The Final Crumpet, page 3
part #2 of A Royal Tunbridge Wells Mystery Series
“Shall we begin?” Stuart suddenly became as solemn as a physician preparing to conduct an unpleasant physical examination. “I trust that both of you read the briefing document that my staff assembled during the wee hours. It contains all that we could learn quickly about Etienne Makepeace.”
“I scanned it this morning,” Flick said. “I plan to study it this afternoon.”
“Same here,” Nigel said, doubting that he would ever waste time reading the document in question. It was five pages of closely typed text, filled with irrelevant biographical details of a man who died nearly four decades ago. Moreover, Nigel hadn’t much liked receiving homework from Stuart Battlebridge at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning.
“Good!” Stuart said. “One detail I did not include in the briefing document is the extent of the press coverage related to the discovery of Makepeace’s body. During the past eighteen hours, no fewer than thirty percent of the news stories read on British radio and television have been about Etienne Makepeace. If this does not turn out to be the story of the century, it will certainly rank as a strong candidate. I am confident that we will have a robust media turnout on Monday morning.” Stuart paused to heighten the dramatic effect. “Philip, ask your first question.”
The reporter consulted his cache of cards. “Mr. Owen, do you think the discovery of Etienne Makepeace’s body in your garden will benefit or harm the museum in the long run?”
Nigel pondered the answer. Benefit or harm? It’s hard to say. Probably a little of both.
“Well, I suppose there are both good and bad aspects…”
Honk! Nigel jumped six inches as Stuart cut him off with a blast from a palm-sized boat horn.
“Never respond directly to a loaded question like that,” Stuart half shouted. “Any answer you give will make you sound like a mercenary businessman.” He spoke to Philip. “Ask your question again, but direct it to me.”
Philip simpered at Stuart. “Mr. Battlebridge, do you think the discovery of Etienne Makepeace’s body in your garden will benefit or harm the museum in the long run?”
“I couldn’t begin to answer that question, sir,” Stuart said, his voice brimming with regret. “We simply don’t think in those terms. What I can say is that everyone at the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum is delighted to have helped to resolve a national mystery that has lasted almost four decades.” Stuart peered at Nigel. “Do you see how it’s done?”
Nigel managed a halfhearted smile despite a strong yearning to charge down off the raised platform and punch Stuart’s snoot. “Yes, Stuart. I believe I do.”
Philip gazed again at his cards. “Mr. Owen, we understand that the presence of Etienne Makepeace’s body below the Assam tea plants stunted their growth. Can you explain why?”
Nigel felt a grin form on his face. He’d been asked a straightforward question, and he had a ready answer. “It’s quite simple, really. The roots of the plants were blocked by a layer of roofing tiles placed atop the…”
Honk!
Nigel caught his breath. “What’s wrong now?”
“Another bad answer!” Stuart bellowed. “The police have not yet publicly revealed that tiles were found in the grave.”
“Correct!” Philip jumped in. “In fact, DI Pennyman asked us not to mention the roofing tiles in our story.”
“The police spokeswoman made the same request of the museum yesterday,” Stuart said.
“Nobody told me,” Nigel said.
“To the contrary. I carefully specified the two subjects to avoid in the briefing paper.”
“I must have missed your instructions.”
“You’ll find them on the first page. In large type.”
Nigel peeked at Flick, who seemed on the verge of laughing. “In that event,” he said, “perhaps Dr. Adams would like the opportunity to field a question?”
Flick’s smile faded and then quickly returned. “I’m game. Ask away.”
“An excellent point,” Stuart said, “which brings me to another important lesson I want you to learn. You’re a businessman, Nigel; you don’t have the proper credentials to answer questions about tea plants. You should have instantly referred the question to the chief curator.” Stuart turned to Flick. “What would your response have been, Dr. Adams?”
Flick spoke confidently. “That’s a very interesting question; we want to know the answer, too. When the police have completed their investigation, we intend to look into the matter.”
“An excellent reply!” Stuart nodded approvingly. “Short, responsive, noncommittal—yet wholly satisfying to the questioner.”
