The Final Crumpet (4 page)

Nigel had called Stuart minutes after the first outside broadcast van appeared in the tea museum’s car park. The rotund, fiftyish spin doctor—a principal in the local public relations firm of Gordon & Battlebridge—fancied himself an expert in crisis communication. He rushed to the museum from his office on Monson Road and was soon giving orders like a field marshal.

Nigel had to admit that Stuart knew how to sort out the journalists and correspondents who flocked to the museum on Friday afternoon. He cheerfully filled their requests for background information about the museum, explained that the members of the museum staff were not granting interviews today, and guided them to the police spokeswoman who had driven over from the Kent Police Headquarters in Maidstone to answer their questions.

Early on Friday evening, Stuart had managed to convince Nigel that the museum should hold a news conference and museum tour at nine o’clock on Monday morning, two hours before the museum reopened to the general public. “We’ll let the weekend go by and build the media’s curiosity about the museum,” he had said. “They’ll soon exhaust the meager information provided by the police and will start searching for other story angles. You and Dr. Adams will make a happy change from the grim police spokespeople they have dealt with so far. We have a golden opportunity to ride the surge of media interest generated by the discovery of Makepeace’s body. The Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum will get a million pounds’ worth of free publicity.”

Nigel had raised a few feeble objections. “Why should Flick and I put ourselves in the limelight? Aren’t the reporters likely to ask tricky questions? Won’t the police be mad at us if we speak to the press directly?”

“Fear not, Nigel.” Stuart had clapped him on the shoulder.

“We shall have a combination training session and dress rehearsal tomorrow afternoon. I shall personally prepare you to do battle with the ladies and gentlemen of the news media.”

One more astonishment awaited Nigel when he walked into the tearoom at half past three. A makeup technician—a tall, exaggeratedly made-up blond of perhaps twenty-five—guided him to a chair, dusted his cheeks with powder, and tamed his customarily tousled hair with several well-placed squirts from a can of hair spray.

“Is this really necessary, Stuart?” Nigel hoped his voice conveyed the growing exasperation he felt.

“Absolutely!’’ Stuart replied. “For our training session to provide effective practice, everything must be as authentic as possible. That’s why you are wearing makeup, we’ve set up an array of photographic lights, and you see six unfamiliar faces in the second row of chairs.”

Nigel shaded his eyes. The six—all men in their twenties and thirties—were indeed unfamiliar. Two were holding little tape recorders, two were making notes on pads, and two seemed to be scowling at him.

“They are Gordon & Battlebridge staffers.” Stuart chuckled. “Don’t they look like working reporters?”

When Nigel replied with a grudging “uh-huh,” Stuart said, “Please take your place behind the podium, alongside Felicity.”

Nigel stepped up on the raised platform and whispered to her, “Don’t you think this fuss is starting to get silly?”

“Actually, I’m quite impressed. Stuart clearly has everything under control.”

Nigel watched Stuart sit down in the first row of chairs, next to a stocky man who looked vaguely familiar. Nigel swallowed a laugh; because the pudgy man wore a duff-colored cashmere pullover while the equally pudgy Stuart Battlebridge had on his usual Aran sweater, the pair looked remarkably like Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

And then Nigel realized with a start that the man was the local reporter who had fled from the tea garden the day before. Nigel stepped away from the podium. “Stuart, did you invite a
real
member of the press to our rehearsal?”

Stuart smiled. “Nigel, meet the man who announced the Etienne Makepeace story to the world—Philip Pellicano, of the
Kent and Sussex Courier.”

The reporter saluted Nigel briskly with the stack of five-by-seven cards he held in his right hand. Nigel returned a feeble nod and rejoined Flick.

Stuart continued. “Philip will provide another dimension of authenticity today. There’s nothing better than practicing with real questions from a real reporter—don’t you agree?” He didn’t wait for Nigel to answer. “In exchange for Philip’s help, we’ve allowed him to chat with museum employees to get background information, and we promised him special access to you and Flick, if he should require it.”

