The Final Crumpet (29 page)

“That’s a rather pretentious thing to say.”

“Pardon my pretensions. I’m up to my snoot in a wretched mess.”

“A mess of your own making.”

Nigel leaped out of the chair. ‘I beg your pardon!” He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Cha-Cha leap for the only available refuge in the room: The Shiba dove under the wing chair Nigel had just vacated. “Need I remind you that the Wescott loan was in the bag until Sir James Boyer learned about our ill-conceived news conference? I admit that I let Stuart Battlebridge lead me down the garden lane, but I recall that you thought talking to the media was a grand idea.”

“Baloney!” Flick underlined her expletive by raising her right index finger in a triumphant gesture. “This mess, as you call it, began when you wimped out and let Archibald Meicklejohn dictate the bank we had to use. You had the opportunity to exert your leadership, to act like a genuine museum director. Instead, you caved. And now we’re stuck with the wishy-washy Wescott Bank—not to mention James Boyer and his Kentish henchwoman, Olivia Hart.”

“Balderdash! No one in this blooming building acknowledges my leadership. Let’s not forget how you publicly announced—on your own authority and against my well-reasoned judgment—that you intended to establish a Makepeace exhibit at this museum. And look what’s happened—the subject of your new exhibit turns out to be a cad and a fraud.»

Flick let out a mighty groan. “Etienne Makepeace was England’s Tea Sage, you ninny, and this is a tea museum. We have a responsibility to tell his story—even if it turns out that he took advantage of the queen and stole the crown jewels.”

Nigel walked to the window and saw Flick’s reflection. She had moved to the opposite corner. She stood straight as a stanchion, arms crossed, glaring at him.

Your posturing has no effect on me, Dr. Adams. I am the aggrieved party this morning, thank you very much.

He looked out at the fog. Conan had been right; most of the mist had burned off, and it hadn’t yet gone nine fifteen. The busload of tourists from London would probably arrive on time. He decided to return to his office.

When he turned to leave, he saw Polly Reid standing in the doorway, holding an unfolded newspaper. She seemed hesitant to speak.

“Yes, Polly,” he said. He hoped that his voice had returned to its normal volume after his brief shouting match with Flick.

“I didn’t want to disturb you, sir; however, I expect you’ll want to see the latest issue of the
Kent and Sussex Courier
immediately.” Nigel noted that she spoke more crisply and carefully than usual. “A small news report on page 9 alleges that we are being sued because a dog in our possession killed a prizewinning ferret.”

“Oh, mercy me!” He snatched the newspaper out of her hands and began to read it. The article implied that the museum harbored a “killer dog” that gleefully murdered small mammals. “How on earth did the local rag get hold of this cheerful piece of news?” Nigel abruptly looked up. “Consider that a rhetorical question, Polly. The only possible source is Bertram Holloway, owner of the deceased ferret.”

“Actually, there’s a bit of a problem with Mr. Holloway. If he exists, I can’t find him. I did learn, however, that none of the homes surrounding the Hawker family estate are owned by a Bertram Holloway.”

“What made you check?”

“Well, sir, the very notion of a tame ferret making its way into the Hawkers’ back garden in time to be eaten by Cha-Cha doesn’t make sense to me. Lion’s Peak is one of the largest holdings in Tunbridge Wells. A hundred acres of deep woods surround the grounds, and it’s my understanding that pet ferrets do not survive long in the wild. Moreover, I remember Dame Elspeth talking about fencing in her garden to keep the rabbits away from the many expensive Dutch bulbs she planted. I fancy that a rabbit-proof fence would also deter the occasional roaming ferret.”

“Quite possibly it would…” He glanced inside the newspaper again, and then wished he hadn’t. A second look at the brief news article merely increased his annoyance. “But that raises another problem. If Bertram Holloway is the figment of someone’s imagination, who sent us the letter threatening a lawsuit?”

“I thought about that, too, sir. Upon reflection, the letter we received appears to be written by someone who has a solid grasp of legal terminology.”

“You don’t suppose…” Nigel started to say before a terrible thought gelled in his mind. “Barrington Bleasdale!” He spit the name out like a curse. “But why would our least-favorite solicitor send us a sham letter and then notify the
Courier?”

From her vantage point in the corner, Flick said, “Probably because most men are pinheads.”

“Lo, a trained scientist speaks.” This time, Nigel intentionally filled his voice with sarcasm. “I’m thrilled by your rational explanation that so neatly encompasses all the facts of our situation.” He ended by intoning,
“Most men are pinheads.”

“Yeah, and I’m thrilled by…”

Woomph!

The thunderous noise made Nigel flinch. He realized that Polly had yanked the door to the room shut with all the force she could muster.

“When the pair of you bicker—as you so often do these days—please have the courtesy to fight behind closed doors where others can’t overhear your immature drivel.” She glared first at Nigel and then at Flick. “I hoped we could avoid this summit meeting, but you two have made it inevitable. I’m going to dispense some serious advice to both of you, and I fully expect you to sack me when I finish. Now, sit down.
There.”
She pointed toward two of the wooden chairs.

Nigel sat down as ordered. He caught a glimpse of Flick.

She looked ashen-faced. He felt sure that his face had gone just as pale.

Polly towered over them like a schoolteacher lecturing two errant pupils. “Since Wednesday afternoon, the junior staff of this museum have wondered why Nigel Owen and Felicity Adams—two of the cleverest people in Tunbridge Wells—have become complete ignoramuses. Your relationship is the topic of all the water-cooler chatter in the building. As it happens, I know the answer—but because I refuse to participate in gossip, I’ve kept what I know to myself”

Nigel heard himself blither. “Very wise…chatter unfortunate…rumors bad…”

Another dose of Polly’s withering glare silenced him instantly.