Nigel whispered, “Suck-up!”
Flick poked her finger into his ribs; no one in the audience seemed to notice.
“Ouch!”
“Do you have something to add before we move on, Nigel?”
Stuart asked.
“No.”
“But I do,” Philip said smugly. “We should call Mr. Owen’s attention to the second item on the list of forbidden subjects—specifically, the pistol found buried with the body. While the police have yet to make the information public, they have positively identified the weapon as a Soviet-made Makarov automatic, caliber 9.2 millimeters. The magazine contained seven cartridges. It can hold a maximum of eight.”
“Thank you, Philip,” Nigel said. “Now I know what I have to forget by Monday morning. I don’t anticipate any difficulties.”
Nigel watched a furrow form on Philip’s brow, but before the reporter could say anything, Stuart tapped his arm with the little boat horn. “Proceed.”
Philip retrieved his cards. “Another question for you, Mr. Owen. Do you have any idea why Mr. Makepeace was buried in the museum’s tea garden?”
Nigel grinned at Philip. The man had asked a sensible question, one that deserved to be answered, one that the reporters were likely to pose on Monday morning.
The trick is to come up with a suitably hollow reply.
“I have no idea why a murderer would choose to vandalize a museum,” Nigel said, “but the fact that it happened here makes me furious. We are a family museum, dedicated to helping people understand the extraordinary history of tea in Great Britain.”
Nigel held his breath, waiting for Stuart to blow his bloody horn. But Stuart set the noisemaker down. “An acceptable answer, Nigel. You seem to be getting the idea.” He signaled Philip with another wave. “Carry on.”
“Dr. Adams, Etienne Makepeace had an interesting nickname when he was alive—England’s Tea Sage. Had you heard anything about him before his body was unearthed in the museum’s tea garden?”
Flick shook her head. “Surprisingly, given his fame in England, I had not heard of Mr. Makepeace until the events of last Friday.” She added, “Of course, I’ve learned a good deal about him since then.”
“Well done, Felicity!” Stuart gushed. “A perfect answer.”
“Show off!” Nigel hissed. Before he could move away, Flick poked her finger into his middle again. He couldn’t help wincing; the spot was getting tender.
“I have a follow-up question for you, Dr. Adams,” Philip said. “Please apply your newfound knowledge and give us your opinion of Etienne Makepeace’s expertise. Did England’s Tea Sage know his stuff?”
Nigel expected Flick to answer quickly. Instead, she hesitated—and he could sense her growing distress. But why? Philip’s question seemed simple enough. After several seconds of silence, he realized that she hadn’t “learned a good deal” about Makepeace at all. Her previous reply had been a fib.
“Ah…well…” Flick paused to catch her breath then finally began to speak in earnest. “I’m not really sure, although everyone says that he knew his stuff.” Another hesitation. “Uh…what I mean to say is that…”
Honk!
“In other words, Felicity, you don’t have a good answer, so all you can do is blither at us.”
Flick sighed. “I’m afraid that’s true, Stuart. I’m sorry.”
He frowned. “Sorry doesn’t cut it at a news conference. And you were ill-advised to claim knowledge you don’t possess. Please remember that our objective is to get you widely quoted, to establish Dr. Felicity Adams as a nationally known expert on tea. We want the media to call you for an answer whenever a question arises about tea.”
“Point taken and understood,” Flick said sheepishly.
Stuart gave a forgiving grunt. “Had you taken time to read, rather than scan, our briefing materials, you would have stumbled on several appropriate ways to praise England’s Tea Sage.” Stuart turned pages of the stapled document and began to read aloud.
“Etienne Makepeace forever reminded his audiences that he was not a professionally trained tea expert, but rather a tea lover who could be an enthusiastic advocate for tea. Because he obviously enjoyed teaching people about tea, he became known as ‘the C. S. Lewis of tea.’
“Professionally trained or not, Makepeace was recognized to have an encyclopedic knowledge of tea that he displayed in the many magazine articles he wrote…at his many lectures across Great Britain…and especially in numerous appearances on many radio shows.
