The Final Crumpet (15 page)

“Crikey! I’m an Englishman who’s forgotten my classics.

See what you’ve done to me?” Nigel’s smile faded. “A few days? You’re sure?”

“A few days. I promise.”

He gave a thoughtful nod. “Well, I suppose we had better make use of those days for our investigation.”

“Follow me!” Flick tugged Nigel to the door. “We’ll see if my associate investigator has learned anything interesting about Etienne Makepeace.”

She led him out of the office, past a row of cubicles that served as offices for the curators, and into the Conservation Laboratory. As usual, Hannah Kerrigan was hunched over her computer. As usual, the two blue cats were keeping her company.

Flick approached from the front of Hannah’s workstation to avoid startling the Web wizard. She rapped gently on the metal frame. Hannah looked up. Her signature grin brightened considerably when she saw Nigel standing behind Flick.

“How goes it?” Flick asked.

“Better than I’d hoped for.” She began counting on her fingers as she had earlier. “First, programming the hotline was a snap. It will be up and running tomorrow morning. Second, the Internet search took me less than an hour. I never did figure out how to access official records of the Probate Registry, but I retrieved the information you wanted from an assortment of magazine archives and a newspaper database.”

Hannah looked at notes she had scribbled on several loose pieces of paper. “Makepeace went missing sometime late in September 1966. One of his sisters finally notified the police on September 29—which is now considered the official date of his disappearance. The search continued through October and November, then petered out over the next four or five months. Makepeace was declared dead by a court in London in November 1975—roughly nine years later. His three sisters were his only next of kin.”

“I think one of them is still alive,” Nigel said. He was, Flick decided, doing his best to honor his agreement and get involved in the investigation.

“The newspapers have been writing about the third sister since the body turned up,” Hannah said. “She’s in her nineties, is suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, and is—to use medical jargon—’noncommunicative.’ Anything she knew about Etienne Makepeace is long gone from her memory.”

“Sounds like you hit a dead end.” Flick said.

“Merely a momentary lay-by. I located several articles written in 1975 that mentioned a solicitor named Clive Wyatt. I did a bit of searching and discovered that he’s retired now and living in a cottage in Billingshurst, West Sussex.”

“Three cheers for the Internet.”

Hannah nodded happily. “Naturally, I telephoned him immediately. It turns out that Wyatt visited the museum on several occasions and is eager to meet our chief curator. In fact, I think he’s put off that no one from the media called him, because he seems a man who loves to talk. I had to tell him a fib to end the phone call. He thinks I have a dicey bladder.”

She unfolded two more fingers. “Third and fourth, I’ll do the cats tomorrow morning. And fifth, I’m constructing the Etienne Makepeace Web page right now. Would you like to see how much progress I’ve made?”

Flick didn’t get a chance to answer the question. Hannah spun around in her swivel chair, pressed several keys, and moved back from the computer monitor.

Uh-oh. I forgot to tell Nigel about the Web page. How will he react to another surprise?

The page had a bright blue background and was dominated by a large black-and-white photograph of Etienne Makepeace taken during the 1950s. He had been a handsome man in his prime, with well-chiseled features, a strong chin, a thick head of sandy-colored hair, and his famed sculpted moustache. The photographer had captured a boyish smile that immediately caught one’s eye. The bold headline over the picture screamed,
Tell Us How This Man Became England’s Tea Sage.
A smaller headline below proclaimed,
Reward for Information.

“I haven’t written the text yet. It will explain that we’re offering ten pounds for interesting tea-related anecdotes about Makepeace that visitors post on our message board.”

Flick held her breath while Nigel studied the under-construction page. At last, he began to smile. “It’s a grand idea, nicely implemented, but may I offer a small suggestion?”

“But of course,” Flick said.

“Change the headline to “Tell Us All You Can About England’s Tea Sage.” Then we’re likely to get all sorts of information about Makepeace—including details of his relationship with the museum.”

