The Final Crumpet (26 page)

Nigel felt Flick poke his arm. “This is truly weird,” she said. “I didn’t spot anything out of the ordinary.”

“Note also the blotchy appearance of his hair on top of his head,” Conan said. “I believe he is wearing a high-quality hairpiece. Mr. Maltby is likely bald in real life.”

“Now that you mention it…” Flick groaned softly. “His hair did look rather thick for a man his age.”

“Finally, his lips are protruding more than the usual distance. He may have placed another prosthesis in his mouth to change the shape of his face. A tweak here, a push there can really alter a person’s appearance. In fact, I’d wager a Scottish supper that you wouldn’t recognize Maltby if he walked past you on High Street without his makeup.”

Nigel studied the pair of images. “Assuming you’re right, Conan, where does one acquire the skills to achieve such a remarkable change?”

“I’ve been pondering that very question, sir. I can think of two possibilities: Maltby was trained as an actor—or a spy.”

“Well, whichever he is, we have to assume that ‘Martin

Maltby’ is a fictitious name.”

“Undoubtedly false, sir.”

“What about Rupert Perry?” Nigel asked.

Conan grinned. “As my father might have said, the name Rupert Perry also lacks the ring of authenticity.” He trilled the word “ring,” adding two or three extra syllables.

Flick’s mobile phone beeped. She listened for a several seconds and then said, “Thanks. I thought so, too.”

“The document?” Nigel said.

Flick nodded. “Maltby may be counterfeit, but the carbon copy he gave us is almost certainly the genuine article—the pun is intended.”

“Right! Maltby’s a fake, Perry’s a fake, the document is real—so what do we do next?”

“I’ll call Rupert Perry and arrange a meeting. If he has more old manuscripts to give us, I want them. They represent an extraordinary window into the life and times of Etienne Makepeace.”

“Absolutely not,” Nigel said. “We can’t possibly take the risk of sending you off alone to meet a man whom we know doesn’t exist.”

“I won’t be alone. You’re coming with me—remember?” Nigel turned to Conan. “What do you think?”

“Well, sir, granted that we face an extraordinary amount of uncertainty, I advise you to let this inning play out. The man who calls himself Martin Maltby has gone to a good deal of trouble to organize a meeting in London between us and Rupert Perry. I admit that I’m curious as to his intentions.”

Nigel realized he had lost the battle. “Very well then, I’ll arrange the schedule. Fire up the prepaid mobile phone.”

He pressed the
Send
button and put the phone to his ear.

“It’s ringing.”

“Rupert Perry here. To whom am I speaking?”

“Nigel Owen.”

“Satisfactory—although I expected Dr. Adams to call. Is she there with you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. She must attend any meeting we arrange.”

“Why is that?”

“She is a scientist; you are a bureaucrat—she creates exhibits; you don’t. Have I made myself clear?”

“Perfectly.”

Nigel tried to place Perry’s accent. He recognized it as European, rather than English, but he couldn’t pinpoint a country. It struck him as a curious blend of German and Polish, with perhaps a bit of Scandinavian thrown in.

“Are you prepared to come to London this afternoon? A prompt meeting will serve both our interests.”

The notion of an immediate meeting caught Nigel off guard. “You want to meet
today?”

Nigel glanced at Flick. She nodded vigorously and whispered, “Set up a meeting as soon as possible.”

“Very well then, we are prepared to meet with you later this afternoon. We can drive to London or take the train.”

“Go by train.” Nigel heard papers shuffling. “I have a current South Eastern Train timetable in front of me. Listen carefully. Take the 13:11 from Tunbridge Wells, Route Code 22. It arrives at Charing Cross Station at 14:03. Go directly from the train to the Left-Luggage Office just outside the glass doors at the main station entrance. Be patient. I will contact you when I consider it safe to do so. We will meander through the station’s inner concourse and complete our business in ample time for you to return on the 16:15 train. You’ll be back in Tunbridge Wells by 17:09.”

