The Final Crumpet (21 page)

Flick peered at Nigel. When it finally became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything more, she blurted, “Did she agree?”

He grinned at her. “Expect to receive a package by messenger tomorrow morning.”

They carried their plates to the conference room and were able to snag one of the conference table sections to use as a makeshift dining table for two.

“How many trustees are here tonight?” Flick wiped her lips with a napkin. Marjorie had been right; the rogan josh was exceptional.

“I counted four,” Nigel answered. “I’ve seen Marjorie and Dorothy.”

“There are two more in the far corner, engaged in lively conversation.”

Flick looked. “Got’ em.”

On the left: Rev. William de Rudd, the vicar of St. Stephen’s Church out on Pembury Road, the church she and Nigel had attended recently. The vicar was noted for his soft-spoken joviality and his steadily increasing girth. He stood as tall as Flick—five-foot-nine, one hundred seventy-five centimeters—but embodied twice her weight. She noted that his salt-and -pepper hair thinned noticeably at the crown, much like a tonsure. The vicar would soon resemble Friar Tuck.

On the right: Peter Cork, PhD, a world-renowned expert on ceramics and a professor of physical chemistry at the University of Kent in Canterbury. Peter specialized in stoneware, porcelain, and bone china—the “stuff” of teapots, teacups, and saucers. He wore thick eyeglasses and was mostly bald, pale skinned, and stoop shouldered—the perfect stereotype, Flick thought, of a horror-movie scientist about to reanimate a dead monster.

Nigel chuckled. “The two of them are having a grand time boring each other. I overheard the vicar explaining to Peter that the word ‘ceramics’ derives from
keramos,
the Greek word for pottery.”

Unexpectedly, he frowned. “Polly Reid is here, too. She gave me a sour look and sped off when I tried to say hello.”

“Oh dear. We have to find out what’s pulled her chain.” A spoon clinking against a glass caught Flick’s attention. The chattering in the room faded to silence. A movie screen descended from its ceiling-mounted shell. Stuart Battlebridge stepped in front of the screen as the lights dimmed. One of Stuart’s associates pushed keys on a laptop computer connected to an electronic projector and started the “show”—a PowerPoint presentation that detailed the media’s coverage of the discovery of Etienne Makepeace.

Stuart offered a running commentary of the various video clips, audio sound bites, and newspaper articles. Flick thought several of his observations over the top:

“Imagine a drum roll as we relive those exciting moments when our lovely tea museum became the object of the world’s fancy.”

And:
“The historic discovery at our beloved institution has resolved one of the twentieth century’s greatest mysteries.”

And:
“People on five continents now know that Tunbridge Wells is the home to a center of excellence of tea scholarship.”

Flick found the next segment especially entertaining. Stuart had edited together a collage of TV news reports in several different languages—each of them using the museum building as a backdrop for a reporter’s “talking head.” The images sped past as Stuart opined, “Many of the Commonwealth nations cared about Etienne Makepeace and sent news crews to cover the story of his reappearance.”

Flick’s and Nigel’s faces suddenly filled the screen.
Rats! Stuart filmed the news conference.
Flick had quietly dreaded the possibility—she disliked watching videos of herself. This time she had good reason. Her makeup at the conference had been overdone. Her hair appeared too curly. Her clothing made her look fat. Her voice sounded shrill. And she seemed utterly goofy compared to Nigel, who was easy to watch and projected a solid image of charm and competency.

To make matters worse, Stuart had added an orchestral treatment of
Tea for Two
to the soundtrack. The music would get softer when people were talking and louder when she or Nigel was thinking about an answer. Besides being corny, it called attention to her inability to think quickly on her feet.

“The camera loves you, Dr. Adams.”

Flick twirled to her right. Dorothy McAndrews had moved next to her.

“It does?” Flick said, not making any attempt to hide her astonishment.

“You’re what we call camera-friendly in the telly trade. You come across as skilled, intelligent, confident, and friendly—a woman in charge of the situation.”

