The Final Crumpet (38 page)

“Of course,” she answered.

“You talked about establishing a quid pro quo earlier. Why were you prepared to keep our secrets secret?”

“Because the pair of you worked so diligently to send us messages, we presume that you have a sound reason for wanting to discourage an exhibit about Etienne Makepeace.”

Flick glanced at Bertie. He seemed wholly satisfied with her explanation. She made a show of stirring her cup of tea. There was no need to tell them that she had thought of the phrase because DI Pennyman had offered her a reciprocal arrangement a few days earlier. Besides, “quid pro quo” had such a charming ring to it.

The room grew quiet. Flick realized that everyone was looking at her expectantly.
Showtime.
She took a deep breath and began.

“Let’s start with the secrets we know, shall we? The first of these is that Etienne Makepeace worked for MI6. He was a British intelligence agent.”

Bertie made a soft groaning sound; Kolya began to chuckle. “It is perfectly true,” the Russian said, “that Makepeace
appeared
to work for MI6. In fact, he was on
my
payroll. First and foremost, England’s Tea Sage was a Soviet spy. His code name was
Chai.”
His chuckle became a deep, rumbling laugh.

Flick heard Nigel cough and Conan huff She herself uttered a slight squeak of surprise.

“Blimey!” Nigel exclaimed. “Are you saying that Etienne Makepeace was a double agent?”

Bertie grimaced. “The man turned out to be perfidy personified. Of course, we had no idea at the time.”

“By ‘we,’ ” Flick said, “you mean MI6.”

Bertie nodded. “The Secret Intelligence Service. I was a section head during the 1960s. Who could have guessed that Makepeace was working for the Russkies? A shame, really, he was a perfect match after I organized the…
activities
at the tea museum.”

“That was your idea?”

“Indeed it was.” Bertie nodded again. “A grand idea, too, until Makepeace betrayed us. All of the credentialed agents were known to the KGB before they left England.”

“I heard that one of them scored an intelligence coup.”

Bertie rolled his eyes. “Ah, yes. The so-called Soviet nuclear city…”

Kolya jumped in. “We took many of those pictures in the back alleys of Birmingham and Leeds.”

“He’s joking, of course.”

“Okay. The back alleys of Minsk and Pinsk.” Kolya laughed again. “Now you understand why MI6 had Makepeace killed. When they learned he was a double agent loyal to us, they panicked. The Brits didn’t want another spy scandal just three years after the defection of Kim Philby to the Soviet Union. So ‘MI6 done him in,’ as my cleaning lady might say, then disposed of the inconvenient corpse in your museum’s tea garden.” He bent his fingers into the shape of a pistol.
“Bang!
Good-bye, Mr. Makepeace.”

“We did no such thing,” Bertie countered. “This is a civilized country. We would have arrested Makepeace—given him a show trial—embarrassed the Russians. It’s now clear to me that the KGB
eliminated
him.”

“Think, Bertie! Use your British noggin. Why would we kill one of our most effective operatives?”

“Probably because Makepeace was as mad as a March hare. He’d gone round the bend, become too unstable to rely on.”

“Tufta!”
Kolya made a dismissive gesture. “Nonsense! I keep telling you, but you don’t believe me. We were
delighted
when Etienne began to pinch ladies’ bottoms and make a fool of himself. We hoped that his actions would embarrass MI6.”

Bertie spoke to Flick. “In recent days, this has become a point of significant disagreement between us. As you can see, we have agreed to disagree.”

Flick fought to maintain what she hoped was a noncommittal expression. On top of her surprise to learn that Etienne Makepeace had betrayed Britain during the Cold War, she also realized that neither Bertie nor Kolya understood how—and why—Makepeace had died. How they would react, she wondered, when they learned the truth?

“When did the Soviets ‘turn’ Mr. Makepeace?” she asked. “I believe that’s the correct term.”

Bertie offered another sorrowful groan.

