The Final Crumpet, page 17
part #2 of A Royal Tunbridge Wells Mystery Series
“Will they help our investigation?” Nigel asked.
“You tell me.” Flick lined the photos up along the edge of Conan’s desk and stood back.
“Blimey! Do you think that the woman in Photo Number Two could be the errant wife in question?”
“I had the same thought,” Flick said. “I suppose it’s possible. Forty-plus years is a long time, but we should be able to locate people in Tunbridge Wells who can identify her from her photograph.”
Nigel peered at the other photos. “Photo Number One could become a centerpiece of a Makepeace exhibit—but I can’t make sense of Numbers Three and Four.”
“Same here. Why would anyone waste film to photograph Makepeace doing nothing?”
“I believe I know the answer, ma’am,” Conan said. “Observe that no one is actually looking toward the camera in any of the pictures. And note that the photographer has carefully scribed dates in the bottom margins.”
What dates?
She looked again. Rats! Conan was right. The photographer had written the dates with pen and ink in a tiny hand. They ranged from 5 September 1966 to 8 September 1966.
Conan went on, “These seem to be high-quality surveillance photos, probably taken surreptitiously with a concealed Leica or Rolleiflex. A good photographer seems to have been following Mr. Makepeace around Tunbridge Wells not long before he disappeared.”
“Crikey!” Nigel said. “How would surveillance snaps find their way to an antique store? Do you suppose…?” He shook the large manila envelope that Flick had stood against Conan’s in basket. A square of paper fell out. “I thought as much. Dorothy included a note with the photos.” He read aloud:
My dearest Felicity,
Please do evaluate the “historicity “—Did I spell it right?—of the enclosed photographs. One of my shop managers purchased the set at a church jumble sale, twenty years ago, for ten or twenty pence. She recognized Etienne Makepeace and thought that photos of him, especially photos this odd, might interest a specialized collector. Alas, no such collector ever darkened our door. About ten years ago, we filed the photos away in a cabinet full of celebrity photographs at my Sevenoaks store. I saw them back then but pretty much forgot about them. Do you think they have any value?
Best wishes,
Dorothy
Flick saw Nigel’s eyebrows merge together as he frowned. “I still don’t understand,” he said. “How did the photos end up at a church?”
“You see, sir,” Conan said, “it happens more than we security folk would like to admit, but one can guess that the photographer made an extra set of prints for himself, as a kind of keepsake. I doubt he surveilled many celebrities, so not surprisingly he wanted a souvenir of his assignment…”
Ting.
Flick immediately recognized the pleasant, though considerably muffled, sound of the 10:00 a.m. chime. It had rung in the Welcome Centre kiosk to announce that the museum was open for visitors. Thursdays often brought busloads of London-based tourists. The building would soon be full of friendly sounds: laughter, chatting, footsteps on the marble stairs, the occasional child’s shriek.
“You were saying, Conan,” Nigel said.
“Yes. I suggested that the photographer made himself an extra set of pictures. If we also imagine that he died twenty years ago…”
“Now I get it!” Nigel tapped his forehead with the heel of his palm. “His wife cleaned out his office and donated everything that looked salable to her local church, for its next jumble sale.”
“Precisely, sir.” Conan added, “It’s quite possible that there are other photographs to be found in Tunbridge Wells, and perhaps other artifacts about Mr. Makepeace that we can…”
“Guys!” Flick interrupted. “The museum is open, and we’re toddling down a rabbit trail. Remember what our problem du jour is. I don’t see anything in the photos that’ll help us defend ourselves against ‘Anonymous Bystander.’ ”
“Quite right, ma’am,” Conan said, a touch of pink on his cheeks. Nigel merely returned a guilty smile.
“How do we resolve our dilemma of being between a rock and a hard place?”
“If I may offer an observation,” Conan said. “We have no choice but to satisfy Wescott Bank; therefore, our only possible solution is to increase our guard and continue the investigation in such a way that is invisible to anyone outside the museum.”
