The Final Crumpet (31 page)

“Mr. Bleasdale, this is Felicity Adams. Mr. Owen referred the matter of Dame Elspeth Hawker’s pets to my attention. And you’re right—we have made a decision.”

“Really?” His cheerful voice immediately began to sound suspicious. “When can I pick the creatures up?”

“Never,
Mr. Bleasdale. While we appreciate the Hawkers’ kind offer, we feel we must keep the animals after all. We feel morally committed to care for them in perpetuity. As you yourself pointed out to Mr. Owen, the museum and Dame Elspeth entered into an ironclad agreement to adopt her pets after her death.”

She could envision wheels in the solicitor’s head spinning as he tried to think of something profound to say. All he managed in the end was a feeble,
“Uh
…Mr. Owen seems to have misunderstood my earlier comments. An ironclad agreement? Certainly not. The contract was nothing more than an expression of Dame Elspeth’s…
wishes
that her animals have a good home.”

“That’s exactly what we’ve given them at the museum.”

“I’m sure you mean well, but do you really think a museum is the right place to house cats and dogs?”

“They seem quite happy here. The four of them are thriving.”

“Possibly. But you still have to deal with the threatened lawsuit. Legal fees could be substantial, not to mention the impact of negative publicity.”

“We also hope to reach a settlement with Bertram

Holloway.”

“A settlement…”

“But we’ve had some difficulty locating the gentleman.”

“You’ve tried to find him?”

“Oh yes, but he seems to have left Tunbridge Wells.” She raised her voice a notch. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we
never
hear from him again.”

“Uh
…that’s utterly possible.”

“I fear that Alfred and Harriet will be disappointed by our decision. I’m sure they value the animals highly.”

“Yes. Quite highly.”

“Please assure them that they’re welcome to visit the museum whenever they would like to see their loyal friends.”

Flick waited for Bleasdale’s reply. When none came, she hung up the telephone.

“Well done, Dr. Adams!” Nigel said. “You’ve cheered me up to beat the band.”

And you me, Mr. Owen.

She sensed that he felt a tad reluctant to hug her—so she hugged him.

Eleven

“D
id you bring any breadcrumbs?” Nigel asked. “We’d better leave a trail so we can find our way home.”

To his delight, Flick stuck her tongue out at him. A promising sign that their relationship was on the mend.

“Our route from the museum to Nathanial Swithin’s house is really quite simple,” she said. “We make nothing but right turns. Right on Eridge Road…right on Neville Terrace…right on Linden Park Road…right on Montacute Road…right on Frant Road…and right on Broadwater Down, which—although it makes little sense—is actually the name of the road that runs through Broadwater Down, a neighborhood that some have nicknamed ‘Millionaire’s Row.’ Coming back, we make six left turns.”

“Got it,” Nigel said. “Still, a breadcrumb or two would be welcome. I didn’t eat much of a lunch.”

“Here.” Flick handed him a packet of potato crisps.

“Where did these come from?”

“Polly gave them to me. She guessed you would be peckish about now.”

“Good heavens! Am I that predictable?”

“No.
She’s
that smart.” Flick added a satisfied toss of her head. “I intend to sign up for ‘How to Decipher Nigel Owen’ lessons with her.”

Nigel found himself enjoying the hike. The sun was sufficiently strong to make topcoats unnecessary; they both wore heavy pullovers. Flick had swapped her pumps for trainers—although she, like most Americans, called them “sneakers.” Consequently, they could both walk with quick, long strides.

He had lost track of the consecutive right turns when they arrived at Nathanial Swithin’s home, an elaborately trimmed, redbrick Tudor that had apparently served as the model for countless baked gingerbread houses. The large dwelling was partially hidden behind a hedge of sprawling rhododendron bushes that were asleep for the winter.

“What a fabulous house,” Flick said.

“I have it on good authority,” he said, “that the late Mrs. Swithin didn’t lack for the odd bob or two.”

“Which door do we use? The one in the center and the one toward the right side of the house are both the same size.”

