The Final Crumpet (33 page)

“Where did that infernal animal go?” Nathanial walked into the yard and made a clucking noise with his tongue. Nigel looked at Flick in time to hear her say, “That’s the crazy noise Earl makes.”

“You don’t suppose?”

“I
do
suppose.” She threw up her hands. “Olivia Hart was right, darn it. Earl is trying to call Cha-Cha. The silly parrot is obviously repeating the sound that Dame Elspeth made when she called him.”

“So how do we fix the bird?”

“It should be simple.”

“How simple?”

“All we have to do is retrain him to use a more…
convenient
signal.”

“Do you have such a signal in mind?”

“I’m thinking.”

Nigel grinned. “Please keep me informed should you make any progress.” He escorted Flick to the bottom of the long, macadam driveway, where Nate was waiting with Taffy securely attached to her lead. The three set off together on Broadwater Down.

“I thought I was out of questions,” Flick said to Nate, “but I have one left. In your experience, how…ah,
exuberant
is the British Secret Intelligence Service in protecting their secrets?”

Nigel needed a moment to grasp the import of Flick’s indirect inquiry. Could MI6 be responsible for the frightening episode in the Crescent Road Car Park and the subsequent “temporary cancellation” of the academic conference?

Nigel was not surprised when Nate answered the question from his perspective. “If by ‘exuberant,’ ” he said, “you’re suggesting that MI6 might tap my telephones or follow me around the streets of Palma—well, I see those as rather farfetched possibilities. Nonetheless, I would rather not get on their bad side. To that end, I trust you’ll be discreet with the details I’ve shared with you.”

Nigel exchanged a concerned glance with Flick. Had they managed to get on MI6’s “bad side”? Perhaps British Intelligence still considered Etienne Makepeace’s “double life” a state secret worth protecting? He and Flick had been advised—in a most threatening way—to stop seeking additional information about Etienne Makepeace and to let sleeping dogs lie. They’d been expressly cautioned that raking up the past could be dangerous.

Precisely the sort of warning one can picture Britain’s intelligence agency delivering late one night in an empty car park.

Nigel shook Nate’s hand, Flick gave him a hug, and they turned left on Frant Road.

When they were out of Nate’s earshot, Flick said, “Before you ask me ‘what do I think,’ I want to go on record that I have no flaming idea about anything. I am entirely confused. Every time I think I’ve figured out what might be happening, something else turns up and knocks me for a loop.”

“For example?”

“For example,” she said, “what kind of dingbat secret agent dabbles in sexual harassment? In other words, why would the Brits hire a spy who blatantly calls attention to himself by chasing married women and picking fights in pubs?”

“An excellent ‘for example.’ I have one, too.”

“Carry on.”

“For example,” he said, “what kind of British spy during the Cold War hires a ghostwriter to plagiarize Russian language tea journals? American, even Indian, magazines I might understand—but
Soviet
journals? The Bolshies must have known what he was doing.”

“I agree. It was more calling attention to himself, and that makes no sense at all.”

Nigel took her hand in his. “This is fun. We may have invented a new party game. Nonsensical facts about the weird life and death of Etienne Makepeace—the spy who loved tea.”

“You’ve just come up with another game,” she said excitedly. “Potential names when they make a movie about Etienne Makepeace, tea sage and spy. My choice is ‘The Man with the Golden Oolong.’ ”

“I offer ‘You Only Dunk Twice.’ ”

She stopped walking while she thought. “Drat. All I can think of is ‘Dr. Nose,’ nose being the technical term that tea tasters use for the aroma of tea.”

“I quickly counter with ‘On Her Majesty’s Secret Tea Service.’ I believe that’s sufficient for a win.”

“Who says?”

Nigel looked around. The large trees overhanging the sidewalk offered a modicum of privacy, even during the winter. He pulled Flick toward him and kissed her. He observed that she did not protest or pull away; instead, she kissed him back.

Afterwards, she looked up at him. “Polly Reid said not to ask you my question for a few days, but I’m yearning to know the answer.” She took a breath, then asked, “Can I trust you not to run off with another woman?”

“Completely. Fully. Unconditionally. Utterly. Exhaustively. In all respects. In every circumstance. Without reservation. Did I say utterly?”

“You did.”

“I’ve never been good with adverbs.”

“I wouldn’t say that. You seem to be doing fine.”

“Oh—I just thought of three more. Categorically. Thoroughly. Veritably.”

“Veritably?”

“Consider it a British idiom.”

She smiled. “I suppose that’s enough. I stand convinced that I can rely on you.”

“In that event…” Nigel kissed her again.

“That was nice,” she said. “What’s more, I just had another brainstorm. About Etienne Makepeace.”

“While I was kissing you?”

“Consider yourself an inspirational person.” She unwrapped herself from his arms. They began to walk north on Frant Road. “I think all the puzzle pieces fit together if Makepeace was a British secret agent killed by the other side.”

“Your brainstorm asserts that he was shot by the KGB?”

“That explains the mysterious Soviet pistol.”

“Okay. But why would the nefarious KGB then decide to stash Makepeace’s body in the museum’s tea garden?”

“As an object lesson for MI6, of course! The Soviets figured out that the museum was being used as a cover for British agents. They probably assumed that Makepeace’s body would be found immediately.”

“But if they wanted his corpse discovered quickly, why do such a thorough job of restoring the ground around the two Assam bushes. They did such expert work that the museum’s gardening crew never noticed the soil had been disturbed.”

“Well…”

“And why cover the body with slate tiles? Someone expended a significant effort to lug the tiles into the tea garden from outside the museum.”

“Uh…”

“And why bury the pistol and all of Makepeace’s personal effects in an antiquities storage box planted under his body?”

“This is too easy for you,” she said.

