The Final Crumpet (13 page)

“Good afternoon,” she said. “I am Olivia Hart.”

She wore a well-tailored dark gray suit, with a miniskirt and a white silk shirt. If one kept staring at Olivia—Nigel strove hard not to—one could imagine that her flawless complexion glowed from inner illumination, rather than reflecting the light filtering through his window.

Nigel stood up and mumbled a throaty, “Hello.”

Her auburn hair was styled short, allowing Nigel to glimpse two dark, shimmering spheres—each the size of a one-pound coin—that hung beneath her ears. He wondered what sort of jewels they were.

Olivia placed a business card face up on Nigel’s desk. As she came close, he smelled the scent she was wearing—an exotic, flowery perfume he had never experienced before. He studied the card for several seconds, chiefly to avoid gawking at her.

Olivia Hart, PhD

Regional Vice President

Wescott Bank

Maidstone, Kent

In due course, he felt his stunned brain begin to function more or less normally.

A regional vice president?
Why would Wescott Bank’s regional vice president arrive unannounced for a visit? For that matter, what was a regional vice president? Nigel wasn’t sure, but he had begun to doubt that Olivia’s specialty was security.

She broke the awkward silence. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“My pleasure. Totally.” He waved vaguely toward a visitor’s chair. Olivia sat down and crossed her legs. They proved to be as spectacular as the rest of her.

“I’m sure you’re curious about the purpose of my visit,” she said.

“Um
…yes, I had wondered.”

“I’m eager to tell you, but it would be most useful if you invited Dr. Adams to our meeting.”

“You want my chief curator to join us?”

“Her presence is essential,” she replied, in a tone that left no room for disobedience. “What I have to say concerns both of you.”

Nigel surrendered meekly. “I’ll see if she’s in.” He reached for his telephone.

Olivia looked at her watch. “It’s not even four o’clock on a normal workday—where else would she be but in?”

The stony edge in Olivia’s voice made Nigel’s stomach jitter as he dialed Flick’s extension. When she answered, he spoke with an unintended rush of relief. “Ah, you’re at your desk.”

“And your point is?” Flick said, with obvious pique. “I’ve been here for most of the afternoon.”

Nigel pressed the telephone tighter against his ear. Had he been alone, he might have reminded Flick about her mysterious walk with Cha-Cha that very afternoon. But since Olivia seemed attentive to his every word, he labored frantically to keep his voice calm and said, “Olivia Hart from Wescott Bank is presently in my office. She wants to chat with both of us.”

“Who is Olivia Hart?”

He didn’t reply, hoping that Flick would understand his silence.

“Nigel...” she said after several seconds, “are you trying to communicate that this unscheduled meeting is important?”

“Very
important.”

Flick hesitated but eventually said, “Okay. I’m on my way.”

“Excellent.” He added an unspoken
Bless you.

He put down the phone and turned to Olivia. “Can I get you anything? A cup of tea, perhaps?”

“I dislike tea. Do you have any decent coffee?”

Nigel rendered up one of his warmest smiles. “Why yes, the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom serves excellent coffee. I’ll have some sent up.” He thought about admitting that he, too, preferred a strong cup of coffee but decided to leave well enough alone. He called Polly and asked her to arrange for tea, coffee, and biscuits.

I’ll also have to forget about meeting the Japanese tourists.

They would soon be drinking their afternoon tea. His gut told him that he would be coping with Olivia Hart long after the tour group left for London.

Nigel abruptly realized that Cha-Cha was nowhere to be seen. He scanned his office surreptitiously and spotted a patch of reddish hair under his sofa. The dog had run for cover when Olivia entered the room.

Amazing! That hound has a sixth sense for trouble—and troublesome people.

Flick arrived while Nigel was still pondering doggy clairvoyance. He looked up in time to see the displeasure written across her face turn to astonishment when she caught sight of their visitor. Olivia seemed perfectly content to sit still and be stared at while Flick made her way into the room. Nigel guessed that Olivia had years of experience being the center of attention.

He stood and with a gallant gesture said, “Dr. Adams, this is Ms. Hart from…”

Olivia cut him off. “I dislike ‘Ms.’ intensely, Nigel. If you insist on using formal titles at this institution, then introduce me as
Dr.
Hart. My doctorate is in economics. However, I prefer to work with clients on a first name basis.” She acknowledged Flick with a perfunctory nod and extended her hand. “Please, Felicity—call me Olivia.”

“Thank you…
Olivia.
My friends call me Flick. Welcome to our museum.” Flick dropped into the empty visitor’s chair on the opposite side of Nigel’s desk.

Nigel saw a blaze of determination on Olivia’s face as she uncrossed her legs and sat up in her chair. She was clearly getting ready to take charge. But of what? And for what reason?

“Now that we’re all here,” she said, “let me say that it is a pleasure to meet both of you in person. I find it difficult to get the true sense of a person from a paper dossier, no matter how complete it is.”

Dossier?
Nigel summoned up images of the forms he had filled out in late December. How much biographical information about senior staff had Wescott Bank requested? Not much at all, if memory served—certainly not a complete recitation of his background. He had provided little more than the brief background sketch published on the museum’s Web site. It didn’t include his age or even the job details one would find on a typical resume. It hardly qualified as a dossier.

An ember of possibility burst into a flame of insight.
Had the bank done its own investigation? Perhaps even hired a private detective?
It wasn’t that farfetched an idea. If he directed Wescott Bank, he would want to be sure that the museum was well managed and likely to survive long enough to repay the loan. Why hadn’t he considered the possibility earlier? There was no telling what the bank—and Olivia—had learned about him and Flick. The thought made him feel uncomfortably vulnerable.