Flick nodded at Hannah, who immediately scribbled the new words on one of her scraps of paper.

“Does anyone know where Billingshurst is?” Flick asked. Hannah started to answer, but surprisingly Nigel spoke first: “About thirty miles southwest of Tunbridge Wells.”

“That’s near enough to pay him a visit,” Flick said. “Are you free tomorrow?”

Nigel started to grimace but apparently thought better of it. He settled for an uncertain shrug. “I have to check my calendar.”

“Check away, but please remember that you and I will be doers, not observers, as the investigation proceeds during the next—she paused for emphasis—ten days.

Nigel made a small groan, which seemed to encourage Hannah. “Billingshurst is absolutely precious!” she gushed. “It’s a brilliant little village—one of my favorite places. My great-aunt lived there. There’s a small restaurant on the high street that has romantic corner tables and does a smashing Dover sole.”

Flick noted a wistful look in Hannah’s eyes. The young woman was no doubt imagining Nigel sitting opposite her at one of those amorous corner tables, delicately shoveling a forkful of Dover sale into her mouth.

Forget about it, honey. That man is mine!

Six

N
igel sat in his car on the Pantiles’ Lower Walk, across from the building that housed Flick’s apartment, and felt exceedingly sorry for himself—even though he had miraculously found a parking spot. He didn’t see the value of driving to Billingshurst, in West Sussex, to visit a retired solicitor. Nor was he sure that spending the next several hours with Flick was a wise thing to do. Most of all, he was suffering the aftereffects of a sleepless night, including a throbbing headache. He had tossed and turned until four in the morning and was now experiencing a powerful urge to recline his seat and doze off, an impulse made even stronger by the rhythmic ticking of the BMW’s engine and the soothing
splooshing
of the windshield wipers in the lashing rain.

Hannah Kerrigan’s mention of Billingshurst the afternoon before had shaken Nigel. He’d almost begun to blither again but had stopped himself by uttering an inane groan. Fortunately, Flick thought he was shirking work rather than trying to suppress a painful memory.

Funny—but the name “Billingshurst” had been the essential clue that made the pieces fall into place. He finally figured Flick out. Or, more to the point, he abruptly understood that Flick had accidentally figured him out.

Possibly another example of women’s intuition.

Her hesitancy to declare how she felt about their relationship…her reluctance to discuss her “emotional baggage”…her growing unease when they talked about their future…the hostile looks she cast at Olivia Hart—he now realized that all of these things pointed toward one straightforward question: Can Nigel Owen be trusted over the long run?

An interesting topic, that.

“On balance,” Nigel murmured, “the answer is a resounding no.”

The windshield began to steam up; he switched on the defogger and wondered how much Billingshurst had changed. He’d last been there some ten years earlier, a few months before his divorce from Sheila. She had grown up in Coneyhurst, a tiny village a few miles east of Billingshurst. Their trip today would take them past Sheila’s family home. When he had told Flick about his divorce two months earlier—it was hardly a secret, after all—he hadn’t shared many details about Sheila or their five-year marriage. There had seemed no reason at all to mention that Sheila hailed from Coneyhurst.

Now is unquestionably not the right time to bring Flick up-to-date about your former wife.

Nigel rarely thought about Sheila, but his restless night had dredged up a steady stream of painful memories. Chief among them was that a woman he’d thought as beautiful as Olivia Hart had driven a wedge between Sheila and himself.

It happened shortly after Nigel won a fast-track job at a London-based insurance company. “A man with your sterling credentials and determination is destined to achieve greatness in this company,” his boss had said. “We think so highly of you that we have hired an assistant to support you.” Her name was Kendra. She was stunning, charming, vivacious, funny—and not above flirting with Nigel.

Truth be told, he had rather enjoyed the attentions of a beautiful single woman. They gave a married man confidence that he was still “in the game.” And Kendra’s flirtations seemed harmless enough. What could possibly happen during office hours in a central London office building?

Not much. But a lot more did happen during a company conference at a quiet resort in Wales.