Nigel realized he’d forgotten to ask a crucial question.

“How will we recognize you?”

“That shan’t be a problem. I will recognize you.” He hesitated and then said, “Needless to say, I shall expect the two of you to come alone. I am familiar with all of the security personnel at your museum, including Mr. Davies. Should I see any unexpected faces in the station concourse, I will not approach you.”

The line went dead.

“My, that was fun,” Nigel said. He repeated all that Rupert Perry had said.

Conan whistled softly. “I must say, Etienne Makepeace has interesting friends. Messrs. Maltby and Perry must have researched the museum, possibly paid us a visit whilst sporting other disguises.” He frowned. “I would offer to accompany you…”

“He’d spot you immediately,” Flick said. “We can’t take the chance.”

“Well, ma’am, one must always consider the possibility that Perry will have his friends along to watch his back.”

“Even so, there’s no need for you to tag along,” Nigel said. “Charing Cross is a highly public place. We’ll be fine.”

Had he spoken too rashly?
Nigel thought about the odd conversation throughout the rest of the morning. He’d tried to work on a revised staff handbook that would clearly set forth the conditions of service and explain the museum’s policies and procedures affecting different employees. The old employee handbook had been prepared during the late 1980s and was hopelessly out-of-date. His progress had been slow because his mind often jumped back to Makepeace, then Maltby, then Perry. Nigel could picture both Makepeace and Maltby, but not Perry—and that made him question whether he’d been reckless to agree to a meeting, even in a highly public place.

He ate an early lunch with Flick in the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom. At 12:15, they walked from the museum to Flick’s apartment in the Pantiles. Neither he nor she had much to say; even Cha-Cha seemed subdued and in a mood to behave. They’d decided that Flick would take over custody of the Shiba early that day and that the dog would spend the afternoon in her flat.

Nigel waited outside Flick’s building when they reached the Lower Walk. The few minutes alone with his thoughts made him realize that the events of the past week had conspired to create the malaise he felt. The discovery of Makepeace’s body, the bank’s threat to the museum, the incident in the car park, the mysterious Messrs. Maltby and Perry, and, most of all, the loss of Flick weighed heavily on his mind. Not even a vacation somewhere warm and sunny would improve his outlook.

Nothing will change until the problems are solved.

She emerged at 12:35 dressed in tan wool slacks, a plum-colored cashmere sweater, a dark leather car coat, and comfortable-looking brown pumps—a sensible outfit, he thought, for a train trip to London. He had worn a blue blazer over khaki slacks that day. The plumy tones in his tie perfectly balanced the comparable hues in Flick’s sweater; they would look like a color-coordinated couple. Had she chosen her outfit on purpose—or had it been a happy accident?

“The pooch has plenty of food and water,” she said. “He seemed delighted to curl up on my sofa.”

“Cha-Cha has a sixth, seventh, and eighth sense. He knows precisely when discretion is the better part of valor.”

They walked to Tunbridge Wells Central Station. Nigel bought two return tickets to Charing Cross Station, and they went to the northern-bound platform. The silver and white train—actually four identical carriages with bright yellow doors—emerged from the short tunnel at the southern end of the station promptly at 1:09 p.m. for its scheduled two-minute stop in Royal Tunbridge Wells.

Nigel looked at the sleek 375-class carriages and realized that he missed the classic English trains he had ridden for three-quarters of his life. The new, self-propelled cars lacked character, he thought, and had sterile interiors: London Underground carriage meets low-fare airliner. He guided Flick aboard the train and to a pair of forward-facing, gray upholstered seats.

“Window or aisle?” he said.

“Definitely the window. I love train rides to London.

There’s so much to see along the way.”

Nigel began to relax once the train left the station. The new carriages were at least more comfortable than the railcars of his youth. He felt calmed by the restful rocking of the carriage and the muffled rumble of wheels rolling on rails. With luck, the Makepeace mess would soon be over. But what of his tattered relationship with Felicity Adams? Hadn’t he also committed a sin that she would consider unforgivable?