“Well said. How do we walk that tightrope?”
“We begin,” Nigel said, “by killing our Makepeace Web page and withdrawing our reward for more information.”
Flick nodded. “ ‘Anonymous Bystander’ contributed information. He’s bound to keep watching our Web site to see what we do. I’ll ask Hannah Kerrigan to remove the page.”
“It might be wiser,” Conan said softly, “to have Hannah remove the content and label the page ‘under construction.’ We want ‘Anonymous Bystander’ to keep checking on us. Every time he accesses our Web site, we log the Internet address he’s using. Right now, his address is one of many, but if he repeatedly ‘hits’ our site—well, we could get lucky and identify him.”
“Make it so,” Nigel said.
“One idea down—many ideas to conceive,” Flick said. Conan suddenly smiled. “Well, hello, Mirabelle—we hardly ever see you down in the dungeon.”
Flick looked over her shoulder. The docent stood in the doorway of Conan’s office, clearly angry.
“You wouldn’t see me down here today,” Mirabelle said, “hadn’t I felt an urgent need to get away from a rather obnoxious visitor who insisted…no, demanded that I bring his card to Dr. Adams, immediately.” She held up a business card by one corner, as if its surface dripped with slime.
Flick moved to Mirabelle’s side. “What’s the man’s name?”
“Martin Maltby.”
Flick took the business card. The card stock seemed costly, and the printing felt engraved, but the card contained only two items of information: Maltby’s name and a Kent telephone number. She turned the card over. Three neatly written lines proclaimed, “I have essential information about Etienne Makepeace.”
“Can you describe him?” she said.
“Medium height, thin, with gray hair and pale brown eyes. Well-dressed in blue slacks and a tweed jacket. A gentleman in appearance if not in his manner.”
“His age?”
“Younger than I. Perhaps seventy.”
Flick experienced a prickle of fear. Was Maltby the “Anonymous Bystander”? He was certainly old enough to have been involved in Etienne Makepeace’s murder.
“Where is the safest place for Dr. Adams to meet with an elderly gentleman of uncertain character?” Nigel asked Conan.
“You read my mind,” she said.
“The Commodore Hawker Room, without question.”
Conan tickled the keyboard. The interior of the Commodore’s restored office appeared on the surveillance monitor screen. “Not only can we watch his every move, there are two security guards only a few steps away should he become…threatening.”
“There will probably be other visitors in the room,” Nigel said, “and I can make it up the stairs in fifteen seconds flat, if necessary.” His abrupt earnestness surprised Flick. He seemed more anxious than she felt. Once again, his concern demonstrated that he cared for her. And once again, she wondered if she was wrong to demand an actual promise from him. Didn’t his actions speak louder than his words?
That’s wishful thinking. The kind that got you into trouble before.
Flick took Mirabelle’s hand. “Force yourself to smile at Mr. Maltby,” she said. “Show him to the Commodore Hawker Room and say that I’ll join him in five minutes.”
Flick moved nearer to the computer monitor and—with Nigel and Conan at her side—watched the interior of the Commodore Hawker Room. Three or four museum visitors poked their heads into the exhibit area and looked around, but none stayed. A few minutes later, Mirabelle led Martin Maltby into the heart of the room. He seemed fascinated, as many visitors were, by the large oil portrait of Commander Hawker hanging on the wall.
“It’s a pity we can’t hear what’s going on, too,” Nigel said.
“Begging to differ with you, sir,” Conan said. “Our disguised cameras are equipped with highly sensitive microphones. We can listen to everything that’s said.” He touched another key. Mirabelle’s voice streamed out of a speaker above the monitor: “Quite true, sir. Commander Hawker was one of a kind.” She continued, “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Maltby. Dr. Adams will join you in a few minutes.”
Flick and the others gazed at the monitor until Nigel broke the silence. “Does anyone recognize Maltby?” he asked. “I don’t.”
“Me neither,” she said. “He looks more elegant to me than dangerous.