“Makepeace was at his best when he de mystified tea and tea drinking. He didn’t tolerate teatime snobbery. He argued that sugar and milk in tea were perfectly acceptable in a good cuppa. He felt that scones served with clotted cream were too highfalutin and that it was a waste of time to cut the crusts off cucumber sandwiches. He waged a valiant battle against tea bags in favor of brewed tea and insisted that supermarket brands of tea were overpriced because the consumer paid for advertising and overly elaborate packaging—both of which did nothing to improve a cup of tea.”
Stuart flipped the page and kept reading.
“Makepeace was born in 1910 in Winchester, England, the only son of a fairly well-to-do family. His father, Jonathan Makepeace, was a banker. Etienne was named after his mother’s father, who had emigrated from France in 1876. He had one older sister, two younger sisters. The youngest sibling, Mathilde, was born in 1922. She is still alive but suffers from Alzheimer’s disease.
“As a boy, Etienne attended St. Bede’s Primary School in Winchester and then the Pilgrim School, where he became a chorister for Winchester Cathedral. When his voice changed, the lad moved on to the Sherborne School in Dorset, a competent, but less well-known, public school. Makepeace proved to be a clever boots throughout his youth. He went up to Cambridge University where he read history and graduated in 1934 with a First”—Stuart glanced at Flick—“that’s equivalent to ‘with honors’ in America. Etienne briefly attempted to follow his father into banking, but then he entered the navy in 1937. During World War II, he served as an officer with Naval Intelligence. His specialty was convoy routing in the North Atlantic.”
Nigel raised his hand. “Stuart, I hope you’re not proposing that we memorize the man’s curriculum vitae.”
“You will increase your credibility with the media if you drop a fact or two about Etienne Makepeace. Am I right, Philip?”
“Absolutely,’’ the reporter said enthusiastically.
Nigel squinted at the lights, enjoying the kaleidoscopic patterns in his eyes, while Stuart continued to read from the document. “We didn’t find anything about Makepeace’s activities in the years immediately after the war. He apparently used the next decade to perfect his writing and speaking skills, and to grow his knowledge of tea. He published his first magazine article on tea in 1955, gave his first public talk in 1956, and made his first appearance on BBC Radio in 1958. His fame grew rapidly, and he soon became a beloved fixture on radio. The many photos of Makepeace published during the late fifties and early sixties show him as a handsome man who always looked in good nick—sculpted moustache, stylishly cut hair, impeccable clothing, and a dazzling smile.
“Makepeace avoided politics and controversy for most of his life. However, during the height of the Cold War, he wrote and lectured that it was unpatriotic, even traitorous, to drink tea imported from China.”
Philip piped up. “More than one commentator accused him of being a fanatical, anticommunist Red-baiter. Makepeace ignored the accusations.”
“As did the powers that be in Great Britain.” Stuart flipped to the last page of the briefing document. “Makepeace hobnobbed with the rich and famous and was frequently seen in the company of famous royals. He was rumored to be in line for a knighthood. Shortly after he disappeared without a trace on September 29, 1966, a member of Parliament rose and said, ‘Etienne Makepeace is one of the most significant Britons of the twentieth century—a man on par with any of the Beatles.’ ”
“A tad over the top,” Philip said, “but not that far from the truth.” He queried Stuart, “Can I share my bit of news?”
“Please do,” Stuart said—not all that graciously, Nigel thought.
“Well, it’s not widely known yet, but the police have used old dental records to positively identify the remains. It is Etienne Makepeace, without question. However, to satisfy people who prefer a more modern approach, the police are taking the extra step of conducting a DNA test. I understand they have taken a DNA sample from Etienne’s surviving sister to compare with DNA extracted from the remains. It’s a long process, though; we won’t hear anything more for a week or two.”
“Most interesting, Philip,” Stuart said. “Please ask your next question.”
“Mr. Owen, how have the museum’s pets coped with the recent events?”
“Our pets?” Nigel fought to keep his voice from screeching.
“Why would a reporter care two pins about our menagerie?”
