The Final Crumpet (39 page)

“He moved to Scotland and became a greengrocer,” Nigel said.

“So I heard. The KGB’s money clearly benefited the British economy.”

“He also changed his name.”

“I’m not surprised. I chose two exceedingly large thugs to visit Mr. Doyle.”

No one seemed in the mood to speak for several moments. Bertie broke the silence. “So much for our campaign to confuse the police and the media. Frankly, we never doubted our success with them. We considered our greatest challenge to be the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum.”

“That baffles me,” Flick said. “Why would you care if we gathered information about Makepeace through our Web site or created an exhibit about him?”

“Why did we care?” Bertie said. “Look around this room. You’ve found us—the police have not.”

“Only because you threatened us.”

He exhaled slowly.
“We
felt threatened first. We knew that your exhibits, your research programs, your academic conferences would set the stage for
endless
digging into Etienne Makepeace’s life by hundreds of people. You would make it impossible for Makepeace to be forgotten. Sooner or later—probably sooner—everything we wanted to keep secret would be known.”

He held up his thumb and index finger. “Our second objective was to encourage you to abandon the research you’d begun in preparation for an exhibit.”

“That’s where you made a mistake. Our research, as you call it, is a short-term investigation to keep our bank happy. We haven’t decided what to do about an exhibit.”

“Oh dear.”

“You didn’t have to frighten us in the car park or attack us on Frant Road or try to cancel our upcoming academic conference.”

“You’re right, of course. Three egregious mistakes. Endless apologies. But please understand, we would never have hurt anyone. We sought to apply mild coercion and threats—just enough to discombobulate you, to make you rethink your plans.”

“You certainly did that.”

“Our chief strategy was to tell you the absolute truth about Etienne Makepeace. We presumed that once you understood he was a fraud, a plagiarist, and a harasser of women, you would lose interest in creating an exhibit about him.”

Flick nodded. “You may have accomplished that, too.”

Conan raised his hand. “I have a question about Mr. Makepeace. Reputedly, he was a very bright person. He earned a First at Cambridge, after all. And yet—look at the way he behaved. How do you square these two opposing facts?”

Kolya nodded. Flick guessed that his faint smile conveyed a hint of sadness. “I knew Etienne Makepeace for almost ten years and could never explain his inconsistencies. He was bright, but also lazy. Competent when he wanted to be, but otherwise sloppy. Sensible about many things, but a foolish
babnik
when it came to women.”

“One might say
fatally
foolish,” Flick said. “That’s what got him killed.”

“It’s certainly a possibility,” Kolya said. “But we’ll never know for sure.”

“To the contrary,” Nigel said. “We
do
know for sure.” He clinked his empty coffee mug against Flick’s empty teacup. “Congratulations, my dear—I stand convinced. Your deductions explain all that happened more than forty years ago.”

Bertie leaned across the low table toward Flick. “You’ve discovered who shot Etienne Makepeace?”

Flick nodded.

Kolya said,
“Obaldet!”

Flick looked at her watch.
Four thirty. Too late on a Saturday afternoon to sort things out.

“Join us at the museum tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “At 1300 hours. We’ll meet in the tea garden. That’s where the story began, and that’s where it will end.”

Fourteen

A
t twelve forty-five on Sunday afternoon, Nigel pushed the remains of his roast beef sandwich aside, sipped instant coffee he had prepared in his office, and scanned his checklist one more time:

• Security guard stationed at front entrance to admit “participants.”
  
• Other security guards at rear and side entrance to discourage “unanticipated departures.”
  
• Round table (to accommodate eight people) set up in tea garden, with large umbrella if necessary.
  
• Eight chairs.
  
• Tea, coffee, and snacks for eight (set up on side table).
  
• Memory-jogging item (as suggested by Flick).
  
• All necessary “participants” invited (and invitations accepted).
  
• Check weather forecast; provide guest umbrellas if rain likely.
  

Everything was ready; he had toured the tea garden and verified that the items on the checklist had in fact been completed. The weather had cooperated admirably; they would enjoy a springlike afternoon in the tea garden, with sufficient clouds passing overhead to make a sun umbrella unnecessary.

All was well, yet Nigel felt anxious. He wasn’t surprised; he often experienced a touch of stage fright before chairing important meetings.

Flick and he had returned to his office after their Saturday visit to Briar Wood Farm. She had been adamant about today. “You are the director of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum,” she had said. “He works for you, and so does she. You are duty bound to lead the meeting tomorrow. It will also look less suspicious if you issue the invitations.”

“Will they come?”

“Why not? They both live nearby—and you aren’t asking for much. Merely a few minutes of their time after church on a Sunday afternoon to talk about the future of the museum. They won’t know until they get here that we really plan to talk about the past.”

“I suppose…”

Flick had moved behind his desk and perched on his lap.

“What’s really bothering you?”

“I hate all this uncertainty. Once again, we’re organizing a meeting that could fizzle like a dud firework should the principal participants decide to clam up. We were lucky today—but tomorrow could be a gold-plated disaster.”

She had pecked his cheek. “Well, I’ll let you brood about tomorrow on your own.”

“Oh? And what will you be doing while I grind my teeth to mere nubs?”

“I’ll begin to assemble our presentation to Wescott Bank.”

“Our plan was to do that on Sunday.”

“I thought I’d get a head start. We don’t have any time to waste.”

“I concur fully.”

He had kissed her, and once again, she had kissed him back.

Nigel looked at his checklist again. Perhaps one important item
was
missing. “Say a prayer before the meeting.”

