“One hopes so. Fridays are usually among our busiest days. Today is especially promising, because we have another large tour group coming down from London this morning.”

  Conan grunted—rather indifferently, Nigel thought. The chief of security had focused all his attention on keeping the sticky tape at a uniform height of sixty inches and parallel to the floor. He clearly wasn’t bothered by the potential impact on the museum should a party of twenty-five Czech tourists decide to cancel. Nigel sighed. He and Flick were probably the only employees of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum who fretted about revenues.

  The rest of the staff were in for a rude awakening. For the next ten years, the museum would have to scramble to repay the loan from Wescott Bank—assuming, of course, that the results of Flick’s accelerated investigation satisfied Sir James Boyer.

  Think positively. We’re going to get the loan.

  Thirty-two million pounds! A princely sum for a small institution. To be repaid, with interest, at approximately four million pounds per year. More than three hundred thousand pounds per month. And no longer could they rely on the largesse of the Hawker family or the generosity of the well-heeled Hawker Foundation.

  We’re on our own—like most other museums.

  Nigel shuddered. Like other museums, they’d be required to hold fund-raising campaigns, sell annual memberships, host academic conferences—generate revenues through all possible means. Every pence became significant. Thus, they couldn’t afford to lose even one tour group that might spend money in the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom and the museum’s gift shop.

  None of this tumult would be necessary if genetics hadn’t let the Hawker family down.

  Nigel surveyed the nearly empty Hawker family suite. Every item of decent furniture used by Mary Hawker Evans and later by Dame Elspeth Hawker had been distributed among the curating staff, leaving three uncomfortable wooden chairs, a battered metal table, and a lumpy upholstered wing chair that no one wanted. Flick had claimed the Oriental carpets for her office. He had commandeered the pictures on the walls. The now-bleak office testified to the start of a new era—the surviving Hawker heirs had all but disconnected the Hawker family from the museum.

  Nigel presumed that Harriet Hawker Peckham and Alfred Hawker would be the last generation of Hawkers, since they were childless and well into middle age. The two siblings, both scrawny, had limp handshakes, weak eyes, narrow noses, and mousy hair on the verge of going gray. What they lacked in charm, they amply made up for in avarice and stinginess. With luck, Nigel thought, he would have to see them only once more: when the museum consummated the deal to purchase the Hawker collection of antiquities. After that, should the younger Hawkers ever ask for accommodations at the museum, he would scrounge a morsel of space for them—in a basement storeroom.

  Ah well. No use crying over spoiled Hawkers.

  “How does this arrangement strike you, sir?” Conan asked. Nigel looked at the back wall. Conan had hung two groupings of photographs—a total of thirteen in all—on the strip of sticky tape. It had been his suggestion to create an “Incident Room,” as he called it, in the now-vacant office. “A place to display the evidence,” he’d said, “where we can meet and discuss our conclusions.”

  Nigel moved closer. The leftward grouping included nine photographs of Etienne Makepeace, four of which were the surveillance shots borrowed from Dorothy McAndrews. The rightward grouping consisted of paired images of Martin Maltby and Rupert Perry, one “normal” and one “filtered” to reveal the disguises they had worn. Nigel felt a surge of pride. “His” pics of Rupert Perry were sharp and perfectly centered; they provided clear evidence that Perry had camouflaged himself with a wig, contact lenses, and facial makeup.

  “Conan, you have a fine eye for wall décor,” Nigel said.

  “Why, thank you, sir.” The tall Scot smiled jubilantly. “There’s plenty of room left on the wall for Dr. Adams to post the documents she’s collected.” He appraised his handiwork once again and gave what Nigel took to be a satisfied nod. “Well, I’d best get back to my office and read more instruction manuals. Our network of surveillance cameras will be fully operational by the end of the day. My lads and I have to learn how to use all the gadgets and thingummies.”

  Nigel perused the photographs after Conan left. Did any of them count as “evidence”? And would it make an iota of difference if every piece of paper they’d collected during the week were hanging alongside? All the so-called facts about Etienne Makepeace they’d gathered told them nothing new about his relationship to the museum.

