The Final Crumpet, page 23
part #2 of A Royal Tunbridge Wells Mystery Series
Nate prefaced his answer with a grudging nod. “Makepeace’s relationship with the museum started soon after we began to cooperate with MI6. One day, I found a letter from him in my inbox offering to deliver a trial lecture. Naturally, we accepted. Within two months, he had become a frequent visitor. He lectured, he attended the meetings you asked about, and he often browsed through our archives.”
“And he routinely harassed the women at the museum,” Flick said glumly.
“I won’t deny that our affiliation with Makepeace was, in many ways, a pact with the devil. Makepeace was an obnoxious fellow to have around, but we were a newly established museum, struggling to build a clientele. Makepeace’s lectures brought people in and boosted our reputation as a center of learning about tea. He regularly talked us up on the BBC. Whenever he lectured, reporters would flock to the Grand Hall, then write glowing stories that ran in newspapers across England.” Nate offered a tentative smile. “We needed the good, so we tolerated the bad.”
She shook her head with determination. “You should have given him the boot. Then he’d have been buried somewhere else.”
Nate peered at Flick—quizzically, Nigel thought. “I didn’t have the authority to discharge Etienne Makepeace. I thought you understood—he worked for MI6.”
Flick’s face became a mask of amazement. “Etienne Makepeace was a Cold War spy…a spook?”
“Without a doubt.” Nate’s expression grew serious. “Makepeace never explained himself to me, but anyone with open eyes could see he was linked to the intelligence support the museum provided the government. He rubbed shoulders with the bigwigs; he routinely attended their Wednesday afternoon closed-door meetings; and when he disappeared, our association with MI6 came to an abrupt end.”
“A moment, Nate,” Nigel said. “What do you mean by ‘Wednesday afternoon’ meetings?”
“During our early years, the museum remained closed to the public every Wednesday—even during the busy summer season. The off day in the middle of the week gave the staff time to fine-tune new exhibits and do behind-the-scenes work. The meetings involving MI6 always took place on Wednesdays.”
“This…is…incredible,” Flick said quietly, to no one in particular. She seemed to be staring at the fire. “It changes everything.”
Nate frowned. “I fear that I’ve placed a significant burden upon you. The government still considers the museum’s link with MI6 a secret. You know the truth, but you can’t do much with it—certainly not present the details in an exhibit. And as for your banker…well, I doubt he’d believe a word of my story. It seems incredibly fanciful, and I can provide no solid evidence that Etienne Makepeace was a…ghost? I’ve forgotten the term you used.”
Flick half smiled. “Spook.”
“Ah, yes. Spook.”
Nigel glanced at his watch. Two forty-five. The conversation had reached an obvious low point. The time had come to offer Nathanial Swithin their good-byes.
“Thank you, Nate,” he said cordially. “You’ve been of great assistance to us today.”
“Spectacularly helpful indeed.” Flick tried to match his cheerful tone, but Nigel could hear considerable disappointment in her voice. He should probably feel the same way; they’d have little to offer Sir James Boyer come Monday. Well, when Wescott Bank reneged on their loan, they would have to find a more visionary institution. They would have lots of help from Barrington Bleasdale, whose clients expected the sale to go through quickly. It was a terrible prospect—an enormous challenge for everyone involved—but somehow getting Flick back made it seem unimportant.
“May I ask one more favor of you?” Flick said to Nate. “But of course.”
She dug into her handbag. “I have two photographs that I’d like you to look at.” She handed him the small prints of the retouched images of Martin Maltby and Rupert Perry. “Do you recognize either of these men?”
Nate studied the photos. “I don’t know this fellow.” He handed Perry’s picture to Flick but kept staring at Maltby. “This chap looks familiar. I’m sure that I’ve talked with him at the museum when we were both substantially younger. I can’t remember precisely when, although I have a vague notion that he had something to do with the Hawker Foundation.” He stared some more. “That being the case…I do know one person who might be able to put a name to the face. In fact, I should have thought of Gwen earlier.”
“Gwen who?” Flick asked.
