The Final Crumpet (28 page)

“I have a question,” Flick said. “Why tell us this now?”

Perry heaved a deep sigh. “Maltby and I did what we did when we were young and hungry. We had no regrets back then, but now—forty years later—it galls us to think that Etienne Makepeace will have his reputation restored. What pains us most is the idea that a museum of your caliber plans to honor the fool with an exhibit. We simply can’t let that happen. Martin and I have reached our golden years. This is a final gesture—a way to make amends. We’re willing to pay the price of making our past sins known so that the world will finally learn the truth about Etienne Makepeace.”

“When Etienne Makepeace disappeared, what did you think happened to him?”

Perry smiled. “Oh, we assumed the absolute worst—that he’d been murdered by one of the many husbands Etienne had cuckolded over the years.” His smile faded. “That was Etienne’s hobby. He sought out married women, because he had no interest in long-term relationships of any kind.”

Perry pushed back his chair and stood. He slipped the schoolmaster’s satchel off his shoulder and handed it to Nigel. “Etienne Makepeace was a nasty piece of work, Dr. Adams. You will ultimately decide whether or not to create an exhibit that honors him. Martin Maltby and I understand that. All we can do is offer up evidence that reveals his true character.”

“We might have more questions…”

“Use the mobile phone. Leave a message if I don’t answer immediately.” He gave a curt bow and picked up his cup of coffee. “Until we meet again.”

Perry left the coffee shop quickly. Flick watched him disappear into the crowd of people walking through the concourse.

“Did you believe him?” Nigel asked.

“Yes.”

“Me, too. He may have a phony name, but what he said had a ‘ring of authenticity.’ ”

“You do a good Scottish accent.” She added, “Where can we find a Russian translator?”

“You want to double-check?”

“We have a saying back in Pennsylvania—trust everyone, but cut the cards.”

Nigel grunted. “A wise philosophy—especially with someone who may be wearing a sophisticated disguise. Which reminds me…”

Nigel used his thumb to switch off the tie-clip camera.
Click.
He murmured a few words too quietly for Flick to make sense of them.

“Pardon,” she said.

“I was thinking about one of my favorite sayings, a quotation from Shakespeare they taught us in business school. ‘Things without remedy should be without regard; what is done, is done.’ It’s from
Macbeth.”
He winked at her. “And this time I’m utterly certain about the source.”

She nodded, not sure where Nigel’s thought would take the conversation.

“The idea,” he went on, “is that it’s foolish to live in the past. We can’t change what happened—and what’s done is done.”

“Sounds right to me.”

“Except you and I are all wrapped up in the past this week. Things that happened years ago came to life again with the power to change our future. What’s done is
not
done.” He shook his head. “We seem to be ignoring Willy Shakespeare’s advice.”

Flick looked away from Nigel, toward the bustling concourse.

Is he talking about the museum or about us?

Ten

N
igel gazed out the window at the syrupy, gray fog that had wrapped itself around Tunbridge Wells. He decided that the mist looked thicker and darker viewed from the former Hawker family suite. No surprise, really. The suite was on the second floor of the museum, directly beneath his office, and thus closer to the ground.

“Any idea when this pea-souper might lift?” he said to Conan Davies, who was completing the finicky task of affixing a strip of double-sided sticky tape the length of the long wall opposite the window.

“I don’t doubt the fog will be long gone before we open at ten, sir.”

“One hopes so. Fridays are usually among our busiest days. Today is especially promising, because we have another large tour group coming down from London this morning.”

Conan grunted—rather indifferently, Nigel thought. The chief of security had focused all his attention on keeping the sticky tape at a uniform height of sixty inches and parallel to the floor. He clearly wasn’t bothered by the potential impact on the museum should a party of twenty-five Czech tourists decide to cancel. Nigel sighed. He and Flick were probably the only employees of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum who fretted about revenues.

The rest of the staff were in for a rude awakening. For the next ten years, the museum would have to scramble to repay the loan from Wescott Bank—assuming, of course, that the results of Flick’s accelerated investigation satisfied Sir James Boyer.

Think positively. We’re going to get the loan.

Thirty-two million pounds! A princely sum for a small institution. To be repaid, with interest, at approximately four million pounds per year. More than three hundred thousand pounds per month. And no longer could they rely on the largesse of the Hawker family or the generosity of the well-heeled Hawker Foundation.

We’re on our own—like most other museums.

Nigel shuddered. Like other museums, they’d be required to hold fund-raising campaigns, sell annual memberships, host academic conferences—generate revenues through all possible means. Every pence became significant. Thus, they couldn’t afford to lose even one tour group that might spend money in the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom and the museum’s gift shop.

None of this tumult would be necessary if genetics hadn’t let the Hawker family down.

Nigel surveyed the nearly empty Hawker family suite. Every item of decent furniture used by Mary Hawker Evans and later by Dame Elspeth Hawker had been distributed among the curating staff, leaving three uncomfortable wooden chairs, a battered metal table, and a lumpy upholstered wing chair that no one wanted. Flick had claimed the Oriental carpets for her office. He had commandeered the pictures on the walls. The now-bleak office testified to the start of a new era—the surviving Hawker heirs had all but disconnected the Hawker family from the museum.

Nigel presumed that Harriet Hawker Peckham and Alfred Hawker would be the last generation of Hawkers, since they were childless and well into middle age. The two siblings, both scrawny, had limp handshakes, weak eyes, narrow noses, and mousy hair on the verge of going gray. What they lacked in charm, they amply made up for in avarice and stinginess. With luck, Nigel thought, he would have to see them only once more: when the museum consummated the deal to purchase the Hawker collection of antiquities. After that, should the younger Hawkers ever ask for accommodations at the museum, he would scrounge a morsel of space for them—in a basement storeroom.