Nigel wished that he had better skills at ad hoc praying. All he could think of now was a simple petition:
Lord, we are relying on You to take charge of our meeting today, to guide our actions every step of the way, to sort out truth from lies. We need your help even though I’m not at all especially good at asking for it.

The alarm on his desk clock began to beep. Five minutes before 1300 hours.

Nigel walked down three flights of stairs, through the World of Tea Map Room, through the Duchess of Bedford Tea Room, through the greenhouse, and into the tea garden. The stage fright hadn’t left him, but it seemed less menacing now that the meeting was about to begin. One of his old colleagues, an expert public speaker, had explained, “The trick with stage fright is to get the butterflies in your stomach to fly in formation. Then they’ll help you give a better performance.”

Nigel made a mental note: Send a letter of commendation to Jim Sizer. He had been a good sport that day. Without asking for an explanation, he’d cheerfully reported for work early on a Sunday morning and set up the round table and eight chairs in the Chinese Teas exhibit area across the garden from Makepeace’s grave. Jim had cleverly placed the refreshments table athwart the garden’s winding redbrick walkway, putting it only a few steps away from where everyone would be seated.

Nigel spotted a small thermal carafe. More out of habit than need, he pumped a cup of black coffee for himself, then sat down next to Flick. She was chatting animatedly with Kolya about this year’s forecast crop of Darjeeling tea. Across the table, DI Pennyman and Bertie were complaining to each other about soaring tax rates in Kent. Conan, sitting next to Bertie, waited for Nigel to get comfortable, then said, “Big day, sir. I’ll be delighted to see quit of this muddle, won’t you?”

“Indeed, I will,” he said, just as Mirabelle Hubbard and Trevor Dangerfield walked into the tea garden.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said. “I hope we’re not late.”

“You’re right on time, Mirabelle. Please join us.”

Nigel smiled as brightly as he could. Mirabelle smiled back, but Trevor—-seeing three men he didn’t know sitting at the table—clearly sensed something was wrong. He stopped a few paces away and said, “Pardon, sir, you did say that this meeting was to talk about the future of our docent program…”

“In a way, it is. Let me introduce you to our guests. This gentleman next to Dr. Adams is Nikolai Melnikov, formerly with the Soviet KGB. Next to him is Bertrand Bartholomew, late of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service, and to his left is Detective Inspector Marc Pennyman of the Kent Police.”

Nigel heard both Mirabelle and Trevor gasp at the mention of Pennyman’s name. The wind seemed to leave their sails simultaneously, and they dropped limply into the two empty seats at the table.

“What is this about?” Trevor croaked. His voice had aged a decade in seconds.

Nigel looked at Mirabelle and said softly, “Mirabelle, during the month of September 1966, you had an altercation with Etienne Makepeace that eventually led to his death. Can you tell us about it?”

Trevor put his hand atop Mirabelle’s. “That won’t be necessary, sir; there’s no need to trouble Mirabelle. I killed Mr. Makepeace by myself. She had nothing to do with the crime in question.”

Nigel nodded. He’d expected Trevor to be chivalrous. He had even worked out a strategy to respond.

“I see. Can you tell me why you killed him, Trevor?”

“Because Mr. Makepeace was a bad man, sir. He treated us all badly. He deserved to die.”

“That being the case, you decided to shoot him?”

“Well, sir, it was a toss-up between knife and gun—they taught me how to use both in the Royal Marines—but the pistol won. Less personal, if you take my meaning.”

Pennyman abruptly spoke up. “So, Mr. Dangerfield, you shot Makepeace with an old service pistol you had somehow acquired.”

“Yes, sir, a Browning 9-millimeter automatic. I’d kept it after I was demobbed from the marines. It’s long gone now, but I had it then—kept it in my locker at the museum. I used the weapon to shoot Mr. Makepeace.”

“Amazing. How did you accomplish such an unusual feat of small arms ballistics?”

“Accomplish
what,
sir?”

“You apparently fired a 9.2-millimeter Makarov round through a pistol chambered for the 9-millimeter Parabellum cartridge. I merely wondered how you did it.”

“Well…” Trevor stared at the table, his face suddenly bright red.

“It’s no good, Trevor,” Mirabelle said. “We have to tell them the truth.” She sighed. “They seem to have figured it out, anyway.” She looked at Nigel. “You asked about an ‘altercation’ with Mr. Makepeace—there were actually several, sir.”

“We suspected as much, Mirabelle. We knew that Makepeace had revealed his swinish nature to female employees throughout the museum. According to Nathanial Swithin, not even his secretary was immune from Makepeace’s advances. That’s why we were a bit surprised when you told us that Etienne Makepeace was a vague blur in your mind and that you’d never been formally introduced to him.”

Nigel winked at Flick. She had been the one to recognize the inconsistency. He hoped she wouldn’t mind his use of “we”; they were, after all, in this together.

Nigel reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. “With your permission, Mirabelle, I would like to read a letter that you wrote to Nathanial Swithin on 13 September 1966. That was a Tuesday, by the way.”

A look of astonishment crossed the elderly woman’s face. “My letter? From back then?”

“Indeed. May I read it to everyone?”

“If you wish, sir. I’m not ashamed of what I wrote.”

“To the contrary. You should be proud of yourself.” Nigel smoothed the letter flat on the table, cleared his throat, and began. “Dear Mr. Swithin—it pains me to write like this to you, but I need your assistance in ending the intolerable and inappropriate behavior of Mr. Etienne Makepeace toward me during his Wednesday visits to the museum.

“This has gone on for three successive Wednesdays and has disturbed me greatly. I have explained to Mr. Makepeace over and over again that I am a married woman and have no interest in his repeated advances. He keeps insisting, however, that he much prefers ‘married birds.’