Alas, this was not the first time that Nigel had strayed. On the day Sheila left him, she announced that he had run out of “second chances” and that she had fallen out of love with a “fidelity-challenged husband.”

Now, for reasons he could not fathom, Flick was seeking an answer to the same bloody question: Can Nigel Owen be trusted over the long run? Like it or not, one piece of the answer was his behavior at yesterday’s meeting with Olivia Hart. He hadn’t exactly flirted with Olivia in front of Flick, but neither had he rebuffed Olivia’s flirtations.

No wonder Flick seemed mad.

What would happen if she asked the question directly? Would he lie to keep her or tell the truth and lose her? Either way was a path to disaster.

Nigel peered at the dashboard clock. Almost nine o’clock. Their appointment with Clive Wyatt was at eleven. In theory, two hours was more than enough time to reach Billingshurst. In practice, a rainstorm like this one would slow traffic down to a crawl. They needed to get on their way.

He reached for his mobile phone but slipped it back on his belt when he heard a loud tapping on the passenger door window.

Rats! I forgot to unlock the door.

He pushed the button. The rear door flew open; Cha-Cha hurdled onto the backseat, followed by a wet umbrella that skittered into the foot well. An instant later, Flick slid into the front seat, looking damp but happy. She was wearing her Burberry, brown woolen gloves, and a rakish brown beret. A long curl had escaped from beneath the beret and lay against her cheek. Nigel decided not to worry about the effect of dog paws or sodden umbrellas on his expensive leather upholstery. He smiled at her as brightly as his headache would allow.

“What happened to the gentle English rain?” she asked breathlessly. “This is a tropical deluge.”

He mumbled, “We see all manner of precipitation in Great Britain.”

“Whatever…” She snapped her seat belt shut. “By the way, I have an excuse for being late. I made us a snack for the road.” She held up a small canvas utility tote. “Coffee for you, tea for me, and biscuits for us both.”

“Brilliant thinking, as always.” He recalled that he hadn’t eaten anything that morning. “I won’t say no to a cup of your coffee and a biscuit or two.”

“Onward to Billingshurst!”

“Onward, indeed,” he said, without much enthusiasm. Nigel eased the BMW out of the parking spot and quickly reviewed the trip in his mind. He would take the A26 south to Crowborough, catch the A272 west through Haywards Heath, and continue on to Billingshurst.

“I have a map,” Flick said. “Where’s yours?”

“I don’t need one,” Nigel said, without thinking.

“Really? What did you do—memorize the route?”

His heart leaped. “Something like that.”

Flick rummaged in her canvas bag, apparently too engrossed to challenge his answer. “By the way, our new Etienne Makepeace Web page is online—with the headline you suggested. Hannah also emailed me some additional information about Clive Wyatt and Mathilde O’Shaughnessy.”

“Mathilde
Who?”

“Etienne Makepeace’s surviving sister—the one who has Alzheimer’s.” Flick unfolded a piece of paper. “Her full name is Mathilde Makepeace O’Shaughnessy. She was born in 1911, married Kevin O’Shaughnessy in 1933, and became a widow in 1979. A tabloid reporter talked his way into her hospital ward the other day and tried to interview her—he got nowhere.

“Moving on to Clive Wyatt…he’s in his early eighties. He joined the firm of Bradford and Smythe when he was twenty-three and worked there for the next fifty years. He retired from practice in 1995 and has since lived in quiet retirement in Billingshurst.”

“Fascinating. It’s amazing what one can find on the Internet.” Nigel realized that he was on the verge of sounding grumpy. He took a deep breath. “Have you thought about what we’re going to ask Wyatt when we see him?”

“Hannah said he liked to talk, so I thought we would let him do so—after I explain that we intend to create an exhibit about Makepeace and want to gather all manner of information about the man, especially data about his relationship with the museum. That’s the truth—well, at least part of it.” She added, unexpectedly, “What do you know about Billingshurst?”