“And why bother burying him in the first place? If one wanted to deliver an object lesson to MI6, wouldn’t it be best just to prop the corpse up in the museum’s Welcome Centre kiosk?”

“Great! You’ve sent me back to ‘I have no flaming idea about anything.’ ”

Nigel thought about kissing Flick once again when his mind noted a new background noise on Frant Road. He realized it was the sound of an engine. Curiously, the sound kept growing louder—loud enough, in fact, to capture his attention. He looked up from Flick’s face in time to see a dark green minivan, driving half on the road, half on the sidewalk, roaring toward them.

Nigel wrapped an arm around Flick and leaped sideways.

He felt the bare branches of a thick bush scratch his exposed skin as the van whooshed past only inches away from Flick’s back.

“Oh my!” Her voice sounded husky. “Did someone just try to kill us?”

He nodded. “Someone driving a green Ford Transit minivan. The same van, I think, we saw the other evening.”

“Stop thinking. Just hold me tight.”

“Indeed, I will,” he said. He decided that he should also stop talking.

Twelve

F
lick rolled over and found herself face-to-face (so to speak) with Cha-Cha’s furry hindquarters. Although still half asleep, she distinctly remembered that Nigel had custody of the pooch on Friday night. How did the dog end up in her bed? And then she remembered—she wasn’t in her bed. The afternoon before, Conan Davies had insisted that both she and Nigel relocate to the museum “until we sort out this ‘Anonymous Bystander’ chap of yours.”

At first, they both had been reluctant, but Conan refused to compromise. “The two of you in one place will be easier to watch over,” he had said. “Furthermore, now that our surveillance camera network is working, the museum is a very safe place to be.” He had rolled the “r” in very. “One of my lads will be on duty all night.” Conan had escorted them to their apartments, and each had packed the essentials for a night or two away from home.

Flick wondered what time it was. She lifted her head and was able to glimpse the illuminated clock on her desk. Six forty-five a.m. She’d slept for more than seven hours.
All things considered, pretty good for spending the night on an old sofa.

Conan had offered to set up a camp cot in her office; the museum had a good supply on hand, although Conan could not explain why. “It may have had something to do with civil defense, ma’am, or perhaps an old health and safety regulation. For whatever reason, we have ten cots and a dozen blankets stored on a shelf in the basement.”

“I’ll take one of your blankets,” she had replied, “but I’ll sack out on my sofa.”

Flick sat up, stretched, and recalled that her satisfactory night had been prefaced by a highly enjoyable evening. She and Nigel had prepared a light supper in the tearoom’s kitchen—tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, as she’d suggested—and then spent several hours enjoying the club-like atmosphere of the Commodore Hawker Room. They’d broken many of the museum’s daytime rules by moving aside the crowd-control stanchions and ropes, sitting in the commodore’s personal club chairs, and snacking on grapes, Stilton cheese, and Jacobs Jaffa Cakes biscuits. They read more than they talked, but when they did talk, neither brought up the near-hit-and-run attack on Frant Road.

Flick abruptly remembered something else. They had allowed Cha-Cha to choose with whom he wanted to spend the night. She’d been pleased when he trotted off to her office.

“However, old chum,” Flick said to the Shiba Inu, “you clearly ignored our understanding. You were supposed to curl up on my newly acquired Oriental rug. The sofa’s not big enough for both of us.”

She shambled to her feet, switched on the room lights, and heaped unspoken praise on the nameless architectural hero who had decided to install a bathroom, with a real shower, in both the director’s and chief curator’s offices. Less than thirty minutes later, she was dressed for the day in a colorful knit blouse, wool slacks, black leather jacket, and matching leather boots.

“Thank you for being so patient,” she said to Cha-Cha. “Because you chose me last night, the least I can do is take you
walkies
this morning.”

The security guard on duty in the Welcome Centre kiosk provided simple directions: “Stay where I can see you on the surveillance TV monitor. The various grassy areas on the sides and the back of the building are okay, but don’t cross Eridge Road.”

“Did you hear that, Cha-Cha,” she said. “We can’t go to the Common today.”

Cha -Cha seemed to understand. He sniffed his way through the allowable terrain with commendable speediness. They were back in scarcely ten minutes. As she had hoped, she found Nigel and Conan having breakfast in the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom.

“I was just explaining to the director, ma’am,” Conan said, “that I asked the guard who went off duty at four yesterday to make a side trip on his way home and examine the…
scene
of your unhappy experience. Fortunately, the tire marks on the sidewalk were still evident.”

Nigel made a chagrined grimace. “It seems that we overestimated the danger we faced.”

Conan nodded. “The van’s left-side wheels definitely climbed on the sidewalk, ma’am—but most of the van remained in the street. It was a frightening sight, I’m sure, and not without risk; but if one is a good driver, that sort of exhibition can be performed without undue peril to the pedestrians involved. I wager that the perpetrator had fiddled with the van’s muffler to increase the engine noise. That will make the vehicle seem closer than it really is.”

“So you don’t think that the driver intended to harm us?”

“More likely, ma’am, he wanted to deliver a second message advising you and the director to stop digging into the life of Etienne Makepeace.”

“The question lurking in the background, needless to say,” Nigel said, “is who sent the message?”

“I vote for MI6,” Flick said. “If it’s really true that Etienne Makepeace worked for them forty years ago, perhaps they don’t want the fact known today.”

“Even assuming that’s so, ma’am, chasing you into the bushes strikes me as heavy-handed for MI6 in the twenty-first century. A van is a foolish means of communication—you might have panicked, jumped the other way, and been killed. And there’s always the possibility that the odd police car might have been cruising nearby. No, a van threatening to run people down smacks of vintage melodrama and ancient spy novels.”