  He felt Cha-Cha thump against his leg. A moment later, Flick bounded into the room and said, “I’ve had a brainstorm.”

  “We can certainly use one.”

  “Look at this image.”

  “It’s a life-size picture of a cat. One of ours, I suppose.” He made a vague gesture toward the wall. “Flick, we have to talk about our investigation.”

  “And so we shall—after I tell you what I did. I turned Hannah Kerrigan loose on Maltby and Perry.”

  “I haven’t a clue what you just said.”

  “This image I just showed you didn’t come from a camera. Hannah made it—with Photoshop.”

  She lifted the photograph as high as her chin; Nigel looked at it. “I repeat,” he said. “It’s a picture of a cat. Plush blue fur, big orange eyes—a British Shorthair.”

  “Exactly. Except Hannah created it from a photo taken a couple of years ago. She used her retouching skills to transform a kitten into a full-grown cat.”

  Nigel gave up trying to make sense of the muddle. “Okay. And your point is?”

  “I’ve asked her to do the same thing with Maltby and Perry.”

  “Turn them into cats?”

  “No, silly! Use Photoshop to peel away their disguises. She thinks it’s possible. She learned how to use the program to retouch photographs. You know—soften wrinkles, eradicate age spots, lift sagging muscles.” Flick pointed at the pairs of photographs taped to the wall. “I gave Hannah copies of the Maltby and Perry surveillance images. She’ll try to eliminate their wigs, wipe the makeup off their faces, and remove any prosthetic devices.”

  “To what effect?”

  “We’ll know what the real Maltby and Perry look like. We may be able to identify who they are and then figure out why they wore disguises and used phony names.”

  “And what happens, pray tell, if we do identify them?”

  “We’ll be a giant step closer to understanding this mess.” Nigel dropped into the wing chair. Crikey. She hasn’t twigged to the depth of the crisis we face.

  “Flick, assuming that you’re able to identify Maltby and Perry…” he said calmly. “So what?”

  She moved closer to him. An astonished glower had replaced her now-vanished smile. “So what? I can’t believe you said that. Martin Maltby and Rupert Perry were contemporaries of Etienne Makepeace. They knew him. They’re living links to a man who died forty years ago. For all we know, they’re the only people still alive who can answer our questions about Makepeace.”

  “Or…they could be two barmy eccentrics who enjoy dressing up in toupees and makeup.”

  “You heard Rupert Perry’s story. You said you believed him.”

  Nigel sighed. “Granted…I believe his long-winded tale about ghostwriting tea articles. But he said nothing to suggest that he or Martin Maltby have any knowledge about Makepeace’s relationship to this museum.”

  “Well, I have no doubts that they do.”

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “Call it a hunch, a gut feeling.”

  “Well, at least you reached your conclusion without tarot cards or a crystal ball.”

  Nigel regretted his words immediately; he hadn’t meant to ridicule Flick. Fortunately, Flick seemed more exasperated than annoyed. “What’s with you this morning?” she asked. “You don’t usually show up for work in a melancholy mood.”

  “I’m not melancholy—I’m on edge. We have fewer than three days to satisfy Sir James Boyer’s demands for information. I fear that we won’t be able to do it.”

  “Three days is plenty of time to flesh out our understanding of how Etienne Makepeace was connected to the museum.”

  “You seem to have forgotten that you promised Olivia Hart the earth. Lord knows what you had in mind, but you assured her that we’d be able to explain why Etienne Makepeace was shot in the museum and buried in our tea garden. Sir James expects to get the impossible because you said we would deliver it—in person, no less.”

  “I didn’t hear you argue with me.”

  “Too true. Your promises sounded brilliant at the time. I was happy to hear them. It’s a pity we can’t fulfill the commitments you made.”

  “Who says we can’t? We know the motive behind Makepeace’s murder.”

  “Spare me the nebulous jealous-husband theory. I don’t believe it, and I doubt that Sir James will, either. We have no names, we have no dates, and we have no facts to support our conjectures.” He waited for Flick to respond; when she didn’t, he went on. “We can’t even explain how ‘Mr. Jealous Husband’ gained access to our tea garden. Candidly, it’s difficult to accept that anyone connected to this museum back then was married to a wanton barmaid.”