He risked a quick sideways look. Flick was indeed watching, with unalloyed interest, the Kentish countryside slip by. Nigel leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

He felt fingers squeezing his hand. Flick’s voice tugged at him. “Wake up, Nigel.”

He blinked. “How long was I asleep?”

“Nearly an hour. We’re crossing the Thames River.”

He looked out the window. The train was on the Hungerford Bridge. They were seconds away from arriving at Charing Cross Station.

Flick jabbed his chest. “I just noticed—you’re wearing a tie clip.”

“You aren’t supposed to notice.”

“I wouldn’t have, except I’ve never seen you wear one. If I owned a tie clip set with a diamond, I’d show it off every day.”

“It belongs to Conan. The ersatz diamond is the lens of yet another surveillance camera. The power pack and recorder are clipped to my knickers and are blooming uncomfortable. I agreed to wear them solely because Conan insists that we need a photograph of Rupert Perry.”

“How do you turn the camera on?” She held up her hand. “Whoa! Don’t tell me. I’ve decided I don’t want to know.”

“Then I’ll talk about something else.” They stepped onto the platform. “Have you ever seen a photo of Charing Cross Station taken from the other bank of the Thames?”

“Yep. A big office building sits on top of it.”

Nigel smiled. “In Britspeak, we say ‘office block.’ It’s an odd-looking structure that some say is supposed to resemble an ocean liner. Whether or not you agree, it covers part of the station’s platforms. We’re beneath it right now.”

“I guess that’s why the ceilings are so low in here. I’d feel claustrophobic if it weren’t for those enormous light fixtures.”

“The office block opened in 1992. The tenants are a firm that specializes in international accounting and consulting. I wanted to work upstairs the very first time I saw the rebuilt station.”

Perhaps I will work here when I resign my directorship and move back to London.

He drove the thought from his head. “At the risk of sounding like a tour guide,” he said, “do you know where the name ‘Charing Cross’ comes from?”

“Darn! I thought I did, but now I can’t remember.”

“I’ll give you a hint. King Edward I and Eleanor of Castile.”

“Keep hinting.”

“When she died in Nottinghamshire, Edward built a cross at every place the funeral cortege stopped on the way to Westminster Abbey. Charing Cross was the final stop before Westminster.”

“I remember now. All distances from London are measured from the Eleanor Cross, which stands upstairs in the station’s forecourt.”

“Your strong finish earns you partial credit.”

Nigel let Flick precede him into the station concourse.

She stopped for a few seconds and looked around. “Now
this
is what a famous train station should look like,” she said.

“When the station was rebuilt, the original nineteenth-century cast iron and steel framework was restored and repainted. The thousands of glass panels in the roof are new, too.” Nigel added, “Left-Luggage is over there, to the left.”

He could sense—and understand—Flick’s growing tension as they crossed the spacious concourse and walked past hundreds of people. They didn’t have a clue what “Rupert Perry” looked like, other than he was probably in his seventies. He might be another master of disguise. Perhaps he would appear as a woman?

Nigel spotted several people standing near Left-Luggage. A woman in her fifties, he guessed, reading a map of the Underground. A thirtyish couple with a little girl crying at their side. Three male teenagers, all wearing backpacks, who gestured in a way that suggested they were French. Two women of a certain age whose similar outfits suggested they were traveling together. But no elderly males.

“What do you think?” Flick asked.

“I think that we appear confident and wait.”

“How long?”

“Well, I have the mobile phone Martin Maltby gave us in my pocket. What do you say I call Rupert Perry if he doesn’t show in fifteen minutes?”

“It sounds like a plan.”

Nigel regretted that he hadn’t brought along something to read. Waiting for Perry would be difficult enough; looking confident all the while might be impossible.