“Because,” Stuart said ploddingly, “many people know that Dame Elspeth Hawker arranged for the museum to care for her little family when she died. It’s conceivable that an editor might decide to build a human interest story around the pets.”
“What shall I say?”
“You’re the exalted director of this museum. Come up with something.”
Nigel gripped the podium hard enough to make it wobble. “All creatures great and small are thriving. Cha-Cha, our Shiba Inu, is in fine fettle. Lapsang and Souchong, our two British Shorthair cats, are purring. And Earl, our African Grey parrot, would be chirping joyously this very minute in the corner of this tearoom had you not moved his vast cage into the kitchen.” Nigel looked at Flick. “Do you have anything to add?”
“Not a blooming word!”
Philip chuckled. “I do believe our hosts are becoming irritable.”
“Excellent!” Stuart said. “The time has come to ask the zinger.”
Philip cleared his throat. “Mr. Owen, please describe the nature of your personal relationship with the chief curator.”
Nigel heard Flick gasp. He glanced sideways; she was beginning to blush.
“Mr. Pellicano,” Nigel said, “your question is out-of-bounds.”
“Not so, Nigel,” Stuart said. “Everyone in the museum knows you are…ah, good friends. We have to assume that a few other reporters are as clever as Philip.”
Philip beamed at the compliment. “I’ve spoken to three different museum employees who readily”—he emphasized the word—“told me that you are ‘romantically entwined,’ to quote one of my sources.”
“What of it?” Nigel said, louder than he intended to. “We’re the two senior executives at this museum.”
“I have a suggestion,” Flick said softly. “It just dawned on me that whatever the nature of our relationship”—she spoke the word with a humorous lilt—“we have functioned as a team to improve the museum. Our predecessors had difficulties working together. We don’t.”
Nigel thought about it. More than one member of the board of trustees had told him that Nathanial Swithin, the former director, rarely agreed with the priorities set by Malcolm Dunlevy, the former chief curator.
“Flick makes an excellent point,” Nigel said. “Our friendship pays dividends to the museum. We’re on the same team when problems arise—and we’ve worked together to resolve many vital issues. We’ve managed to cut costs while increasing our general attendance, our tour business, our gift shop sales, and our revenues from the tearoom. At the same time, contributions to the museum are up significantly. All in all, our combined managerial performance is worthy of recognition.” He smiled at her. “I think we should ask the trustees for raises.”
“My advice is to not share that response with the media,” Stuart said. “Work out an answer that emphasizes your genial rapport.” He put the boat horn in his pocket. “You’ve done enough rehearsing for one day. I want you to spend the rest of the afternoon studying—really studying—the briefing document.”
Flick gave a curt nod. Nigel said, “Aye, aye, Captain. We shall spend the remainder of today learning every useless fact and unimportant triviality about Etienne Makepeace.”
“And then take tomorrow off. I want you refreshed and stress-free on Monday morning.” Stuart reached into a battered leather briefcase that Nigel guessed was fifty years old. “Here. A pair of tickets for the Royal Tunbridge Wells Symphony Orchestra. Sunday afternoon at three. Just the thing to clear your minds.”
“What’s on the program?”
“A highly appropriate selection of pieces, Nigel. Trust me.” Nigel forced himself to return Stuart’s smile. The town of Royal Tunbridge Wells had definite limits. One could find a good tea museum, several top-notch pubs, and a few restaurants that deserved one-or two-star status—but to hear a well-played symphony, one had to travel to London.
“Thank you, Stuart,” said Flick. Nigel detected excitement in her voice. Without a doubt, she wanted to go to the concert.
Crikey!
“Yes, thank you, Stuart,” Nigel managed to add as he pocketed the tickets. “We shall strive to enjoy our day off.”
Is the rain different in England? Flick asked herself Raindrops seemed to fall more gently here than back home in Pennsylvania and somehow had less of an ability to penetrate her Burberry. Even umbrellas gave the impression of working better in England. Perhaps Brits had perfected a more efficient umbrella-handling technique? She moved closer to Nigel and gripped his arm more tightly.
