The Final Crumpet (23 page)

Nigel dropped back into in his chair and glanced at Flick. “Well, now we know what the man in the van meant by his ‘capacity to influence the future of the museum.’ He seems to have the ability to injure our business.”

Giselle said, “Are you acquainted with this person who calls himself ‘Anonymous Bystander’?” Her voice and her face both expressed the puzzlement she clearly felt.

“We met him last night,” Flick said. “Well—almost met him”

Before Giselle could ask a clarifying question, Nigel said to her, “We don’t know who he is—only that he represents a real threat to the museum. Nonetheless, I suggest that you follow the advice in his email message. Call Professor Garrett, explain that we have every confidence that our garden will be open to visitors by February, and throw in the promise of a discount, should we be wrong.”

Giselle paused a moment. “Yes, a discount seems appropriate under the circumstances,” she finally said, “but not fifteen percent. That would cut too deeply into our profits. He ordered a plain afternoon tea with scones for his group. I will offer a free upgrade to our deluxe cream tea and negotiate from there.”

Nigel started to laugh, swallowed hard, and managed to produce a sound that resembled a weedy cough. Giselle Logan would go far. He envisioned her at the helm of a London hotel in a few years, or possibly overseeing a posh club.

“Press on, Giselle,” he said. Then to Flick, “Let’s go see Conan Davies.”

As Nigel expected, they located Conan in his basement office. He was fiddling with the controls of a computer monitor and seemed in high spirits—no worse for the wear for receiving Flick’s early morning telephone call.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sir.” Conan gave them each a crisp military salute and waved toward the visitor’s chair on either side of his desk. “Three of our new surveillance cameras are operational, and a fourth will be on-line within the hour. The ‘Anonymous Bystander’ will find it difficult to sneak up on us today.”

Nigel looked at the screen. Three small images showed the visitors’ car park, the area surrounding the front door, and the interior of the Commodore Hawker Room, on the ground floor. “Regrettably,” he said, “our nameless interloper has already come and gone.”

“No!”

Nigel marveled—as he often did—that Conan could transform “no” into a three-syllable word. For some mysterious reason, Conan’s Scottish brogue usually sounded thicker in the morning.

“Conan, you are
au courant
with what happened to us in the car park last evening—correct?” The big man nodded; Nigel went on. “There are four other things you need to know. First, the chief curator and I are under significant pressure to complete—in record time—a detailed investigation into Etienne Makepeace’s connection to this museum. Second, although you may find it hard to believe, Detective Inspector Pennyman of the Kent Constabulary has volunteered to assist us with
our
inquiries. Third, the initial stages of our investigation uncovered some rather unpleasant information about England’s Tea Sage. And fourth, we learned this morning that ‘Anonymous Bystander’ poses a credible threat to the museum.” Nigel took a deep breath. “Sit back, and we will tell you a convoluted story.”

Twenty minutes later, Conan Davies said, “Let me summarize the relevant details, sir. A jealous husband—a man somehow linked to the museum—may well have murdered Etienne Makepeace for good reasons. We need to move ahead with our investigation to satisfy Wescott Bank, but a man using the alias ‘Anonymous Bystander’ has warned us to let sleeping dogs lie. Consequently, we are between a rock and a hard place, because both parties have the power to inflict harm upon us.”

“Well done!” Nigel said. “Your précis demonstrates Scottish thrift at its finest.”

Conan seemed to blush at the compliment. He cleared his throat and said, “I believe you are absolutely right in your decision to explain the circumstances to DI Pennyman. He seems a forthright fellow—I trust his judgment. We definitely want the first incident to be on record should there be a second.”

“Now there’s a comforting thought.” Nigel unclipped his mobile phone from his belt. “Does anyone know Pennyman’s telephone number?”

“I have his card,” Flick offered.

“Good.” Nigel handed the mobile to Flick. “He’s your friend and confidante.”

Flick sighed. “You’re right, of course.” She pushed the buttons.

Nigel struggled to make sense of the side of the conversation he could hear:

“Detective Inspector Pennyman, please.”

“I see. Can you tell me where he is?”

“Okay. Then when will he be back?”

“Ah. Then how can I reach him?”

“No. There isn’t anyone else with whom I would like to speak. I need to talk to DI Pennyman.”

“I understand he’s unavailable. Do you have a mobile phone number?”

“Well, I’m sorry, too.”

Flick ended the call. She made a face and uttered in what Nigel thought to be a wholly credible accent from the south of England: “DI Pennyman been called away although I can’t say to where. Nor can I tell you when he will return. And no way will I give you his mobile number.”

“Odd for him to be out of pocket,” Nigel said. “I presumed he was actively involved in the Makepeace murder investigation.”

“He was definitely involved when we spoke on Monday afternoon,” Flick said.

“He still might be, ma’am,” Conan said. “Mr. Makepeace traveled throughout England. Perhaps DI Pennyman’s inquiries took him to another city.”

“Good point,” Nigel said. “If so, that puts a full stop to any notion of cooperating with the peelers—at least until Pennyman returns to Tunbridge Wells.”

“Not necessarily, sir,” Conan said. “What about that policewoman who accompanied him on all his visits to the museum?”

“Detective Constable Sally Kerr,” Flick said. “I could try her.”

“Do it!” Nigel turned to Conan. “We’ll use your speakerphone. Then we can listen to two people talking.”