Ah well. No use crying over spoiled Hawkers.

“How does this arrangement strike you, sir?” Conan asked. Nigel looked at the back wall. Conan had hung two
groupings of photographs—a total of thirteen in all—on the strip of sticky tape. It had been his suggestion to create an “Incident Room,” as he called it, in the now-vacant office. “A place to display the evidence,” he’d said, “where we can meet and discuss our conclusions.”

Nigel moved closer. The leftward grouping included nine photographs of Etienne Makepeace, four of which were the surveillance shots borrowed from Dorothy McAndrews. The rightward grouping consisted of paired images of Martin Maltby and Rupert Perry, one “normal” and one “filtered” to reveal the disguises they had worn. Nigel felt a surge of pride. “His” pics of Rupert Perry were sharp and perfectly centered; they provided clear evidence that Perry had camouflaged himself with a wig, contact lenses, and facial makeup.

“Conan, you have a fine eye for wall décor,” Nigel said.

“Why, thank you, sir.” The tall Scot smiled jubilantly. “There’s plenty of room left on the wall for Dr. Adams to post the documents she’s collected.” He appraised his handiwork once again and gave what Nigel took to be a satisfied nod. “Well, I’d best get back to my office and read more instruction manuals. Our network of surveillance cameras will be fully operational by the end of the day. My lads and I have to learn how to use all the gadgets and thingummies.”

Nigel perused the photographs after Conan left. Did any of them count as “evidence”? And would it make an iota of difference if every piece of paper they’d collected during the week were hanging alongside? All the so-called facts about Etienne Makepeace they’d gathered told them nothing new about his relationship to the museum.

He felt Cha-Cha thump against his leg. A moment later, Flick bounded into the room and said, “I’ve had a brainstorm.”

“We can certainly use one.”

“Look at this image.”

“It’s a life-size picture of a cat. One of ours, I suppose.” He made a vague gesture toward the wall. “Flick, we have to talk about our investigation.”

“And so we shall—
after
I tell you what I did. I turned Hannah Kerrigan loose on Maltby and Perry.”

“I haven’t a clue what you just said.”

“This image I just showed you didn’t come from a camera. Hannah made it—with Photoshop.”

She lifted the photograph as high as her chin; Nigel looked at it. “I repeat,” he said. “It’s a picture of a cat. Plush blue fur, big orange eyes—a British Shorthair.”

“Exactly. Except Hannah created it from a photo taken a couple of years ago. She used her retouching skills to transform a kitten into a full-grown cat.”

Nigel gave up trying to make sense of the muddle. “Okay. And your point is?”

“I’ve asked her to do the same thing with Maltby and Perry.”

“Turn them into cats?”

“No, silly! Use Photoshop to peel away their disguises. She thinks it’s possible. She learned how to use the program to retouch photographs. You know—soften wrinkles, eradicate age spots, lift sagging muscles.” Flick pointed at the pairs of photographs taped to the wall. “I gave Hannah copies of the Maltby and Perry surveillance images. She’ll try to eliminate their wigs, wipe the makeup off their faces, and remove any prosthetic devices.”

“To what effect?”

“We’ll know what the real Maltby and Perry look like. We may be able to identify who they are and then figure out why they wore disguises and used phony names.”

“And what happens, pray tell, if we do identify them?”

“We’ll be a giant step closer to understanding this mess.” Nigel dropped into the wing chair.
Crikey. She hasn’t twigged to the depth of the crisis we face.

“Flick, assuming that you’re able to identify Maltby and Perry…” he said calmly. “So what?”

She moved closer to him. An astonished glower had replaced her now-vanished smile. “So what? I can’t believe you said that. Martin Maltby and Rupert Perry were contemporaries of Etienne Makepeace. They knew him. They’re living links to a man who died forty years ago. For all we know, they’re the
only
people still alive who can answer our questions about Makepeace.”

“Or…they could be two barmy eccentrics who enjoy dressing up in toupees and makeup.”

“You heard Rupert Perry’s story. You said you believed him.”

Nigel sighed. “Granted…I believe his long-winded tale about ghostwriting tea articles. But he said nothing to suggest that he or Martin Maltby have any knowledge about Makepeace’s relationship to this museum.”

“Well, I have no doubts that they do.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“Call it a hunch, a gut feeling.”

“Well, at least you reached your conclusion without tarot cards or a crystal ball.”

Nigel regretted his words immediately; he hadn’t meant to ridicule Flick. Fortunately, Flick seemed more exasperated than annoyed. “What’s with you this morning?” she asked. “You don’t usually show up for work in a melancholy mood.”

“I’m not melancholy—I’m on edge. We have fewer than three days to satisfy Sir James Boyer’s demands for information. I fear that we won’t be able to do it.”

“Three days is plenty of time to flesh out our understanding of how Etienne Makepeace was connected to the museum.”

“You seem to have forgotten that you promised Olivia Hart the earth. Lord knows what you had in mind, but you assured her that we’d be able to explain why Etienne Makepeace was shot in the museum and buried in our tea garden. Sir James expects to get the impossible because you said we would deliver it—in person, no less.”

“I didn’t hear you argue with me.”

“Too true. Your promises sounded brilliant at the time. I was happy to hear them. It’s a pity we can’t fulfill the commitments you made.”

“Who says we can’t? We know the motive behind Makepeace’s murder.”

“Spare me the nebulous jealous-husband theory. I don’t believe it, and I doubt that Sir James will, either. We have no names, we have no dates, and we have no
facts
to support our conjectures.” He waited for Flick to respond; when she didn’t, he went on. “We can’t even explain how ‘Mr. Jealous Husband’ gained access to our tea garden. Candidly, it’s difficult to accept that anyone connected to this museum back then was married to a wanton barmaid.”