The Final Crumpet (20 page)

“What can you tell us about Etienne Makepeace?” Flick said.

“Bother!” Mirabelle said. “More questions about the Tea Sage. We had scads yesterday from our Japanese tour group.”

Trevor took over. “Who buried him in the tea garden? Why did he end up at a tea museum? Did he have a proper funeral? Why did it take so long for you to dig him up? Couldn’t answer a bloomin’ one, of course. Had to tell ‘em to read the blinkin’ newspapers.”

“Actually, we’re interested in what happened forty years ago. What did you think of Etienne Makepeace back then?”

Trevor frowned. “I didn’t think anything about him at all because I hardly knew the chap. I shook his hand once and saw him from a distance on several other occasions. Tall fellow with lots of hair. Dressed well and walked with an air of confidence. I seem to recall that he sneered a lot. Of course, I could be wrong. These days I can barely remember where I set down my spectacles. How about you, Mirabelle? You often tell me that your memory is sharper than mine.”

Mirabelle shook her head. “Etienne Makepeace is a vague blur in my mind. I was never formally introduced to him. My only connection to the Tea Sage was to type the letters sent to him by Nathanial Swithin and drop them in the post.”

“How odd that you have no opinions,” Flick said. “Etienne Makepeace visited the museum often during the early days. It’s strange that both of you didn’t come in contact with him more frequently.”

Trevor glanced at Mirabelle, then shrugged. “Neither of us wishes to speak ill of the dead, but Mr. Makepeace wasn’t the sort of man to spend much time with secretaries and security guards. He preferred the company of the…
well
…the…”

“Bigwigs?” Nigel offered.

“Exactly, Mr. Owen,” Mirabelle said. “Organizations were more formal back then. Those of us who weren’t bigwigs knew to keep our distance.”

Nigel moved forward in his recliner; the footrest snapped downward.
It is quite amazing,
he thought,
that a man as offensive as Etienne Makepeace survived long enough to be murdered at the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum.

I have hoisted a colossal weight off my shoulders.

Flick deftly avoided a puddle and decided that ending her awkward attachment to Nigel had been the right thing to do. She had defused an explosive relationship before anyone got hurt. Oh, there would still be painful emotions to deal with—she was quite fond of Nigel, after all—but who said they couldn’t remain good friends?

Nigel gave every indication that he felt the same way. He seemed chipper, almost cheerful, as he shielded them both with an oversized umbrella. They walked side by side, but not arm in arm, along the pedestrian pathway that led from the Crescent Road Car Park to Monson Road. An observer would have rightly concluded they were two business colleagues trying to avoid getting wet.

They reached Monson Road and turned right. Across the street, Flick could see the entire second floor of a narrow building brightly lit. It was the “world headquarters” of Gordon & Battlebridge, as Stuart often joked. Someone had pushed the curtains aside. Several partygoers stood near the windows, chatting. Among them, Flick recognized two of the museum’s trustees.

Rats. Nigel was right. They came.

An eight-member board of trustees oversaw the museum. They were ultimately responsible for every aspect of the museum—from its operating budget to its teaching goals to the people who served as the director and chief curator. The board of trustees had hired Felicity Adams, PhD, and they had the power to fire her.

She heaved a sigh.

“What’s that about?” Nigel asked.

Flick gave a disparaging wave. “I dislike after-hours office parties.”

“Since when?”

“Since you told me several trustees were coming. It’s a drag to act charming and erudite—and remain on your best behavior—while your feet are aching from standing around in high-heeled pumps.”

He peered at her in the illumination from a streetlamp.

“I don’t buy it. You like to dress up, you enjoy partying with convivial people, and you know that the trustees are in awe of your tea knowledge. What’s
really
bothering you?”

Flick hesitated, then said, “Well, if you must know, I’m experiencing a new round of stage fright. I won’t have a good answer if the trustees ask questions about the status of the loan.” She let herself smile. “Keep in mind that I’m a rotten liar.”

“If a trustee asks about the loan, don’t say a ruddy thing. Point to me and proclaim that Nigel Owen deals with finances, enabling you to focus your entire being on developing a new exhibit about Etienne Makepeace.”

“Okay, that should get me off the hook—for a while. I’ll be back in the hot seat if the trustees don’t like your explanation.”

“Should the question arise, I shall say that everything is progressing according to plan, and that Sir James Boyer is so fascinated with the discovery of the body that he asked us to give him a presentation about the relationship of Etienne Makepeace to the museum.”

Flick pondered a moment. “That’s roughly the truth.”

“Exactly! There’s no need for any of the trustees to know anything more about Sir James’s concerns. Telling them about Olivia Hart’s visit would open up Pandora’s box—unnecessarily. A week from today, the matter will be resolved. If it isn’t…well, it won’t do anyone a smidgen of good to worry about the situation this evening. Am I right?”

Flick nodded as they crossed Monson Road.

“Will you get mad at me,” Nigel asked, “if I say that you look smashing tonight?”

“Probably.”

“In that event, I’ll say nothing—even though you do.”

A bronze plaque next to a glass door signaled that they had arrived at
Gordon & Battlebridge Public Relations Ltd.
They climbed a steep flight of stairs that led to a landing decorated with a collage of covers of the many different marketing brochures that the firm had developed for its clients. The cover photos depicted steel mills, chemical plants, a smiling group of chartered accountants, high-performance bicycles, a clean room in an electronics factory, and—in the central position of honor—the exterior of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum.

