The Final Crumpet (7 page)

That, Nigel decided, was an easily addressed problem that time and shopping would resolve. A thornier challenge was the shortage of parking spaces on Lime Hill Road. Many of the town houses on the street had been converted into small flats, and most of the renters owned cars—completely overwhelming the available curbside parking. Consequently, Nigel usually left his BMW sedan in the museum’s employee car park and walked back and forth to his flat—a distance of about two kilometers. On an icy morning like this one, a brisk hike didn’t seem a cheering prospect.

Nigel scanned the garden, but Cha-Cha was nowhere to be seen. He followed the dog’s small footprints back and forth on the frosty grass until they passed behind a spindly fruit tree. No surprise! Cha-Cha was equipped with a plush double coat—just the thing for a cold Kentish dawn—and had gone for a quick morning sniff-around.

“Time’s up, mutt!” Nigel said, in a loud whisper designed not to wake his neighbors. “I’m turning into a block of ice.”

Nothing.

Nigel spoke more loudly. “Return immediately, Cha-Cha, or you’ll eat dry kibble the rest of the winter.”

The reddish dog suddenly appeared next to a bush not far from Nigel’s feet.

“Good! The first thing you can do is help me decide what to wear at the conference.”

They padded back upstairs side by side and made for Nigel’s bedroom closet. Although Nigel had specifically asked, Stuart Battlebridge had provided little guidance about their clothing today. “In the past, we told our clients to dress conservatively. But those days are long over. The best advice I can give you is to look like a museum director. Dress in the sort of clothing that you would wear to a business meeting at the museum. This is a simple news conference, not a fancy dress ball.”

Nigel surveyed his wardrobe and murmured, “What does a museum director look like?”

Cha-Cha gave a gentle yip and moved beneath a well-tailored black and gray herringbone tweed sport coat.

“Do you really think so?” Nigel said. “I would have chosen the safe, gray pinstripe, but perhaps you’re right. My tweed coat over a white shirt and gray flannel slacks—with an elegant red tie to add a bit of color.”

That was the outfit Nigel wore beneath his heavy mackintosh as he set off for the museum with Cha-Cha. The wintry sun had begun to rise when he reached the top of Mount Pleasant. A barrage of high-pitched giggles suddenly pierced the cold air like the ringing of bells, and Nigel found himself entangled in a gaggle of schoolgirls waiting for their bus. One of them began to stroke Cha-Cha.

“I didn’t know you could keep a fox as a pet,” the girl said.

“He’s not a fox—he just looks like one.”

“Well, what is he then?” the girl’s friend joined in.

“A dog,” Nigel said. “A Shiba Inu.”

“Is that some kind of terrier?” the first girl asked.

“No. It’s more like a miniature Japanese spitz.”

“Does he understand Japanese then?” asked another girl who had decided to join in.

“Impeccably!” Nigel gave Cha-Cha’s lead a gentle tug. He marched on, buoyed by a gale of giggly laughter. His spirits remained high until he passed the Eridge Road traffic circle and saw in the distance a fleet of outside-broadcast vans gathered in front of the museum like Visigoth war wagons lined up before the gates of Rome. And there in the middle of the muddle stood Flick, an amazed look on her face. Happily, none of the reporters milling around nearby had recognized who she was.

Nigel moved through the crowd mumbling “excuse me,” Cha-Cha close on his heels. He grabbed Flick’s elbow and propelled her toward the museum’s side entrance. “Don’t act surprised. Just keep moving. We have to get inside before someone decides that now will be a good time to start asking questions.”

“Stuart was right—the media seems to be treating this like the story of the century.” Her voice sounded nervous. “I almost wish we hadn’t given Stuart permission to arrange a news conference; don’t you agree?”

Nigel swallowed his amusement. Bit by bit, Flick was picking up English patterns of speech. Ending a statement with a polite question was a perfect example.

“I definitely agree. Stuart predicted a robust turnout, but this seems all out of proportion. We have dozens of reporters milling about a full two hours before the conference is scheduled to begin.” Nigel looked back as they turned the corner. A few members of the press peered at them curiously, but none followed.

Employees used the museum’s side entrance when the main entrance was locked. Nigel readied his key in case the metal and glass door was locked. It wasn’t. Instead, one of the museum’s burlier security guards had taken up position as a human barrier. He returned a military salute as they scooted around him into the corridor.

“Mr. Battlebridge suggested that I guard the flanks,” he said.

“Good thinking!” Nigel said. “Do you know where Stuart is?”

A jovial voice made Nigel turn. “Waiting patiently for you at the Welcome Centre kiosk.”

Stuart stood next to the kiosk, a big grin on his face.

More surprisingly, Margo McKendrick—sitting in the kiosk—was also smiling at them. Nigel hadn’t expected her to be on duty.

The marble-encased Welcome Centre kiosk sat at the intersection of the two corridors that spanned the ground floor, giving its occupant a simultaneous view of both the main and side entrances. Margo, the museum’s greeter for more than thirty years, manned the kiosk when the facility was open for visitors. A security guard replaced her during “off-hours,” when the exhibit halls were closed to the public but the staff was still at work in their offices and laboratories. Between mid-October and mid-April, the museum traditionally followed an abbreviated winter schedule: open 11:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.; closed all day Sunday and Wednesday. He and Flick had decided to lengthen the schedule—in the hope of increasing miscellaneous revenues—by henceforth opening at 10:00, but there was still no reason for Margo to be at her post at 8:00 on a Monday morning. Then he understood…

She took over the kiosk so the security guard could man the side door.