Kolya smiled. “The Brits
never
turned Etienne Makepeace. I created him. He was my idea. A spy designed to penetrate the British gentry. What better person than an expert on tea? He soon became our pipeline to Britain’s upper crust. He went to parties, met influential people, and picked up many tidbits, useful intelligence. An amazing success, if I say so myself.” He lifted his hand, palms outward. “Alas, he became far more famous than I intended him to—and the worst aspects of his personality emerged.”

Kolya went on. “It was also my idea to have Makepeace offer himself to MI6 as a potential agent. Naturally, they clutched him to their collective bosom. The rest, as they say, is history. Once welcomed to your fine museum, he had the run of the place. He spent time with the then-chief curator, so he was able to learn who was doing real research and who wasn’t—and he even used your library to find obscure tea publications to plagiarize.”

“And one day Makepeace vanished,” Flick said.

Bertie nodded. His voice became somber. “It was during the massive national search for Etienne Makepeace that we discovered his link to the KGB. We realized at once that he had betrayed us. Of course, I terminated every project that he’d touched. I immediately severed MI6’s relationship with the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum.”

“We thought it happened the other way around,” Kolya said. “We assumed that Makepeace disappeared
after
the Brits learned he was really a KGB agent.”

Flick peered first at Bertie, then at Kolya. “I presume you used to be enemies during the Cold War.”

“Deadly enemies,” Bertie said.

“Without doubt,” Kolya agreed.

Flick noted that they looked affectionately at each other. “And yet, you’ve become friends. How did that happen?”

Kolya led off. “We bumped into one another about ten years ago. Literally. In a car park in Tunbridge Wells. I pulled out of a parking spot and dented Bertie’s fender. We recognized each other and exchanged small talk.”

Bertie took over. “We discovered that we lived a short drive apart, we began to meet socially, and we soon became good friends.”

“And why not?” Kolya finished up. “We’re two over-the-hill Cold Warriors with much in common.” Another laugh. “What’s more, we can talk to each other without worrying about the Official Secrets Act. I know all his secrets; he knows some of mine.”

Flick was about to ask another question when Nigel, who had been quietly sipping his coffee, found his voice. “The discovery of Makepeace’s body seems to have caught both of you by surprise.”

“I was astounded,” Bertie said. “For many years, I believed that Etienne had disappeared into the USSR after his triumph at the museum—much like Kim Philby. But when you discovered his body, I realized that the KGB had assassinated him.”

Kolya snorted. “I have explained to you a thousand times, we did nothing of the sort.” He added. “If we had, his body never would have been found.”

“I posed my question awkwardly,” Nigel said. “What I meant to ask is, why were you both upset by the discovery of Makepeace’s remains?”

Flick felt startled by the coincidence. This was the precise question she had planned to ask Bertie and Kolya.

“I would have thought the answer is obvious,” Bertie said. “The sudden reappearance of Etienne Makepeace turned a spotlight on things that neither of us wanted England to remember.”

“Such as?” Nigel prompted.

Bertie sighed. “What would the reaction be should the general public learn that members of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service had conscripted the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum to support spying on the Soviet Union?”

Flick answered first. “Outrage.”

“Outrage…”
Bertie echoed, softly. “People today don’t understand the challenges we faced during the Cold War. At my stage of life, the very last thing I need is to become a lightning rod for public indignation, or more likely a scapegoat. I’d be pilloried, blamed for everything—for turning England’s Tea Sage into a spy, for causing his disappearance, even for failing to tell his kin what I knew at the time he disappeared.”

“No doubt Bertie is right,” Kolya said. “You Brits are remarkably touchy about things that happened long ago. I’ve come to enjoy my comfortable ‘English squire’ lifestyle; I have friends throughout the neighborhood. But I doubt that my neighbors would remain cordial should they learn about my role as a Soviet spymaster in Britain. I, too, would be blamed for helping to destroy one of England’s national heroes.”