Flick pulled her chair closer to a starfish-shaped telephone atop Conan’s desk and dialed the main number she found listed on Pennyman’s card.

“Kent Police.”

“Detective Constable Kerr, please.”

“Putting you through.”

“DC Kerr speaking. Good morning.”

“Detective, this is Felicity Adams, from the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum. I have been…
ah,
cooperating with DI Pennyman.”

“Yes, ma’am. The detective inspector has told me of his arrangement with you.”

“Well, there’s something I’d like to report. A curious confrontation in a car park.”

“Does it pertain to Etienne Makepeace’s death?”

“It seems closely related.”

“In that event, tell me.” She added, “DI Pennyman has asked me to relay any new developments in the case to him.”

“Ah, then you know where he is.”

The policewoman seemed to waver. “I expect I can share his location with you,” she said, after a brief interval. “The detective inspector is in Scotland, pursuing a lead related to a possible suspect.”

Nigel flashed a “thumbs-up” sign at Conan. The chief of security responded by raising his arms in victory—and accidentally produced a clanking noise with his chair. Flick held a finger up in front of her lips. Nigel winced; DC Kerr could hear any sounds they made.

Kerr went on, “I can’t say any more. Now, tell me about your confrontation.”

“Last night, Mr. Owen and I attended an office party on Monson Road in Tunbridge Wells. At approximately ten fifteen, a man driving a green Ford Transit van accosted us. He demanded that we stop seeking additional information about Etienne Makepeace and warned us to ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ We’re confident that he is the same man who submitted an anecdote about Makepeace to our Web site. He signed his name as “Anonymous Bystander.’ ”

“Did you report the incident to the local police?”

“No. We don’t want to create any more public hoopla that will bring reporters to the museum. In fact, we don’t want the details of what happened known by anyone other than you and DI Pennyman.”

“Well, your report is rather sketchy, but I’ll pass it on to the detective inspector.”

“Please also tell him that two sources have told us Etienne Makepeace was threatened by a jealous husband not long before he disappeared.”

Nigel heard a distinct change in the tone of Kerr’s voice.

“Uh…
very interesting…
uh,
who provided that tidbit of in formation?” Nigel could also hear a pencil scratching frenetically; Detective Constable Kerr had begun to take copious notes.

“Our first source was the solicitor who represented Makepeace’s heirs in the court proceedings that declared him legally dead. Our second was ‘Anonymous Bystander.’ ”

“Most interesting. Did either provide a name for the…
alleged
wronged spouse?”

“No. The full extent of our information is that Makepeace made inappropriate advances toward a barmaid at a local pub and that her husband intervened.”

“Fancy that. Astonishing.” DC Kerr took several breaths.

“This ‘Anonymous Bystander’ of yours seems to have a rather vivid imagination. I can’t imagine who he is and where he learned…I mean,
what
would cause him to act in such a curious manner?”

Nigel glanced at Flick. Her pleased expression told him that she, too, had recognized DC Kerr’s late-blooming evasiveness. The policewoman was trying hard not to reveal the obvious:

The police, too, knew about the legendary jealous husband. More to the point, they clearly considered the legend a serious possibility.

“Would you like me to prepare a written summary for DI Pennyman?” Flick asked.

“Why, yes—if you wouldn’t mind. I feel sure he’ll be interested in everything you have to report. Thank you for your call.”

DC Kerr rang off.

“She didn’t give you a chance to say good-bye,” Nigel said.

“Or the opportunity to ask her where to send the ‘written summary,’ ” Flick said. “So—what do you think?”

Nigel smiled. “The same thing you do. The police are trying to identify the man who threatened Makepeace in the pub. The detective constable was rattled to find out that we knew about him—and she can’t wait to contact Pennyman and share the news.”

“Hello, hello!” Conan pointed to the surveillance camera monitor. “What have we here?” He pulled his keyboard close and tapped a few keys. A single image filled the monitor screen. A title along the bottom read,
Overview: Eridge Road Entrance.

Nigel peered at the screen. “What we have is a young man, in his early twenties I estimate, standing at our front door. Probably a museum visitor who doesn’t know our winter opening hours.”

“You could be right, sir,” Conan said.

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

“Well, our new cameras may give us more information before we have to decide.” He pressed other keys; the image changed to
Wideview: Eridge Road-Looking Toward North
.

Nigel squinted. “Is that a motorbike resting against the
No Parking
sign?”

“Indeed it is.” Conan used the computer mouse to adjust the focus. “If I were a betting man, I’d wager the young man is a local messenger who chose to ignore the large sign out front that clearly explains all deliveries should be made to the service entrance at the rear of the building.”

Nigel and Flick said, “Dorothy McAndrews’s photographs!” in perfect synchronism.

“I’ll be right back,” she said excitedly.

Nigel watched through the office’s glass wall as Flick sprinted out of view, up the staircase. When he looked back at Conan, he found him smiling.

“A fine lass she is, sir. You’re a lucky man.”

“Undeservedly lucky.” Nigel quickly changed the subject. “I can see how these new cameras will improve our security.”

Conan grinned. “Not by half you haven’t, sir. Capturing a simple image is child’s play. We look forward to showing you all the spiffy things a modern surveillance system can do.”

Nigel groaned to himself. He might have to sit through another round of science fair demonstrations by Conan Davies and Niles Garwood.