  “That’s a rather pretentious thing to say.”

  “Pardon my pretensions. I’m up to my snoot in a wretched mess.”

  “A mess of your own making.”

  Nigel leaped out of the chair. ‘I beg your pardon!” He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Cha-Cha leap for the only available refuge in the room: The Shiba dove under the wing chair Nigel had just vacated. “Need I remind you that the Wescott loan was in the bag until Sir James Boyer learned about our ill-conceived news conference? I admit that I let Stuart Battlebridge lead me down the garden lane, but I recall that you thought talking to the media was a grand idea.”

  “Baloney!” Flick underlined her expletive by raising her right index finger in a triumphant gesture. “This mess, as you call it, began when you wimped out and let Archibald Meicklejohn dictate the bank we had to use. You had the opportunity to exert your leadership, to act like a genuine museum director. Instead, you caved. And now we’re stuck with the wishy-washy Wescott Bank—not to mention James Boyer and his Kentish henchwoman, Olivia Hart.”

  “Balderdash! No one in this blooming building acknowledges my leadership. Let’s not forget how you publicly announced—on your own authority and against my well-reasoned judgment—that you intended to establish a Makepeace exhibit at this museum. And look what’s happened—the subject of your new exhibit turns out to be a cad and a fraud.»

  Flick let out a mighty groan. “Etienne Makepeace was England’s Tea Sage, you ninny, and this is a tea museum. We have a responsibility to tell his story—even if it turns out that he took advantage of the queen and stole the crown jewels.”

  Nigel walked to the window and saw Flick’s reflection. She had moved to the opposite corner. She stood straight as a stanchion, arms crossed, glaring at him.

  Your posturing has no effect on me, Dr. Adams. I am the aggrieved party this morning, thank you very much.

  He looked out at the fog. Conan had been right; most of the mist had burned off, and it hadn’t yet gone nine fifteen. The busload of tourists from London would probably arrive on time. He decided to return to his office.

  When he turned to leave, he saw Polly Reid standing in the doorway, holding an unfolded newspaper. She seemed hesitant to speak.

  “Yes, Polly,” he said. He hoped that his voice had returned to its normal volume after his brief shouting match with Flick.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you, sir; however, I expect you’ll want to see the latest issue of the Kent and Sussex Courier immediately.” Nigel noted that she spoke more crisply and carefully than usual. “A small news report on page 9 alleges that we are being sued because a dog in our possession killed a prizewinning ferret.”

  “Oh, mercy me!” He snatched the newspaper out of her hands and began to read it. The article implied that the museum harbored a “killer dog” that gleefully murdered small mammals. “How on earth did the local rag get hold of this cheerful piece of news?” Nigel abruptly looked up. “Consider that a rhetorical question, Polly. The only possible source is Bertram Holloway, owner of the deceased ferret.”

  “Actually, there’s a bit of a problem with Mr. Holloway. If he exists, I can’t find him. I did learn, however, that none of the homes surrounding the Hawker family estate are owned by a Bertram Holloway.”

  “What made you check?”

  “Well, sir, the very notion of a tame ferret making its way into the Hawkers’ back garden in time to be eaten by Cha-Cha doesn’t make sense to me. Lion’s Peak is one of the largest holdings in Tunbridge Wells. A hundred acres of deep woods surround the grounds, and it’s my understanding that pet ferrets do not survive long in the wild. Moreover, I remember Dame Elspeth talking about fencing in her garden to keep the rabbits away from the many expensive Dutch bulbs she planted. I fancy that a rabbit-proof fence would also deter the occasional roaming ferret.”

  “Quite possibly it would…” He glanced inside the newspaper again, and then wished he hadn’t. A second look at the brief news article merely increased his annoyance. “But that raises another problem. If Bertram Holloway is the figment of someone’s imagination, who sent us the letter threatening a lawsuit?”

  “I thought about that, too, sir. Upon reflection, the letter we received appears to be written by someone who has a solid grasp of legal terminology.”

