pause preceded the eventual, “Come in, come in.”

I did so and took the waiting client chair. Digby Lancaster, who did not rise, was in a rust-color sports jacket over a green polo shirt, a considerable contrast to Barclay Starkadder's three-piece suit. He was plump and pale and his hair was cut short, as if perhaps his barber of choice was at a military base; his bulldog features made no attempt to compose themselves pleasantly for me.

“Something I can do for you, Mrs. Borne?”

“Well, first let me thank you for allowing the show to go on,” I said. “Judging by your attitude at the board meeting, I thought you might be a naysayer.”