“I agree, ma’am.” Conan zoomed the camera to get a close-up of the man’s face. “My surmise is Mr. Maltby is a retired military officer or possibly a former government official. A man used to getting his own way.”
“Well—there’s only one way to find out what he wants from us.” Flick took a slow, deep breath to strengthen her resolve. “Onward and upward.”
Martin Maltby was sitting on a padded visitors’ bench opposite the commodore’s massive oak bookcase when Flick entered the Commodore Hawker Room. He stood up and offered his hand. “Dr. Adams—we meet at last.”
Flick shook his hand. She noted that Maltby had the kind of classic British accent that most radio announcers would envy.
Maltby continued. “I’ve enjoyed reading your books on tea. It goes without question that I own all three. My only criticism is that you seem to favor black and green teas at the expense of white tea.”
“I take it that you prefer white tea?”
“Indeed. I began drinking white tea because I sought a brew with less caffeine—but now I fancy the subtle sweet flavor. White tea is so much more elegant than green tea, which, I’m afraid to say, makes me think that I’m drinking grass soup.” He laughed softly to himself.
“We have a gallery on the first floor devoted to tea processing that includes an exhibit about white tea. Have you seen it?”
“It would be a total waste of my time. I am fully aware that white tea is made by picking the leaf buds before they have opened and had an opportunity to turn green.”
“Yes, well—you wanted to talk to me about Etienne Makepeace?”
“A recent broadcast on the BBC reported that you plan to create an exhibit about Etienne Makepeace. You said—I paraphrase here—that you want to tell his story to the world. Moreover, you have been seeking information about Makepeace. Am I correct?”
Flick hesitated. Should she find out what Maltby knew about the Tea Sage? Or should she follow their new strategy and deny that the museum had an interest in Etienne Makepeace?
Maltby pressed: “I asked you a simple question, Dr. Adams.”
“In fact, Mr. Maltby, you asked me two questions.” Flick fought to control the wave of annoyance that Maltby had generated by his snide comment. “We may create a Makepeace exhibit in the future, but we are no longer seeking information about him in the present.”
“That seems an odd decision. Nonetheless, you need to know what I have to say.” Maltby didn’t give Flick a chance to object. “Etienne Makepeace was a fake and a fraud. He knew little about tea and cared less. I speak from profound personal experience because everything that Makepeace said or published under his name was written by me and another ghostwriter named Rupert Perry.”
Flick tried not to reveal the confusion she felt. “You say that Makepeace’s writings were ghostwritten?”
“Every bloody jot and tittle.” The soft laugh again. “I thought that would pique your interest.”
“Do you have…proof of your accusations?”
“Why else would I bother coming here today?” Maltby reached into his breast pocket and brought out a folded document. “Here is a carbon copy of a manuscript that was published in the April 1959 issue of Town and Country magazine. Forgive the occasional error; the man who prepared the draft typed it by hand on an old Imperial Model 55 typewriter. For your convenience, I have also attached a photocopy of the article as it appeared in the magazine. You will see that they are identical.”
Flick scanned the carbon copy quickly: a six-page draft on the virtues of different teas grown in Ceylon. The color of the typed characters, their slightly blurred appearance, looked right for a carbon copy. The paper was a thin “onion skin,” the kind often used for copies in the days before every office had a photocopying machine.
Maltby seemed to read her mind. “This is a museum. I suspect you have equipment that will enable you to verify the age of the carbon copy and its authenticity.”
Flick nodded. “By itself, of course, a single authentic document doesn’t prove much. It could have come from anywhere.”
“Do you take me for a dunce? Rupert Perry and I can provide copies of dozens of other draft manuscripts. We wrote Makepeace’s articles, books, speeches, clever ad-libs—everything. We earned a pittance for our work; Makepeace took the credit and became an international celebrity.”
Flick fought to maintain her composure. “May I keep this carbon copy?” she asked evenly.
Maltby replied with a sarcastic grimace. “And the photocopy of the article, too. Why else would I have given them to you?”