Nigel began to squirm as Olivia settled her fantastic eyes on him. “I have a most unusual role at Wescott Bank,” she said. “I serve as the bank’s chief troubleshooter in Southern England. Think of me as an ambassador who speaks for our executives in London when they think it necessary to reprimand a client.”

“Reprimand?” Nigel couldn’t prevent his voice from climbing in pitch. “The bank sent you here to reprimand the museum?”

“I find it best to be blunt, Nigel.” Olivia displayed a slight grimace. “I’ve been directed to read you the riot act.”

Flick raised her hand. “Time out! I don’t know what that means.”

Olivia smiled at her. “Forgive me. It’s a quaint British idiom. During the eighteenth century, the British army was occasionally called upon to quell riots among the populace. An official would give the rioters fair notice by reading aloud the Riot Act—which warned that the troops would open fire if the crowd did not disband.”

Flick began to frown. “In other words, you’re here to deliver an ultimatum.”

Olivia shook her head theatrically. “I often have that unhappy responsibility. Today, however, I am merely bringing a serious matter to your attention. One that requires a prompt resolution.”

Nigel tried not to look guilty as Olivia once again spoke to him. “The chairman of Wescott Bank is exceedingly upset that the museum hosted a news conference this morning. He fears that you have created unnecessary media interest in the link between the museum and Etienne Makepeace’s death.” She added, “Have you met our chairman?”

Nigel nodded. “Sir James Boyer.”

“Sir James straightaway convened a meeting of his advisory council to discuss the issue. After due deliberation, he and his advisers decided that the bank will move ahead with the loan if you will promise no more extraordinary attempts to generate publicity for the next ninety days. No news conferences, no visits by media to the museum, no interviews with members of the press to talk about Etienne Makepeace. Sir James insists that the museum disconnect itself from the furor surrounding the discovery of Makepeace’s body.”

Nigel’s mind raced to sort out the different things that Olivia’s “warning” had implied. The worst of the lot was that the Grand High Pooh-Bah of Wescott Bank had come close to terminating the loan they were relying on—all because of their silly news conference.

I’ll wring Stuart Battlebridge’s neck for talking me into it.

Fortunately, more temperate heads at the bank had prevailed. The museum—not to mention Nigel Owen—would receive a reprieve in exchange for a promise to shun publicity for three months.

“I’ll be happy to make such a commitment to Wescott Bank,” Nigel said.

Olivia shifted her gaze. “And what about you, Flick? Can Sir James also count on your support?”

Flick stared at her hands a moment before she said, “I agree. No more news conferences, no more media interviews focused on Etienne Makepeace.”

Nigel slapped his palm on his desktop. “We have a deal!”

“Almost,’’ Olivia said. “There is one other condition.”

“Yes?”

“Sir James requires a comprehensive explanation of how Etienne Makepeace was connected to the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum. He is not satisfied with the hazy reports presented in the news media. He wants facts, dates, and precise details.”

“But that’s an
unreasonable
request,” Nigel said. “How can we possibly gather more information than the media and the police? The events in question happened forty years ago. Where would we look? To whom would we talk?”

Flick spoke up before Olivia could answer. “The media have reported that Etienne Makepeace gave a series of lectures at the museum—what more does Sir James want to know? Perhaps you can help us understand his specific concerns.”

Olivia leaned forward in her chair. “Sir James hasn’t shared his thinking with me, but I can speculate that his chief concern is increased risk. Lending thirty-two million pounds to a small tea museum in Kent is a highly unusual transaction for Wescott. Most of Wescott’s clientele are large manufacturing corporations. We understand how they operate; we know how to evaluate the loss potential we face. But when we deal with you, we are largely guessing. The discovery of Etienne Makepeace’s body, and the ensuing media frenzy, made the calculations even more uncertain. Your news conference served as a final straw and knocked Sir James out of his comfort zone.” She made a wry face. “That was an unwise thing to do scarcely two weeks before your loan was scheduled to close.”

Nigel nodded gloomily. He had not thought Wescott Bank the right source of funds for precisely the reasons she had given. But Archibald Meicklejohn, the chair of the museum’s trustees—a London banker himself—had insisted on Wescott, largely because he was a golfing friend of James Boyer.

A knock on the door signaled the arrival of their refreshments. Polly maneuvered a heavily laden teacart into the office. Nigel thanked her and then played “mother.” When he had appropriately distributed the coffee, tea, and Alain’s famed shortbread squares, he said, “Olivia, one would hope that Sir James’s contentment will be restored when he remembers that our loan will be secured by a collection of antiquities worth far more than thirty-two million pounds.”

Nigel thought about taking Olivia on a quick tour of the museum. Firsthand knowledge of the Hawker collection might transform her into a more enthusiastic advocate for their cause.

“That particular argument won’t impress Sir James,” Olivia said, as she stirred her coffee, “because the antiquities themselves represent a major source of uncertainty.” She took a sip. “Using museum exhibits as collateral for a loan is also a novel idea for us. I imagine that Sir James cringes at the thought of selling teacups and bric-a-brac to recoup our money should the museum slip into bankruptcy.”

Olivia smiled at Nigel; he couldn’t help grinning back. She had an enchanting smile. He caught Flick looking at him; she wasn’t smiling. He immediately tried to match her pained expression.

“We will certainly try to find what Sir James
requires”
—he spoke the last word through gritted teeth—“but we are still faced with the difficult challenge of uncovering forty-year-old details.”

Flick jumped in. “Nigel is talking like a sensible museum director who prefers to play his cards close to his vest and is reluctant to make promises that may be impossible to keep. However…”