Kolya went on. “There is also another minor matter…” Flick saw him begin to blush. “I fell in love with Tunbridge Wells when I was overseeing Makepeace. It is so conservative, capitalistic,
English.
Naturally, it was the first town I thought of when MI6 asked me where I wanted to live after I defected. Fortunately, I had…
accumulated
some personal funds in a Caribbean bank which enabled me to purchase Briar Wood Farm.”

Flick managed to stifle her laugh. Koyla had undoubtedly stolen from the KGB for years. He, too, did not want a ‘spotlight’ illuminating the things he had done during the 1960s. She couldn’t stop herself from saying, “ ‘Things without remedy should be without regard; what is done, is done.’ ”

“Exactly! I wish the English would see ‘the Scottish play’ performed more often.”

Flick retook control of the conversation. “How did you attempt to dim the spotlight that Etienne Makepeace’s reappearance had turned on?”

“I thought we were quite clever, actually,” Bertie’s voice bubbled with pride. “I conceived our plan. It had two distinct objectives.” He held up this thumb. “Our first goal was to provide the police—and the media—with a credible explanation for Makepeace’s death that had absolutely nothing to do with the MI6 or the KGB. I concluded that the obvious solution was to offer the authorities a jealous husband.” He gave a self-satisfied nod. “We understand that the police and the media have taken quite a fancy to the case we’ve built.”

Flick gazed at the floor.
Well, most of the police are happy with the jealous-husband theory.

“If I may ask a question, sir,” Conan said. “How did you invent a jealous husband?”

“We didn’t need to,” Bertie said. “We had at our disposal a genuine husband that Etienne Makepeace had made jealous. His name was Hugh Doyle.”

Flick cringed to hear Doyle’s name.
Oh well, I didn’t break my word.
She hoped that DI Pennyman would believe her.

Bertie continued. “Hugh Doyle was a bricklayer, a workman who actually helped to build your museum. In his off hours, he provided muscle for a local hoodlum and took part in a hijacking or two.” He glanced at Kolya. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

Kolya nodded. “I was forced to learn more than I wanted to about Hugh Doyle to get him off Etienne’s back. The man was an authentic villain.”

Flick let herself smile. Pennyman had said the same thing about Doyle.

Kolya kept speaking. “Doyle had a wife, a tarty barmaid who worked at a now-defunct pub in Tunbridge Wells. I forget the name…”

“The Horse and Garter,” Bertie offered.

“Thank you, The Horse and Garter. The least-pleasant pub in Tunbridge Wells. Providentially, it was demolished years ago.” He frowned, seemingly plagued with an unpleasant memory. “In any event, Etienne chanced to stop in at The Horse and Garter. He met Clara, and nature took its course.”

“Is that when Doyle threatened Makepeace?” Nigel asked. “We received information that a jealous husband had confronted Makepeace in a pub…” Nigel blinked. “Whoops! I forgot that
you
sent the message. You’re ‘Anonymous Bystander.’ ”

Kolya offered an apologetic shrug. “To answer your question, the confrontation came later. Hugh Doyle was a practical villain. He knew that Etienne was fairly well off and saw this as an opportunity to make a few extra bob. He hired a private investigator to follow Makepeace and Clara around—an investigator who was an excellent surveillance photographer.” Kolya laughed. “I’ll tell you how good he was. He took photos of a secret meeting between Makepeace and me in a bus station waiting room. Even I didn’t know he was there. Fortunately, my face is hidden by a newspaper.”

Flick laughed along with Kolya.
Well, that explains the other photos on our wall.

Kolya made a fist as a gesture of emphasis. “Armed with his set of compromising photographs, Hugh Doyle attempted to extract money from Makepeace—who, being a spendthrift, had very little available. That’s when Doyle threatened to kill Makepeace.”

“But you didn’t let that happen?” Flick said.

Koyla shook his head. “I sent a bag of banknotes to Hugh Doyle to buy him off. The money was delivered by two KGB thugs who suggested that Doyle give them the photographs and leave town immediately.”