Nigel wondered which “we” Stuart had in mind. He had never given Gordon & Battlebridge permission to cut deals with the
Kent and Sussex Courier.

“Shall we begin?” Stuart suddenly became as solemn as a physician preparing to conduct an unpleasant physical examination. “I trust that both of you read the briefing document that my staff assembled during the wee hours. It contains all that we could learn quickly about Etienne Makepeace.”

“I scanned it this morning,” Flick said. “I plan to study it this afternoon.”

“Same here,” Nigel said, doubting that he would ever waste time reading the document in question. It was five pages of closely typed text, filled with irrelevant biographical details of a man who died nearly four decades ago. Moreover, Nigel hadn’t much liked receiving homework from Stuart Battlebridge at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning.

“Good!” Stuart said. “One detail I did not include in the briefing document is the extent of the press coverage related to the discovery of Makepeace’s body. During the past eighteen hours, no fewer than thirty percent of the news stories read on British radio and television have been about Etienne Makepeace. If this does not turn out to be the story of the century, it will certainly rank as a strong candidate. I am confident that we will have a robust media turnout on Monday morning.” Stuart paused to heighten the dramatic effect. “Philip, ask your first question.”

The reporter consulted his cache of cards. “Mr. Owen, do you think the discovery of Etienne Makepeace’s body in your garden will benefit or harm the museum in the long run?”

Nigel pondered the answer.
Benefit or harm? It’s hard to say. Probably a little of both.

“Well, I suppose there are both good and bad aspects…”

Honk!
Nigel jumped six inches as Stuart cut him off with a blast from a palm-sized boat horn.

“Never
respond directly to a loaded question like that,” Stuart half shouted. “Any answer you give will make you sound like a mercenary businessman.” He spoke to Philip. “Ask your question again, but direct it to me.”

Philip simpered at Stuart. “Mr. Battlebridge, do you think the discovery of Etienne Makepeace’s body in your garden will benefit or harm the museum in the long run?”

“I couldn’t begin to answer that question, sir,” Stuart said, his voice brimming with regret. “We simply don’t think in those terms. What I can say is that everyone at the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum is delighted to have helped to resolve a national mystery that has lasted almost four decades.” Stuart peered at Nigel. “Do you see how it’s done?”

Nigel managed a halfhearted smile despite a strong yearning to charge down off the raised platform and punch Stuart’s snoot. “Yes, Stuart. I believe I do.”

Philip gazed again at his cards. “Mr. Owen, we understand that the presence of Etienne Makepeace’s body below the Assam tea plants stunted their growth. Can you explain why?”

Nigel felt a grin form on his face. He’d been asked a straightforward question, and he had a ready answer. “It’s quite simple, really. The roots of the plants were blocked by a layer of roofing tiles placed atop the…”

Honk!

Nigel caught his breath. “What’s wrong now?”

“Another bad answer!” Stuart bellowed. “The police have not yet publicly revealed that tiles were found in the grave.”

“Correct!” Philip jumped in. “In fact, DI Pennyman asked us not to mention the roofing tiles in our story.”

“The police spokeswoman made the same request of the museum yesterday,” Stuart said.

“Nobody told me,” Nigel said.

“To the contrary. I carefully specified the two subjects to avoid in the briefing paper.”

“I must have missed your instructions.”

“You’ll find them on the first page. In large type.”

Nigel peeked at Flick, who seemed on the verge of laughing. “In that event,” he said, “perhaps Dr. Adams would like the opportunity to field a question?”

Flick’s smile faded and then quickly returned. “I’m game. Ask away.”

“An excellent point,” Stuart said, “which brings me to another important lesson I want you to learn. You’re a businessman, Nigel; you don’t have the proper credentials to answer questions about tea plants. You should have instantly referred the question to the chief curator.” Stuart turned to Flick. “What would your response have been, Dr. Adams?”