“On Wednesday, I couldn’t help overhearing Felicity admit that she has a significant problem with relationships.” She aimed her scowl at Flick. “To be blunt about it, you spoke loudly enough on the third floor to ensure that most of Tunbridge Wells heard about your predicament.”

Polly wagged her finger at Nigel. “Felicity explained to you that she has a propensity for choosing men who run off with other women. She asked you a simple question: Can she trust you not to do that to her?” She added, “What was your answer?”

“Uh…well…”

“Precisely! You dithered, which obviously caught her off guard. That’s why she misinterpreted your answer.”

“What
answer?” Flick asked.

Polly traversed her wagging finger toward Flick. “You expected Nigel to say what every man you’ve ever known would have said—
Have no fear, my dear; I am as faithful as Santa Claus.”

“Well…”

“When he didn’t lie to you, you panicked.”

“Well…”

“Hold that thought.”

Nigel squirmed as Polly redirected her finger at him. “Felicity presumed that she had already lost you to Olivia Hart. And why not? Olivia is a looker. Shallow as a puddle, but extraordinarily good-looking.”

“I didn’t give Olivia Hart a second peep,” he said.

“Pull the other one, Nigel,” Polly said with a mocking frown. “I’ve seen you go goofy when she’s around. Stunning gals do that to men. Olivia would make any wife or girlfriend worry.”

He decided not to argue. What would he achieve? Better to sit quietly and let Polly get whatever was bothering her out of her system. And as for giving her the chop—well, she was much too valuable an assistant to dismiss, especially at this juncture of the museum’s history.

“Nigel,” Polly resumed, “what do you suppose happened last May when the new acting director, namely you, arrived at the museum?”

He thought for a moment, then answered warily, “I don’t get your meaning.”

“What happened, Nigel, is that the four single women who work in this building immediately became curious about you. Now, because this is a museum, the people who work here are skilled in research.” She smiled. “Can you see where I’m going with this?”

“They researched me?”

“We learned all that we could about you—down to the marginally useful fact that you have type B-positive blood.”

“Good heavens!”

“I know—an appalling invasion of your privacy. But there it is.” She thrust her face toward his nose. “Do you know what we did with the information we gathered?”

He felt a chill zip down his spine as he blithered,
“Uh
…no.”

“We treated you like a racehorse running at Royal Ascot.

We analyzed your form and estimated your handicap and concluded that Nigel Owen doesn’t have the staying power to go the distance with a woman. A fine fellow for a brief flutter, Nigel is, but not a sound bet for the long haul.”

“Blimey!” He stared at Flick. “I suppose that’s what you think about me.”

Polly answered before Flick could respond. “Of course she doesn’t! Flick loves you. However, that’s what you think about yourself Am I right?”

Nigel didn’t want to continue Polly’s interrogation, but something he could see in Flick’s eyes urged him to go on.
In for a penny, in for a pound
. He paused a few seconds to choose his words.

“Unfortunately…Flick…in the past, I have not been the sort of man a woman could rely on.”

“Quite true,” Polly said. “That being the case, why did you melt down when she put a direct question to you?”

Nigel kept looking at Flick. “You asked me to make a promise that I knew I might not be able to keep.” He heaved a sigh. “I love you too much to tell you a lie.”

He felt Polly touch his arm. He looked up at her. “All very noble of you, I’m sure,” she said, “but there’s a serious flaw in your logic. You’ve based your self-doubts on past behavior that took place—
When?
—ten years ago.”

Nigel nodded grimly. “One’s past is usually the best predictor of the future.”

“No, it isn’t. Not for you—not since you became a Christian.” Her voice filled with a kind of exhilaration that Nigel had not heard from her before. “ ‘Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ.’ Paul wrote that in his second letter to the Corinthians. Chapter 5, verses 17 and 18.”

“I hardly think that Paul had my romantic life in mind when he wrote…”

“Dish the glib retorts.” She held a hand up to his lips.

“Think about Paul’s words. Focus on what scripture is trying to tell you.” She moved even closer to him. “You’ve been changed, Nigel. But you don’t yet appreciate what’s happened to you. The old Nigel was powerless to resist when a woman like Olivia Hart began to flirt with him. The new Nigel has the capacity not to be a weak-kneed twit.” She put her hands on his shoulders. “You can make Felicity a promise and really hope to keep it. You’re still capable of sin, but now you’re also able to not sin.”

“But…but why don’t I feel that way, Polly?”

“Because the penny has yet to drop that God worked a dramatic change to your nature. Your brain remains cluttered with rubbish. Leftover guilt. Surplus shame. Superfluous self-doubt.” She leaned forward, kissed Nigel’s forehead, and patted the top of his head. “Declare the lot redundant. Let Jesus be your dustman. Ask Him to cart the muck away. He’ll do a brilliant job. And as for you, Felicity…”

Nigel heard Flick catch her breath.
Perfectly understandable—it’s her turn to be skewered.

“What?” she said softly.

“My advice to you,” Polly replied, “is to wait a day or two, then ask Nigel your question again—if you still require an answer.”

“Um
…yes, I shall,” Flick said, and followed this by a little laugh of obvious relief.

Polly moved to the door and opened it. “Hang in there, both of you. And please figure out what to do about Barrington Bleasdale. This whole business with Cha-Cha is quite disturbing.” She hesitated. “By the way, am I sacked?”

Nigel managed a shake of his head. He felt too drained to do anything else.

“Smashing!” Polly said as she left.