Nate returned Maltby’s photo. “Gwen Sturgis, the Hawker Foundation’s official archivist. She’s a delightful woman who possesses the finest memory I’ve ever encountered. Gwen can put most computers to shame. The Foundation will suffer mightily when she retires next year.” He punctuated his pronouncement with a curt nod. “If Gwen ever encountered this man, she will remember the time, place, and name. Moreover, she oversees rooms full of ancient documents, photographs, and miscellany. Perhaps she can find a nugget buried deep within that will help assuage your banker’s curiosity.”
“Unhappily,” Nigel said, “we are persona non grata at the Hawker Foundation. Jeremy Strain, the current director, decided that a mere tea museum is not worthy of the foundation’s financial support. I’ve memorized the statement he made on BBC TV when he took the helm of the foundation: ‘The function of my foundation is to do measurable good in the world and not to teach the Tunbridge Wells gentry how to brew a cup of English Breakfast tea.’ ”
Nate chuckled. “I’m well aware of Jeremy’s snobbishness, and so is Gwen Sturgis. She works for the man. However, he is a theoretical stumbling block rather than an actual obstacle. As is often said, the left hand needn’t know what the right hand is doing—especially if I invite Gwen down from London for a Saturday in Tunbridge Wells.”
“We’ll provide lunch,” Nigel said.
“Good! I’m in the mood to sup on posh victuals,” Nate said with a sniff.
“Please call Gwen,” Flick said. “Find out if she’s available.” Much to Nigel’s surprise, Nate averted his eyes. “Oh, Gwen will be available. I had planned to ride the train to London tomorrow and spend a quiet day with her. We’ll simply reverse our travel plans, as we often do.”
Nigel choked back a laugh. Flick also appeared to be doing her best to hold a straight face. Evidently, Nathanial Swithin returned to England every fourth week to enjoy more than the rain.
“Where shall we meet?” Nigel asked.
“At the museum, of course,” Nate answered. “If the South Eastern Train operates on time tomorrow, she’ll arrive at ten forty. We’ll be there a few minutes before eleven.”
“Nearly eleven it is.” Nigel peeked sideways at Flick. Her earlier gloom had largely dispelled. Nigel understood; Gwen Sturgis represented a new hope for the investigation. Curiously, he felt the same way.
Nigel and Flick followed Nate out of the sitting room. “I’ll walk with you as far as Frant Road,” he said. Taffy appeared magically at Nate’s side the instant he picked up her lead. When he opened the door, Taffy raced behind a rhododendron bush.
“Where did that infernal animal go?” Nathanial walked into the yard and made a clucking noise with his tongue. Nigel looked at Flick in time to hear her say, “That’s the crazy noise Earl makes.”
“You don’t suppose?”
“I do suppose.” She threw up her hands. “Olivia Hart was right, darn it. Earl is trying to call Cha-Cha. The silly parrot is obviously repeating the sound that Dame Elspeth made when she called him.”
“So how do we fix the bird?”
“It should be simple.”
“How simple?”
“All we have to do is retrain him to use a more…convenient signal.”
“Do you have such a signal in mind?”
“I’m thinking.”
Nigel grinned. “Please keep me informed should you make any progress.” He escorted Flick to the bottom of the long, macadam driveway, where Nate was waiting with Taffy securely attached to her lead. The three set off together on Broadwater Down.
“I thought I was out of questions,” Flick said to Nate, “but I have one left. In your experience, how…ah, exuberant is the British Secret Intelligence Service in protecting their secrets?”
Nigel needed a moment to grasp the import of Flick’s indirect inquiry. Could MI6 be responsible for the frightening episode in the Crescent Road Car Park and the subsequent “temporary cancellation” of the academic conference?
Nigel was not surprised when Nate answered the question from his perspective. “If by ‘exuberant,’ ” he said, “you’re suggesting that MI6 might tap my telephones or follow me around the streets of Palma—well, I see those as rather farfetched possibilities. Nonetheless, I would rather not get on their bad side. To that end, I trust you’ll be discreet with the details I’ve shared with you.”