“Really?” Flick thought back to the news conference. At the time, she hadn’t felt in charge of anything.

Dorothy patted her shoulder. “Hey! You’re our chief curator, which puts you in charge of everything that makes our museum worth visiting. I can’t wait to see your Etienne Makepeace exhibit.”

Flick glanced at Nigel. He was studying the screen intently, a half smile on his lips, silently nodding to himself. What did he think of her performance? He must have sensed her looking at him because he unexpectedly smiled at her and made a “thumbs-up” sign. Perhaps Stuart’s video deserved a higher grade than she had given it.

The lights came back on. Flick noticed a gleam in Stuart’s eye as he surveyed the conference room.

No! Don’t do it!

“Ladies and Gentlemen. I give you the stars of tonight’s media fest.” He made a sweeping gesture toward them. “Nigel Owen and Dr. Felicity Adams.”

Flick made a mental note to murder Stuart Battlebridge as a cloud of clapping partygoers promptly surrounded them. There were the four trustees…and Stuart himself…and well wishers who proved to be staff members, associates, and interns working for Gordon & Battlebridge…and, as Nigel had guessed, potential clients from companies in Kent and West Sussex.

Many had questions about Etienne Makepeace. Flick soon found herself separated from Nigel, describing—and rehashing—the events that had led to the discovery of the body. She endured the mini-inquisitions for twenty minutes and then escaped to the ladies loo. Once inside, she used her mobile phone to call Nigel’s mobile phone.

“I want out of this party,” she said. “Can we leave now?”

“Where are you hiding?” He laughed when she told him.

“I’ll meet you next to the coat rack.”

Flick made her way to the reception room and retrieved her Burberry. She had finished doing up her belt when Polly Reid stepped in front of her. Polly was holding an empty plastic tumbler and seemed to be unsteady on her pins.

“What a waste!” she hissed at Flick.

Polly began to rock back and forth; the plastic tumbler slipped out of her hand. Flick moved forward to steady her, but Nigel arrived first and grabbed Polly’s elbow. She leaned against him and recovered her balance.

Polly looked up at Nigel. She stood on tiptoes and tried to whisper in Nigel’s ear, but her voice was loud enough for Flick to hear. “How stupid can you be, Nigel? Don’t you listen on Sunday? Didn’t you learn anything in church?”

She abruptly dropped her head against Nigel’s shoulder.

He put his arm around her waist to support her. “I’ll drive her home in her car,” he said to Flick, “then return in a taxi.”

“Do you want me to come along with you?”

“Easier said than done. Polly drives a two-seat Mazda sports car.”

“Oops. I’ll hold down the fort.”

“My thoughts exactly.” He gave a resigned sigh. “Help me find her coat.”

Flick watched Nigel guide Polly toward the stairs. She heard Nigel ask, “Okay, Polly, where did you park your Mazda?” She saw Polly point in the general direction of the Crescent Road Car Park.

A voice behind Flick spoke: “You seem to have lost your squire, Dr. Adams. I shall be honored to provide alternative transportation.”

She turned. “Thank you, Vicar, but Nigel will be back shortly. Polly is somewhat under the weather.”

“I suspected as much. On two separate occasions this evening she encouraged me to provide Nigel with a lecture on St. Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians. When I asked why, she urged that I watch the two of you closely and be ready to act when necessary.

Flick hadn’t read Second Corinthians recently. She thought about asking the vicar what relevant points the epistle made, but decided that would invite a midweek sermon she was not in the mood to hear. Flick went instead to the “Libations Center” and filled a paper cup with tea. She sat near the bottom of the staircase and waited for Nigel. He returned in less than twenty minutes.

“Don’t even think of going upstairs,” she said with a smile, “unless you want to hear a discourse on Second Corinthians. Vicar de Rudd is on the verge of creating one—especially for you.”

“Good heavens! Why?”