While Nigel was trying to decide, the door on the right swung open. Nathanial Swithin stepped outside—a broad grin on his face—and waved.

“He’s been waiting for us to arrive,” Flick said. “He even seems eager to talk to us.”

“Did you tell him what we’ve come to talk about?”

“No—not really.”

“Let’s see how eager he is when he learns the truth.”

When Nigel had first met Swithin the previous summer, he’d been amazed to learn that the former director had recently turned seventy. Nathanial looked at least ten years younger. He was nearly as tall as Nigel, with a wiry build, sharp features, thick, mostly dark hair, and what seemed a reasonably healthy suntan. His only concession to age was the pair of thick eyeglasses he wore. They made his eyes appear oddly small.

Nigel was well aware of Nathanial Swithin’s legendary reputation at the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum. He had served as director for forty years—beginning on the museum’s first day of operation—and was widely credited with being the driving force behind the excellent reputation for scholarship and research that the institution enjoyed today. Nigel had lost count of the number of people who reminded him that he had “an enormous pair of shoes to fill.”

Nigel suddenly saw, out of the corner of his eye, a black-and-tan blur whiz past Swithin and race toward him. Nigel made a quick sidestep, but the agile blur compensated. An instant later, two paws landed solidly on Nigel’s thigh. He looked down at a small, square-faced dog, about the same size as Cha-Cha, who seemed delighted to make his acquaintance.

“Taffy!” Swithin shouted.

The dog immediately reversed course and raced back to its master’s side.

“Forgive her her trespasses, Nigel,” Swithin said. “Being a terrier, Taffy is not the best behaved of hounds, but she is friendly and has a good heart.”

“Taffy is…?” Flick asked.

“A Welsh terrier, of course. I don’t believe it’s legal in Great Britain to name any other sort of dog ‘Taffy.’ ” Swithin took time to scratch her back before he asked, “How goes life at the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum?”

“We’ve been…
busy,”
Nigel said.

“I can well imagine. You’ve had a thrilling few months. The unexpected death of Dame Elspeth, a surprise upheaval on the board of trustees, the need to acquire the Hawker antiquities, the astonishing disinterment of Etienne Makepeace—that’s far more excitement than I experienced during my entire career at the museum. In truth, I feel guilty that I escaped to the Balearic Islands before any of these problems arose.” He smiled at Flick. “I’m delighted that you telephoned this morning. I’m ready to help you in any way I can. And one other thing—now that I’m retired, everyone calls me Nate.”

“And all of my friends call me Flick.”

“Speaking of the Balearics,” Nigel said, “I thought you planned to spend the entire winter in Majorca.”

“I’ve settled into a schedule of convenience. Three weeks getting warmed by the glorious Spanish sun, one week back in Tunbridge Wells being rained on. The best of both worlds, so to speak. I plan to fly back to Majorca on Monday morning.” He made a face. “Of course, I picked a terrible week to be back in Kent. When I arrived home last Saturday morning, I found my answering machine full of messages from reporters who wanted my reaction to the unearthing of Etienne Makepeace. Most of my would-be inquisitors reminded me that Etienne had been buried on my watch. Naturally, I didn’t return any of their calls. One of the joys of retirement is that I am no longer required to bow and scrape in front of nosy journalists.” He saluted Nigel. “That joy now belongs to you.”

“Thank you for nothing, I’m sure.”

Nate beckoned. “Come. I’ve lit the fire in the sitting room and prepared large mugs of my world-famous hot cocoa.” Flick walked beside Nate; Nigel and a reasonably well-behaved Taffy brought up the rear.

The sitting room had tall leaded windows that looked out on an expansive rectangle of lawn. In the distance, Nigel could see Broadwater Down—although the fancy clobber in the room quickly drew one’s eye away from nature. The Regency-style furniture looked comfortable, genuine, and expensive. Most of the pieces were undoubtedly real antiques. The Oriental rugs on the floor appeared properly threadbare, and the draperies suitably sumptuous. The only twentieth-century item in the room was the portrait hanging over the fireplace. Nigel presumed that the young woman smiling prettily at him was Nate’s late wife and that her picture had been painted in the 1950s.