Flick could feel her expression tighten into a scowl. Maltby lifted his hands in an impromptu stop signal. “I perceive that my forthright manner has caused you considerable irritation. I warned Rupert Perry that that would be the case; I urged him to come instead of me, because he is charming, personable, likeable—all the things that I am not. But Rupert preferred not to travel from London to Tunbridge Wells. And so, I came instead.” He sighed. “You will have to go to him to obtain the rest of our evidence.”
“I have no intention of traveling to London, Mr. Maltby.”
“Nonsense. I’m confident that you’ll make the trip.”
“And why is that?”
“Chiefly because you are ethical, curious, and loath to perpetrate a historical catastrophe in this museum.” His sudden smile conveyed a hint of sadness. “I can read the doubts on your face. You’ve studied Etienne Makepeace enough to suspect that he falsified much of his public persona. Consequently, you’ve become skeptical of the adulation heaped on him, and you want to uncover the full extent of his deception—and possibly the motive for his death. Rupert Perry can give you the information you seek. He lived through chapters of the story that I can merely present to you as hearsay.”
“I’ll think about it. I make no promises.”
Maltby reached into a side pocket. “This mobile phone is for you. Use it to contact Rupert Perry and arrange a meeting. He is awaiting your call.”
Flick took the palm-sized device. “I have my own mobile phone.”
“Undoubtedly. However, we prepaid for one hundred minutes of service on that telephone and programmed Rupert’s number into the memory. Press 5 when you are ready to talk to him.”
“Why not just give me his phone number?”
Maltby repeated his soft laugh. “In fact, Rupert is a man who values his solitude. He can be somewhat obsessive about guarding his privacy and rarely provides his personal phone number to strangers. You will talk to him on an identical mobile device. Both were acquired using…shall we say, names of convenience. It’s a simple precaution to ensure that he is in control of all communications. Should you try to contact him using another telephone, an unexpected number will appear on his phone’s Caller ID screen. He won’t answer—and you will have squandered your only opportunity to learn the complete truth about Etienne Makepeace.”
“As I said—I’ll think about it.”
“Naturally, you will contact Rupert Perry at a time you deem most appropriate. However, I urge you not to delay. He can be unpredictable when slighted. It would be foolish to ignore such a gift, freely given. No one knows more about Makepeace than Rupert Perry.”
“I’ll see you out, Mr. Maltby,” Flick said.
“That’s hardly necessary, Dr. Adams. You should return to the important work of this museum.” He gave a friendly wave, then turned to leave. “Ta-ta.”
She waited in the Commodore Hawker Room until Nigel poked his head around the door frame. “Maltby’s gone,” he said. “He climbed into a red Peugeot 607 sedan and drove off toward Tunbridge Wells.” Nigel looked through a window that overlooked Eridge Road. He seemed to be trying to catch a glimpse of Maltby’s car.
“Who do you suppose he is?” Nigel asked.
“Evidently a ghostwriter of some sort.”
“Perhaps, although Conan thinks he wore a disguise.”
“Impossible! I was standing next to him—nothing about Maltby seemed unnatural.”
“Well, it seems that our new surveillance camera reached a different conclusion.”
Flick did a slow pirouette. “Where is the new camera? I know it’s somewhere over in the corner, but I don’t see anything out of place.”
Nigel pointed to a jeweled pewter stein on a shelf. “Notice there are now three steins on display, where before there were only two.”
“Nifty.”
Flick looked down at the carbon copy in one hand and the mobile telephone in the other. “What’s on your agenda this afternoon?”
“Ah. You think we should go to London.”
“You heard Maltby. Rupert Perry is a font of information about Etienne Makepeace—probably the only one left. I don’t think we have a choice.”
Nine
Nigel followed Conan back to his office and peered over the chief of security’s shoulder while he examined the mobile phone Maltby had given Flick. “It’s a cheap, refurbished, off-brand cell phone, sir,” Conan said, “with limited features—the kind sold for thirty pounds or so for those who choose pay-as-you-go mobile service.”
