The Final Crumpet (17 page)

“Mathilde wanted a semblance of
closure,
as people are fond of saying today. She hoped that a court decree would put an end to any speculation that he might show up alive one day. There were, in fact, many Etienne Makepeace ‘sightings’ before the court acted.

“Solene, the middle sister, felt a curious responsibility to Etienne. She believed that his soul would not rest until he was officially declared dead.

“Coralie, the oldest of the siblings, espoused a wholly mercenary position. She wanted his assets—what little there were.”

“Little?”
Nigel’s mug nearly slipped through his fingers; he caught it before any tea spilled. “We’ve all assumed that Etienne was a wealthy man. He was regarded as a philanthropist.”

Clive chortled gently. “Heavens, no, sir. Etienne Makepeace was certainly not a philanthropist. He lent his name to charitable causes—mostly to sell more of his books—but he never donated any of his own money. It simply passed through his hands too quickly. He was by all reports a profligate wastrel who spent all that he earned on wine, women, and song.” He chortled again. “His sisters used more pungent labels for his expenditures. They believed that he left them everything he owned because he knew the paltry size of his estate would infuriate them.”

“How did Etienne become estranged from his sisters?” Flick asked.

“I asked many times but never received a proper answer. Solene told me that as Etienne became famous he also became insufferable. Coralie claimed that Etienne had ‘gone rotten,’ whatever that might mean. Mathilde said nothing—other than Etienne’s bad behavior was no one’s business now that Etienne was about to be declared dead.” He frowned at his mug of tea. “One was left with the unmistakable conclusion that Etienne did something his sisters found unforgivable.”

Nigel glimpsed Flick. She seemed fully recovered from her initial surprise. She had moved to the edge of her cushion and looked eager to ask a question.

“By any chance,” she said, “have you saved any of the files or notes from that period? They would be exceedingly useful if—ah, the museum decides to create an exhibit about Etienne Makepeace.”

Clive seemed to tremble. “The very idea of such an exhibit gives one pause. Still—museums show pictures of Attila the Hun and the mosquito that carries malaria. To answer your question, no, I don’t have any files or notes…” He began to grin. “I have something even better. Late in 1974, I hired a private investigator to collect all that he could about Makepeace’s reputation. He spent five months on the job. Because eight years had passed since Makepeace’s disappearance, people were more willing to talk about the great man’s foibles than they were in 1966. I used his report as the foundation of a legal brief that argued Etienne was the sort of man who was likely to be murdered. I planned to submit the brief should the judge require us to show that Etienne could have been in physical peril at the time he disappeared.

“The brief proved unnecessary. Kenneth Williams, an easygoing old judge who’d been a rabid fan of Etienne Makepeace, heard our petition. He spent hours eulogizing the man and focused solely on the straightforward fact that Makepeace hadn’t been seen or heard of for nearly a decade. He seemed delighted to declare him legally dead—it enabled him to play an important role in Makepeace’s life, so to speak.”

“This brief of yours…” Flick said breathlessly. “Did you keep a copy of it?”

“Certainly.” Clive’s eyes twinkled as he held up an old manila envelope. “I brought the document with me when I retired. Moreover, I’ll be delighted to provide it to you—for the modest price of a lifetime museum membership.” He made a little chortle. “Given my advanced age, that represents a trifling investment.”

Nigel glanced at Flick. She was nodding vigorously and laughing along with Clive. Nigel decided to ask the question that she seemed likely to forget.

“By any chance, Mr. Wyatt, did you learn how Etienne Makepeace became a tea expert?”

Clive’s grin faded into a thoughtful frown. “I wondered about his tea-related bona fides, too. I asked everyone I interviewed, but no one could explain how he gained his extensive knowledge. Etienne’s sisters told me they were surprised when he began writing articles about tea and books about tea—and absolutely astounded when he began speaking on the radio. They presumed he was self-taught. I finally concluded they must be right.”

Flick joined in before Nigel could comment. “I’ve reached the same conclusion…” She bounced to her feet, looking like she had a thousand more details about Etienne to discuss with Clive.

Why not let her do her thing?

Nigel stood up and moved toward a window. The rain had hardened to sleet, and the sky looked an unpromising gray.
Best not to linger too long in Billingshurst before returning to the Wells.
Then again, a nice bit of Dover sale was worth a modicum of foul-weather driving.

Nigel waited for a lull in the chatter between Flick and Clive to say, “One of our museum staff talked about a restaurant on the high street noted for its first-class Dover sole. I can’t imagine that she’s right.”

“Actually she is-in part,” Clive said. “The place she had in mind is not a restaurant, but rather a pub called The Sussex Bowman. The food is generally good.”

“A gastropub!” Nigel said. “I should have thought of that.”

“What’s a gastropub?” Flick asked.

“Combine one celebrated chef and one run-down country pub. Invent a signature dish such as Dover sale. Top with shabby but friendly décor. Voila, madam! Luncheon is served.” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost noon. What do you say we relocate your discussions to The Sussex Bowman and give the kitchen a try? My treat.”

“With pleasure!” Clive said. “Sounds wonderful!” Flick added.

Nigel smiled at them. The trip to Billingshurst had turned out much better than he had anticipated.

Flick wasn’t surprised when she awoke at six, an hour before her alarm clock was set to ring. She had fallen asleep at eight the night before and had slept so soundly that she barely disturbed the duvet. Her bedroom was dark except for a sliver of light that poked through the gap between her curtains. She knew it was cast by a street lamp on the Lower Walk. She also knew that she would never get back to sleep that morning.