The “clippings party” took over most of the rooms in the firm’s office suite. A banner hanging in the reception room read
Abandon Coats and Umbrellas Here.
A large red arrow pointed to the library:
This Way to the Libations Center.
A second arrow announced,
The Munchatorium Is Located In Stuart’s Office.
And a large sign affixed to a pedestal read
All Guests Should Make Their Way to the Conference Room For Mixing, Mingling, and Entertaining.

“Good heavens!” Flick said, surprised at the crowd she saw gathered in the conference room. The firm’s large conference table consisted of several smaller sections. These had been broken apart and moved against the walls to free up a large, open area that now held at least two dozen people. “Stuart must have invited the immediate world. Do you recognize any of these folks?”

“A few. Think back to our practice session with Philip Pellicano. The Gordon & Battlebridge folks who played reporters are here. As for the strangers, I suspect that Stuart sees this as a sales meeting. He wants to show off his press-agentry prowess to potential customers.” He added, “You stake out the Munchatorium; I’ll stow our coats and get us drinks. What would you like?”

She thought about reminding Nigel that they weren’t here “together,” but his enthusiastic demeanor changed her mind.
He’s merely being polite. This is hardly a date.
“A tall glass of cider would be lovely, thank you.”

As Flick meandered toward Stuart’s office and the buffet table, the corridor became redolent with the pungent, unmistakable smell of curry.
Whoopee! Stuart chose an Indian caterer.
Flick had grown to appreciate Indian cuisine during her seven months in England. She often dined in her apartment on Indian “takeout.”

“I hope they have a nice chicken tandoori,” she murmured and nearly bumped into the heavily laden Marjorie Halifax.

“Felicity! How nice to see you. The buffet is fabulous. Run, don’t walk—get there before all of the scrumptious lamb rogan josh is gone.”

Flick had been assured by Nigel that each of the museum’s trustees must meet three essential requirements: have reached fifty years old, give or take a few years…be extremely successful in his or her career…and have a fanatical love of tea.

Marjorie fit the template to perfection. Petite, blond, loud-voiced; and vivacious, she had served two terms as a councilwoman on the Tunbridge Wells Borough Council. She was widely considered an expert in Kentish tourism and had perfected a signature laugh during her tenure as a politician: a proud chuckle accompanied by a haughty toss of her head.

“You seem remarkably cheerful this evening, Marjorie,” Flick said. She watched with growing hunger as Marjorie scooped up a dollop of rogan josh with a piece of naan bread, then devoured it in two quick bites. Flick’s stomach rumbled as she remembered her own meager breakfast and skipped lunch.

“Absolutely!’’ Marjorie said. “Little Tunbridge Wells received a wealth of good publicity during the past five days—a delightful state of affairs, because The Wells needs every last line of favorable press we can get. Too many Brits still see us as the stodgiest town in Kent, full of retired colonels who write pompous letters to the London Times and sign them ‘Disgusted from Tunbridge Wells.’ ”

“Our tea garden certainly proved that Tunbridge Wells can be a stiff competitor.” Flick hoped that Marjorie would recognize the intended humor in her response.

Marjorie did. “I’ll make no bones about it, Felicity. The town would have gained
so much
more if you’d discovered Mr. Makepeace during the summer. We’d have filled every hotel room and restaurant table. I anticipate we will see a bit of additional tourism as we move toward spring, but I fear the
l’affaire Makepeace
is already quieting down. All of the extra policemen seem to have returned to Maidstone. And as for reporters—well, I haven’t seen one of them wandering about the Wells in days.” She leaned closer to Flick. “Should you find another body, don’t be so quick to make an announcement.”

Marjorie added a wily wink to her trademark laugh and went off with her dinner.

Flick joined the buffet line. She looked around for Nigel and saw him—a tall glass of cider in each hand—chatting with Dorothy McAndrews, another trustee. They seemed thick as thieves. Dorothy held a PhD in art history and owned McAndrews Antiques, a chain of antique shops in Kent and Sussex, but she was best known as “the-woman-on-the-telly-who-looks-like-a-Celtic-princess.” Red-haired, green-eyed, and fair-complexioned, Dorothy was a regular on a BBC TV show that traveled through Great Britain appraising local antiques. This evening she wore a black crepe wool dress that hugged her like a wetsuit and had undoubtedly cost a fortune. Dorothy spotted Flick and waved. Flick returned the greeting.

Happy days.
The trustees don’t seem to be thinking about the loan.

Flick reached the buffet table and assembled two plates of goodies, giving ample emphasis to chicken tandoori and lamb rogan josh. Nigel joined her just as she finished. He liked chutney; he topped his plate with several spoonfuls of Major Gray’s.

“Dorothy asked about you,” Nigel said. “She thinks you look worried tonight.”

“Well,
duh!”

“I explained that you’re preoccupied with gathering material for the Makepeace exhibit.”

“Did she buy it?”

“Totally. In fact, she lit up at the mention of an exhibit.

It seems that her antique shop in Sevenoaks has among its stock a handful of black-and-white photographs of Etienne Makepeace taken during the early 1960s.”

“Pictures! We need them!”

“Whoa! Of course we need them, but we can’t act frantic about it. I calmly offered to have our chief curator evaluate the historicity of the photographs in light of the other Makepeace materials we’ve gathered.”