Flick spoke confidently. “That’s a very interesting question; we want to know the answer, too. When the police have completed their investigation, we intend to look into the matter.”

“An excellent reply!” Stuart nodded approvingly. “Short, responsive, noncommittal—yet wholly satisfying to the questioner.”

Nigel whispered, “Suck-up!”

Flick poked her finger into his ribs; no one in the audience seemed to notice.

“Ouch!”

“Do you have something to add before we move on, Nigel?”

Stuart asked.

“No.”

“But I do,” Philip said smugly. “We should call Mr. Owen’s attention to the second item on the list of forbidden subjects—specifically, the pistol found buried with the body. While the police have yet to make the information public, they have positively identified the weapon as a Soviet-made Makarov automatic, caliber 9.2 millimeters. The magazine contained seven cartridges. It can hold a maximum of eight.”

“Thank you, Philip,” Nigel said. “Now I know what I have to forget by Monday morning. I don’t anticipate any difficulties.”

Nigel watched a furrow form on Philip’s brow, but before the reporter could say anything, Stuart tapped his arm with the little boat horn. “Proceed.”

Philip retrieved his cards. “Another question for you, Mr. Owen. Do you have any idea
why
Mr. Makepeace was buried in the museum’s tea garden?”

Nigel grinned at Philip. The man had asked a sensible question, one that deserved to be answered, one that the reporters were likely to pose on Monday morning.

The trick is to come up with a suitably hollow reply.

“I have no idea why a murderer would choose to vandalize a museum,” Nigel said, “but the fact that it happened here makes me furious. We are a family museum, dedicated to helping people understand the extraordinary history of tea in Great Britain.”

Nigel held his breath, waiting for Stuart to blow his bloody horn. But Stuart set the noisemaker down. “An acceptable answer, Nigel. You seem to be getting the idea.” He signaled Philip with another wave. “Carry on.”

“Dr. Adams, Etienne Makepeace had an interesting nickname when he was alive—England’s Tea Sage. Had you heard anything about him before his body was unearthed in the museum’s tea garden?”

Flick shook her head. “Surprisingly, given his fame in England, I had not heard of Mr. Makepeace until the events of last Friday.” She added, “Of course, I’ve learned a good deal about him since then.”

“Well done, Felicity!” Stuart gushed. “A
perfect
answer.”

“Show off!” Nigel hissed. Before he could move away, Flick poked her finger into his middle again. He couldn’t help wincing; the spot was getting tender.

“I have a follow-up question for you, Dr. Adams,” Philip said. “Please apply your newfound knowledge and give us your opinion of Etienne Makepeace’s expertise. Did England’s Tea Sage know his stuff?”

Nigel expected Flick to answer quickly. Instead, she hesitated—and he could sense her growing distress. But why? Philip’s question seemed simple enough. After several seconds of silence, he realized that she hadn’t “learned a good deal” about Makepeace at all. Her previous reply had been a fib.

“Ah…well…” Flick paused to catch her breath then finally began to speak in earnest. “I’m not really sure, although everyone says that he knew his stuff.” Another hesitation. “Uh…what I mean to say is that…”

Honk!

“In other words, Felicity, you don’t have a good answer, so all you can do is blither at us.”

Flick sighed. “I’m afraid that’s true, Stuart. I’m sorry.”

He frowned. “
Sorry
doesn’t cut it at a news conference. And you were ill-advised to claim knowledge you don’t possess. Please remember that our objective is to get you widely quoted, to establish Dr. Felicity Adams as a nationally known expert on tea. We want the media to call you for an answer whenever a question arises about tea.”

“Point taken and understood,” Flick said sheepishly.

Stuart gave a forgiving grunt. “Had you taken time to
read,
rather than scan, our briefing materials, you would have stumbled on several appropriate ways to praise England’s Tea Sage.” Stuart turned pages of the stapled document and began to read aloud.