Flick sat on a well-padded sofa. Nigel chose the armchair closest to the fire and cupped his hands to catch the warmth of the flame. “Lovely. I rarely get to enjoy a real fire.”

Nate distributed mugs of cocoa and sat down beside Flick.

“So…what sort of advice do you want from me, Flick? This morning, you explained that you were having difficulty deciding whether or not to create an exhibit about Etienne Makepeace.”

Nigel sat back in his chair. The touch of skepticism he heard in Nate’s voice suggested that the former director—his mind as nimble as ever—hadn’t been fooled by Flick’s quickly fabricated cover story. Let’s see how this discussion unfolds. He sipped his cocoa gingerly and felt pleased to discover that it was home brewed, not store-bought. It tasted thick, strong, and delicious.

Flick charged ahead. “Indeed,” she said. “Reaching a decision, and sticking with it, has proved to be more complex than we expected. At first, we decided not to create an exhibit. Our thinking was quite straightforward. The chief mission of the museum is to illuminate the history of tea, and we saw no direct connection between Etienne Makepeace’s disappearance—and reappearance—and the history of tea.”

Nate nodded. “That seems a sensible position to take.”

Flick continued. “But then we realized that Makepeace held a unique position in Great Britain. He emerged as England’s Tea Sage. He became a celebrity on the radio. He lectured from time to time at the museum. How then can we possibly ignore him in our exhibit galleries?”

Nate nodded again. “I can imagine several of our…I mean,
your
trustees making the very same point.”

“Well, toward the middle of the week, we received new information about Etienne Makepeace that raised our level of confusion. A highly reliable source assured us that Makepeace had been a thoroughly miserable human being.”

Nate chuckled. “I always described Makepeace as a bounder. It’s an archaic term, I agree, but an apt one. I prefer not to use profanity.”

“Then what we’ve heard about Makepeace is true?”

“I doubt you’ve been told the full extent of his…
miserableness,
if there is such a word. I’d be hard-pressed to name a more unpleasant man within my acquaintance. Etienne Makepeace was cursed with an ego that stretched from Brighton to Lands End. If that were not challenge enough, he also displayed an overwhelming sense of indifference to people around him. He thought himself the center of the universe.

“Makepeace merely annoyed men by his pretentiousness and posturing, but women were forced to fend off his unwelcome overtures. He seemed to lack any sense of appropriate office-place behavior. I suspect that every woman employed at the museum had to deal with his…propositions at one time or another. Not even my secretary was immune from his heavy-handed advances. Today, of course, Makepeace would be charged with sexual harassment and, at the very least, be drummed out of the museum’s employ—but back then, we didn’t have the Sex Discrimination Act and similar legal protections.”

Flick frowned. “Does a man like that deserve an exhibit at our museum?”

Nate replied with a small shrug. “Oh, I suspect that many of the men esteemed by the museum had similarly defective characters. Desmond Hawker himself was widely acknowledged to be an unprincipled scoundrel during the first half of his life. And doubtless, the ranks of Britain’s successful tea merchants are amply stocked with men who are ruthless, disagreeable, spiteful, immoral…take your pick of vile attributes. Despite their natures—or perhaps because of them—they played vital roles in the history of tea. As you noted earlier, their successes—rather than their failures—earned them places of honor in your exhibit galleries.”

Flick set her cocoa mug down on a mahogany side table. “Etienne Makepeace may fall into a different category. We’re well aware of the way he treated women. Moreover, we’ve heard that the police are leaning toward the theory that an irate husband seeking revenge shot Etienne. But two days ago, we received credible information that he was a fraud—a tea sage who, despite his sterling reputation, knew nothing about tea. We now have compelling evidence that his books, his articles, his lectures, his radio scripts were either plagiarized from foreign sources or ghostwritten for him. I won’t create an exhibit that honors a complete sham.”