  “You don’t suppose…” Nigel started to say before a terrible thought gelled in his mind. “Barrington Bleasdale!” He spit the name out like a curse. “But why would our least-favorite solicitor send us a sham letter and then notify the Courier?”

  From her vantage point in the corner, Flick said, “Probably because most men are pinheads.”

  “Lo, a trained scientist speaks.” This time, Nigel intentionally filled his voice with sarcasm. “I’m thrilled by your rational explanation that so neatly encompasses all the facts of our situation.” He ended by intoning, “Most men are pinheads.”

  “Yeah, and I’m thrilled by…”

  Woomph!

  The thunderous noise made Nigel flinch. He realized that Polly had yanked the door to the room shut with all the force she could muster.

  “When the pair of you bicker—as you so often do these days—please have the courtesy to fight behind closed doors where others can’t overhear your immature drivel.” She glared first at Nigel and then at Flick. “I hoped we could avoid this summit meeting, but you two have made it inevitable. I’m going to dispense some serious advice to both of you, and I fully expect you to sack me when I finish. Now, sit down. There.” She pointed toward two of the wooden chairs.

  Nigel sat down as ordered. He caught a glimpse of Flick.

  She looked ashen-faced. He felt sure that his face had gone just as pale.

  Polly towered over them like a schoolteacher lecturing two errant pupils. “Since Wednesday afternoon, the junior staff of this museum have wondered why Nigel Owen and Felicity Adams—two of the cleverest people in Tunbridge Wells—have become complete ignoramuses. Your relationship is the topic of all the water-cooler chatter in the building. As it happens, I know the answer—but because I refuse to participate in gossip, I’ve kept what I know to myself”

  Nigel heard himself blither. “Very wise…chatter unfortunate…rumors bad…”

  Another dose of Polly’s withering glare silenced him instantly.

  “On Wednesday, I couldn’t help overhearing Felicity admit that she has a significant problem with relationships.” She aimed her scowl at Flick. “To be blunt about it, you spoke loudly enough on the third floor to ensure that most of Tunbridge Wells heard about your predicament.”

  Polly wagged her finger at Nigel. “Felicity explained to you that she has a propensity for choosing men who run off with other women. She asked you a simple question: Can she trust you not to do that to her?” She added, “What was your answer?”

  “Uh…well…”

  “Precisely! You dithered, which obviously caught her off guard. That’s why she misinterpreted your answer.”

  “What answer?” Flick asked.

  Polly traversed her wagging finger toward Flick. “You expected Nigel to say what every man you’ve ever known would have said—Have no fear, my dear; I am as faithful as Santa Claus.”

  “Well…”

  “When he didn’t lie to you, you panicked.”

  “Well…”

  “Hold that thought.”

  Nigel squirmed as Polly redirected her finger at him. “Felicity presumed that she had already lost you to Olivia Hart. And why not? Olivia is a looker. Shallow as a puddle, but extraordinarily good-looking.”

  “I didn’t give Olivia Hart a second peep,” he said.

  “Pull the other one, Nigel,” Polly said with a mocking frown. “I’ve seen you go goofy when she’s around. Stunning gals do that to men. Olivia would make any wife or girlfriend worry.”

  He decided not to argue. What would he achieve? Better to sit quietly and let Polly get whatever was bothering her out of her system. And as for giving her the chop—well, she was much too valuable an assistant to dismiss, especially at this juncture of the museum’s history.

  “Nigel,” Polly resumed, “what do you suppose happened last May when the new acting director, namely you, arrived at the museum?”

  He thought for a moment, then answered warily, “I don’t get your meaning.”

  “What happened, Nigel, is that the four single women who work in this building immediately became curious about you. Now, because this is a museum, the people who work here are skilled in research.” She smiled. “Can you see where I’m going with this?”

  “They researched me?”

  “We learned all that we could about you—down to the marginally useful fact that you have type B-positive blood.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “I know—an appalling invasion of your privacy. But there it is.” She thrust her face toward his nose. “Do you know what we did with the information we gathered?”

 

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