Nigel exchanged a concerned glance with Flick. Had they managed to get on MI6’s “bad side”? Perhaps British Intelligence still considered Etienne Makepeace’s “double life” a state secret worth protecting? He and Flick had been advised—in a most threatening way—to stop seeking additional information about Etienne Makepeace and to let sleeping dogs lie. They’d been expressly cautioned that raking up the past could be dangerous.
Precisely the sort of warning one can picture Britain’s intelligence agency delivering late one night in an empty car park.
Nigel shook Nate’s hand, Flick gave him a hug, and they turned left on Frant Road.
When they were out of Nate’s earshot, Flick said, “Before you ask me ‘what do I think,’ I want to go on record that I have no flaming idea about anything. I am entirely confused. Every time I think I’ve figured out what might be happening, something else turns up and knocks me for a loop.”
“For example?”
“For example,” she said, “what kind of dingbat secret agent dabbles in sexual harassment? In other words, why would the Brits hire a spy who blatantly calls attention to himself by chasing married women and picking fights in pubs?”
“An excellent ‘for example.’ I have one, too.”
“Carry on.”
“For example,” he said, “what kind of British spy during the Cold War hires a ghostwriter to plagiarize Russian language tea journals? American, even Indian, magazines I might understand—but Soviet journals? The Bolshies must have known what he was doing.”
“I agree. It was more calling attention to himself, and that makes no sense at all.”
Nigel took her hand in his. “This is fun. We may have invented a new party game. Nonsensical facts about the weird life and death of Etienne Makepeace—the spy who loved tea.”
“You’ve just come up with another game,” she said excitedly. “Potential names when they make a movie about Etienne Makepeace, tea sage and spy. My choice is ‘The Man with the Golden Oolong.’ ”
“I offer ‘You Only Dunk Twice.’ ”
She stopped walking while she thought. “Drat. All I can think of is ‘Dr. Nose,’ nose being the technical term that tea tasters use for the aroma of tea.”
“I quickly counter with ‘On Her Majesty’s Secret Tea Service.’ I believe that’s sufficient for a win.”
“Who says?”
Nigel looked around. The large trees overhanging the sidewalk offered a modicum of privacy, even during the winter. He pulled Flick toward him and kissed her. He observed that she did not protest or pull away; instead, she kissed him back.
Afterwards, she looked up at him. “Polly Reid said not to ask you my question for a few days, but I’m yearning to know the answer.” She took a breath, then asked, “Can I trust you not to run off with another woman?”
“Completely. Fully. Unconditionally. Utterly. Exhaustively. In all respects. In every circumstance. Without reservation. Did I say utterly?”
“You did.”
“I’ve never been good with adverbs.”
“I wouldn’t say that. You seem to be doing fine.”
“Oh—I just thought of three more. Categorically. Thoroughly. Veritably.”
“Veritably?”
“Consider it a British idiom.”
She smiled. “I suppose that’s enough. I stand convinced that I can rely on you.”
“In that event…” Nigel kissed her again.
“That was nice,” she said. “What’s more, I just had another brainstorm. About Etienne Makepeace.”
“While I was kissing you?”
“Consider yourself an inspirational person.” She unwrapped herself from his arms. They began to walk north on Frant Road. “I think all the puzzle pieces fit together if Makepeace was a British secret agent killed by the other side.”
“Your brainstorm asserts that he was shot by the KGB?”
“That explains the mysterious Soviet pistol.”
“Okay. But why would the nefarious KGB then decide to stash Makepeace’s body in the museum’s tea garden?”
“As an object lesson for MI6, of course! The Soviets figured out that the museum was being used as a cover for British agents. They probably assumed that Makepeace’s body would be found immediately.”
“But if they wanted his corpse discovered quickly, why do such a thorough job of restoring the ground around the two Assam bushes. They did such expert work that the museum’s gardening crew never noticed the soil had been disturbed.”
“Well…”
“And why cover the body with slate tiles? Someone expended a significant effort to lug the tiles into the tea garden from outside the museum.”
“Uh…”
“And why bury the pistol and all of Makepeace’s personal effects in an antiquities storage box planted under his body?”