Nigel stepped aside; Flick moved toward the kiosk, slipping out of her Burberry as she walked.

Crikey! She’s all dressed up.

She wore a trimly cut, dark blue suit, matching blue pumps with short heels, and a pink shirt. Her only adornment was a single strand of pearls around her neck. Nigel found himself staring: There was something about simple clothing that made Flick glow. The reporters expected to interview a stodgy, stoop-shouldered scientist; instead, they would get a stunning corn-fed American beauty. They were bound to fall in love with her the way he had.

He caught up with Flick and said, “You look smashing. Absolutely brilliant.”

She replied with a happy grin. “Thank you, kind sir. I’ve been told that I clean up nicely.” She added, “What did you decide to wear today?”

He unbuttoned his mac.

“Perfect!” she said. “You’re the model of a friendly, trustworthy museum director. I worried that you might wear pinstripes and look like a slick politician—or worse, a sleazy lawyer.”

“Are you two ready?” Stuart asked, rubbing his hands together in obvious delight. “I may raise my fee this month for achieving such a wonderful response. The media have come in
droves.”

“I suppose I’m ready,” Flick said, “although I can feel my knees shaking.”

“And my mouth is getting drier by the minute,” Nigel put in.

“Routine preconference butterflies,” Stuart said. “Happens to everyone. Even your blooming parrot had a touch of nerves this morning. He began squawking his head off in the kitchen, so we returned him to his corner of the tearoom. That calmed him down immediately. We shall cover his cage with a tablecloth when the conference begins.”

“In that event, I shall unbound the hound.” Nigel unclipped Cha-Cha’s lead and watched him make a beeline for the tearoom—and his morning visit with Earl.

“I have more exciting news,” Stuart said grandly. “BBC Radio and BBC TV have asked for private interviews. After the news conference, Flick will escort a BBC TV reporter and his cameraperson around the museum, while Nigel has a date at the BBC Kent studios.”

Nigel’s heart skipped a beat. “You signed us up without asking?”

“That’s why you pay me the hefty fees you so often complain about,” Stuart said with a smile. “Look at the bright side—now that you have on-the-air interviews to worry about, the news conference will seem like a piece of cake.” Another smile. “Are you ready for your last-minute instructions?”

“We’re bursting with excitement.”

“I will serve as the master of ceremonies this morning.

At ten o’clock I will call the meeting to order, welcome the media, and then introduce you. I’ll also be the safety valve. Specifically, I’ll stop the conference and dismiss the media should I sense that their questions are getting out of hand.”

“Now there’s a merry thought,” Flick said.

“We in public relations expect the best but prepare for the worst.”

“Spout another cliché, and I shall
reduce
your fee,” Nigel said.

Stuart ignored the gibe and began to count on his fingers. “First—when you enter the tearoom, you’ll find that the floor has been crisscrossed with cables. Try not to trip and fall on your face. It creates a poor initial impression.

“Second—the media will have attached several additional microphones to the podium. We will have run an audio test before you arrive, so there is no need to say testing, one, two, three, four—or any such hackneyed phrase.

“Third—answer only the question you’re asked. Do not elaborate. Do not wax poetic. Do not spout off in the heat of the moment. In short, do not wander off into the horse latitudes, telling irrelevant tales that I will have to deny or explain later.

“Fourth—I plan to introduce you, using abridged versions of your official biographies. I shall emphasize that Nigel holds an MBA from the famed INSEAD in Fontainebleau, France, and was appointed director of the museum because of his considerable financial skills and experience. I shall likewise stress Flick’s doctorate in food chemistry from the equally prestigious University of Michigan. And I shall call the media’s attention to her successful books, most notably,
How to Host an English Tea.

“Fifth—and lastly—I have provided a pad and pencil for each of you on the podium. You probably won’t need them, but they’re there should you want to jot something down. Don’t worry about capturing the questions. I plan to record the entire proceedings.”

Stuart glanced at his watch. “Ah—time to get back to the preparations. One can never take enough care up front.” He began to walk away, then looked back over his shoulder. “You have well over an hour before the conference begins. Repair to the third floor, stay out of sight, do whatever it is you do. I shall call you when we need you.”

When the chubby PR man had disappeared into the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom, Flick asked, “Do you Brits always make simple things so complicated?”

Nigel rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid so. Stuart is one of our most popular types—from his stiff upper lip to the self-important swagger in his walk.”

Flick peered at his mouth. “What’s the current state of your upper lip?”

“Quivering.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Stuart’s lecture has made me feel nervous enough to throw up.” She began to laugh. Nigel enthusiastically joined in.

Three ceramic mugs clinking together made an odd-sounding toast, Flick thought, but mutual congratulations were definitely in order. The first news conference ever held at the museum had gone without a hitch. She and Nigel had answered twenty-odd questions—most of them harmless—and the ladies and gentlemen of the media had gone away happy.

“One can anticipate,” Stuart said, “that the goodwill they demonstrated today will continue when they write their stories. With luck, we shall see a flood of cheerful articles about the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum.” He raised his mug again. “You both acquitted yourselves well.”

Flick was seated with Nigel and Stuart in the tearoom at a table that overlooked the tea garden. Her mug was full of Assam tea, Nigel’s with strong black coffee, and Stuart’s with hot cocoa. The kitchen was up and running, and, more to the point, so was the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom itself. Jim Sizer’s crew had surprised everyone by striking the raised platform, rolling up the many cables, restoring the tables and chairs to their proper places, and generally returning the converted space to a proper restaurant in less than an hour. The tearoom would be ready to serve lunch—and afternoon tea—to the first group of visitors touring the museum today.