“It was Polly’s idea.” Flick went on. “How is she?”

“Bright green. I don’t know what she drank tonight, but it didn’t go well with Indian food. The wind blowing in her face as I drove her home seemed to help. She’s also bloody embarrassed. “

“Did she explain what’s bugging her?”

“I asked, but she waved the question away. She promised to ‘tell us the lot’ when she’s feeling better.”

Flick pulled her Burberry tight around her as they left the building. It had stopped raining, but the temperature had fallen. Her raincoat’s thin wool lining didn’t do much to stop the damp chill from making her shiver. “This is the kind of night that makes me wish I had a fireplace in my apartment,” she said.

The day before, they would have walked arm in arm. Tonight, Flick let Nigel walk a half pace ahead as they crossed Monson Road. Even the sounds of their leather soles striking the macadam lacked harmony, she thought.

When they reached the Crescent Road Car Park, Flick remembered that the elevators stopped running at six thirty.
Ouch.
She’d been on her feet for nearly three hours, and her shoes had begun to pinch. Now she would have to climb four flights of stairs to the rooftop parking area to reach Nigel’s BMW. Every parking stall on the lower floors had been full when they arrived.

Don’t think about it. Just do it.

It seemed colder and windier on the roof, but the nighttime view of Tunbridge Wells was excellent. Nigel had parked near the northern end. Flick paused a moment to scan the rooftops and pick out landmarks she recognized. She quickly found the floodlit, castlelike spire of St. John’s Church and the oddly configured roof of the Royal Victoria Place shopping center.

Nigel beeped the passenger-side door open.

Flick sank gratefully into the soft leather seat. She slipped her left shoe off and wiggled circulation back into her toes. Nigel climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. The engine growled to life and settled to a purr. Flick fastened her seat belt and leaned her head against the headrest.

“I’ll have you home in a jiffy,” Nigel said, as he put the BMW in gear and began to back out of the parking space.

Flick heard another engine roar and felt Nigel hit the brakes hard.

She twisted in her seat and looked out the rear window. A dark green minivan—that’s how Flick would describe a similar American vehicle—had pulled directly behind the BMW. Its windshield and side windows were tinted; she couldn’t see the driver’s face.

“What’s going on?” she said and immediately regretted posing a foolish question.

Nigel seemed not to consider the question silly. “Some idiot in a Ford Transit van has me blocked in.”

He tooted the horn. The van didn’t move.

He honked his horn.
No joy.

He pushed the button to open his window. “Please move your vehicle…”

Nigel’s words were suddenly overwhelmed by a crisply accented male voice that boomed at them from a small loudspeaker that seemed stuck to the van’s roof.

“It would be best, Mr. Owen,” said the man, “for you and Dr. Adams to stop seeking additional information about Etienne Makepeace.”

Flick felt a stab of fear. Nigel yanked his door open. “Who are you?”

The loudspeaker crackled. “Raking up the past can be dangerous work—especially when it serves no purpose. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

“I said…who are you?”

“Etienne Makepeace disappeared because he made the mistake of wooing a married barmaid whose husband exacted vengeance. You don’t need trivial details or names of specific people. So why continue stirring the pot and asking more questions? It can only lead to unnecessary pain and discomfort for you. And disappointment at the museum.”

“I don’t react well to threats.” Nigel said—boldly, Flick thought.

“We assumed as much, Mr. Owen. Let me assure you that we make promises—not threats. To prove the point, we’ve arranged a modest demonstration of our capacity to influence the future of the museum. Pay close attention to what transpires tomorrow morning.” The voice paused. “I’ve said all that I need to say, except for one obvious caveat. Do not attempt to follow this vehicle or engage in any other heroic acts. We prefer that no grievous harm come to either of you.”

As quickly as it appeared, the van roared away leaving Nigel and Flick staring at a cloud of blue diesel exhaust. Flick tried to read the number plate, but it had been obscured, perhaps with a coating of mud.