“This is too easy for you,” she said.
“And why bother burying him in the first place? If one wanted to deliver an object lesson to MI6, wouldn’t it be best just to prop the corpse up in the museum’s Welcome Centre kiosk?”
“Great! You’ve sent me back to ‘I have no flaming idea about anything.’ ”
Nigel thought about kissing Flick once again when his mind noted a new background noise on Frant Road. He realized it was the sound of an engine. Curiously, the sound kept growing louder—loud enough, in fact, to capture his attention. He looked up from Flick’s face in time to see a dark green minivan, driving half on the road, half on the sidewalk, roaring toward them.
Nigel wrapped an arm around Flick and leaped sideways.
He felt the bare branches of a thick bush scratch his exposed skin as the van whooshed past only inches away from Flick’s back.
“Oh my!” Her voice sounded husky. “Did someone just try to kill us?”
He nodded. “Someone driving a green Ford Transit minivan. The same van, I think, we saw the other evening.”
“Stop thinking. Just hold me tight.”
“Indeed, I will,” he said. He decided that he should also stop talking.
Twelve
Flick rolled over and found herself face-to-face (so to speak) with Cha-Cha’s furry hindquarters. Although still half asleep, she distinctly remembered that Nigel had custody of the pooch on Friday night. How did the dog end up in her bed? And then she remembered—she wasn’t in her bed. The afternoon before, Conan Davies had insisted that both she and Nigel relocate to the museum “until we sort out this ‘Anonymous Bystander’ chap of yours.”
At first, they both had been reluctant, but Conan refused to compromise. “The two of you in one place will be easier to watch over,” he had said. “Furthermore, now that our surveillance camera network is working, the museum is a very safe place to be.” He had rolled the “r” in very. “One of my lads will be on duty all night.” Conan had escorted them to their apartments, and each had packed the essentials for a night or two away from home.
Flick wondered what time it was. She lifted her head and was able to glimpse the illuminated clock on her desk. Six forty-five a.m. She’d slept for more than seven hours. All things considered, pretty good for spending the night on an old sofa.
Conan had offered to set up a camp cot in her office; the museum had a good supply on hand, although Conan could not explain why. “It may have had something to do with civil defense, ma’am, or perhaps an old health and safety regulation. For whatever reason, we have ten cots and a dozen blankets stored on a shelf in the basement.”
“I’ll take one of your blankets,” she had replied, “but I’ll sack out on my sofa.”
Flick sat up, stretched, and recalled that her satisfactory night had been prefaced by a highly enjoyable evening. She and Nigel had prepared a light supper in the tearoom’s kitchen—tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, as she’d suggested—and then spent several hours enjoying the club-like atmosphere of the Commodore Hawker Room. They’d broken many of the museum’s daytime rules by moving aside the crowd-control stanchions and ropes, sitting in the commodore’s personal club chairs, and snacking on grapes, Stilton cheese, and Jacobs Jaffa Cakes biscuits. They read more than they talked, but when they did talk, neither brought up the near-hit-and-run attack on Frant Road.
Flick abruptly remembered something else. They had allowed Cha-Cha to choose with whom he wanted to spend the night. She’d been pleased when he trotted off to her office.
“However, old chum,” Flick said to the Shiba Inu, “you clearly ignored our understanding. You were supposed to curl up on my newly acquired Oriental rug. The sofa’s not big enough for both of us.”
She shambled to her feet, switched on the room lights, and heaped unspoken praise on the nameless architectural hero who had decided to install a bathroom, with a real shower, in both the director’s and chief curator’s offices. Less than thirty minutes later, she was dressed for the day in a colorful knit blouse, wool slacks, black leather jacket, and matching leather boots.
“Thank you for being so patient,” she said to Cha-Cha. “Because you chose me last night, the least I can do is take you walkies this morning.”
The security guard on duty in the Welcome Centre kiosk provided simple directions: “Stay where I can see you on the surveillance TV monitor. The various grassy areas on the sides and the back of the building are okay, but don’t cross Eridge Road.”