Why did we eat at that miserable pub?

Nigel’s decision to have lunch at The Sussex Bowman proved to be a thoroughly bad one. They arrived at the pub to find that the “celebrated chef” had gone off on a holiday to Malta and that Dover sole was not on the menu that afternoon. They then waited more than an hour for the substitute chef to prepare a “Classic English Mixed Grill” that proved to be a disappointing platter of tough, tasteless “mystery meats.”

When they were finished eating, they found that the sleet had fallen long enough and heavily enough to make the roads perilously slick. The drive back had lasted the better part of three hours, during which time the BMW had nearly skidded off the road twice. Flick had a roaring headache when they arrived in Tunbridge Wells at six. She supposed that Nigel had one, too.

He had taken her home, planted a quick good-bye kiss, and sped off with Cha-Cha because—well, he really didn’t seem to have a good reason other than a general desire to be alone after a high-tension drive on bad roads, which she readily understood. She felt exactly the same way.

A pot of strong Assam tea had helped to dispel her headache. She climbed into bed at seven but managed to stay awake—by watching the telly for a while and reading a chapter of a mystery novel—until eight, the earliest she was willing to call it a night.

Flick levered herself out of bed the next morning an hour earlier than usual and decided to use the extra minutes productively. She answered three personal emails, paid several end-of-the-month bills she had been putting off, and vacuumed her flat—another chore she had also postponed. She had planned to make herself a proper breakfast when she finished, but as she rewound the power cord around the Hoover, she discovered that she had lost track of the time. It was nearly eight o’clock; she would have to race to get to the museum at a reasonable hour. The curating staff looked to her to establish their norms. She made it a point to be at her desk by eight thirty every morning.

Scratch breakfast—I’ll grab a snack in the tearoom kitchen.

It was after nine when she marched past the Pantiles, Clive Wyatt’s legal brief in her attaché case, visions of a jam-covered scone propelling her forward through the damp, gray mist. The mist became rain when she reached Eridge Road. Flick calculated that the closest entrance lay behind the museum, next to the loading dock. She jogged the last hundred yards and surprised herself by avoiding the major puddles along the way.

“Poor Dr. Adams! You got caught in the rain,” said the guard on duty in the Welcome Centre kiosk.

“My fault, Ted. I thought the morning would clear up. I left my umbrella at home—purposely.”

“Oh, well, one doesn’t develop an Englishman’s weather instincts overnight.”

Flick laughed and made for the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom. She slipped out of her damp Burberry and hung it on the restaurant’s coat rack.

She heard Earl before she saw him. He was squawking so purposefully at Cha-Cha that it seemed the two could communicate. Flick walked toward Earl’s big cage, thinking to pay him a brief visit—until a sight she glimpsed through the corner of her eye brought her to a rapid stop.

Nigel Owen and Olivia Hart sat close together at a table, their heads almost touching, both of them laughing. There was a pot of coffee on the end table, along with a plateful of toasted and buttered crumpets. Neither Nigel nor Olivia seemed interested in eating.

“Huhh!” Flick hadn’t intended to moan—but that was the sound that came out. For one brief instant, she wondered if she could turn and run before Nigel saw her.

Too late! He’s looking at me.

“Flick! I searched
everywhere
for you. Olivia has brought interesting news.” He patted the empty chair next to him. “Come! Join us.”

She peered at Nigel as she sat down. He certainly seemed pleased enough to see her. And yet, she could see a dyspeptic look behind his brilliant smile. What was going on?

“Has Sir James changed his mind?” Flick asked.

Olivia chuckled. “He never changes his mind. What does vary is his level of enthusiasm. He’s bubbling with anticipation about your investigation. He told me last evening that he can’t wait to read your report and hear your presentation. I wanted to tell you that immediately.”

Flick willed herself to nod and smile.
Especially because you now had an excuse to drive all the way from Maidstone to see Nigel.

Olivia talked on. “However, we do have one itty-bitty change in plans.”

“Which is?”

“The tentative presentation date I offered you on Monday won’t work because Sir James will be in France on a business trip. We have to bring your meeting forward several days. You’ll meet with Sir James next Monday, five days from today, at fifteen hundred hours—at our headquarters in London.”

Five days? Ridiculous.
She glanced at Nigel and straightaway understood his sour visage. He, too, realized that they could not possibly meet the bank’s unworkable schedule.

Ah well. We’ll have to sort that out later.

“May I have a crumpet?” Flick asked. “I haven’t eaten anything this morning.”

“Please do,” Olivia slid the plate toward Flick. “They look too scrumptious to waste.” She added conspiratorially, “I love crumpets, but I can’t eat them—they go to my hips in milliseconds.”

For a reckless moment, Flick considered applying them directly to Olivia’s hips by pushing the plate into her lap. But she also thought that Chef Alain Rousseau’s delightful crumpets were too good to waste. He somehow transformed a simple batter of flour, salt, sugar, yeast, and milk into a chewy pancake to die for. Well—“pancake” only in the sense that each blob of batter cooked on a heated grill, enclosed by a metal ring to keep the crumpet round.

Flick grabbed the largest crumpet, offered a weak smile to counter Olivia’s aristocratic gaze, and took an experimental bite. When everything went right, the top of a crumpet was dotted with tiny holes that filled with melted butter…