The Final Crumpet (5 page)

“Etienne Makepeace forever reminded his audiences that he was not a professionally trained tea expert, but rather a tea lover who could be an enthusiastic advocate for tea. Because he obviously enjoyed teaching people about tea, he became known as ‘the C. S. Lewis of tea.’

“Professionally trained or not, Makepeace was recognized to have an encyclopedic knowledge of tea that he displayed in the many magazine articles he wrote…at his many lectures across Great Britain…and especially in numerous appearances on many radio shows.

“Makepeace was at his best when he de mystified tea and tea drinking. He didn’t tolerate teatime snobbery. He argued that sugar and milk in tea were perfectly acceptable in a good cuppa. He felt that scones served with clotted cream were too highfalutin and that it was a waste of time to cut the crusts off cucumber sandwiches. He waged a valiant battle against tea bags in favor of brewed tea and insisted that supermarket brands of tea were overpriced because the consumer paid for advertising and overly elaborate packaging—both of which did nothing to improve a cup of tea.”

Stuart flipped the page and kept reading.

“Makepeace was born in 1910 in Winchester, England, the only son of a fairly well-to-do family. His father, Jonathan Makepeace, was a banker. Etienne was named after his mother’s father, who had emigrated from France in 1876. He had one older sister, two younger sisters. The youngest sibling, Mathilde, was born in 1922. She is still alive but suffers from Alzheimer’s disease.

“As a boy, Etienne attended St. Bede’s Primary School in Winchester and then the Pilgrim School, where he became a chorister for Winchester Cathedral. When his voice changed, the lad moved on to the Sherborne School in Dorset, a competent, but less well-known, public school. Makepeace proved to be a clever boots throughout his youth. He went up to Cambridge University where he read history and graduated in 1934 with a First”—Stuart glanced at Flick—“that’s equivalent to ‘with honors’ in America. Etienne briefly attempted to follow his father into banking, but then he entered the navy in 1937. During World War II, he served as an officer with Naval Intelligence. His specialty was convoy routing in the North Atlantic.”

Nigel raised his hand. “Stuart, I hope you’re not proposing that we memorize the man’s curriculum vitae.”

“You will increase your credibility with the media if you drop a fact or two about Etienne Makepeace. Am I right, Philip?”

“Absolutely,’’ the reporter said enthusiastically.

Nigel squinted at the lights, enjoying the kaleidoscopic patterns in his eyes, while Stuart continued to read from the document. “We didn’t find anything about Makepeace’s activities in the years immediately after the war. He apparently used the next decade to perfect his writing and speaking skills, and to grow his knowledge of tea. He published his first magazine article on tea in 1955, gave his first public talk in 1956, and made his first appearance on BBC Radio in 1958. His fame grew rapidly, and he soon became a beloved fixture on radio. The many photos of Makepeace published during the late fifties and early sixties show him as a handsome man who always looked in good nick—sculpted moustache, stylishly cut hair, impeccable clothing, and a dazzling smile.

“Makepeace avoided politics and controversy for most of his life. However, during the height of the Cold War, he wrote and lectured that it was unpatriotic, even traitorous, to drink tea imported from China.”

Philip piped up. “More than one commentator accused him of being a fanatical, anticommunist Red-baiter. Makepeace ignored the accusations.”

“As did the powers that be in Great Britain.” Stuart flipped to the last page of the briefing document. “Makepeace hobnobbed with the rich and famous and was frequently seen in the company of famous royals. He was rumored to be in line for a knighthood. Shortly after he disappeared without a trace on September 29, 1966, a member of Parliament rose and said, ‘Etienne Makepeace is one of the most significant Britons of the twentieth century—a man on par with any of the Beatles.’ ”

“A tad over the top,” Philip said, “but not that far from the truth.” He queried Stuart, “Can I share my bit of news?”

“Please do,” Stuart said—not all that graciously, Nigel thought.

“Well, it’s not widely known yet, but the police have used old dental records to positively identify the remains. It is Etienne Makepeace, without question. However, to satisfy people who prefer a more modern approach, the police are taking the extra step of conducting a DNA test. I understand they have taken a DNA sample from Etienne’s surviving sister to compare with DNA extracted from the remains. It’s a long process, though; we won’t hear anything more for a week or two.”

“Most interesting, Philip,” Stuart said. “Please ask your next question.”

“Mr. Owen, how have the museum’s pets coped with the recent events?”

“Our pets?”
Nigel fought to keep his voice from screeching.

“Why would a reporter care two pins about our menagerie?”

“Because,” Stuart said ploddingly, “many people know that Dame Elspeth Hawker arranged for the museum to care for her little family when she died. It’s conceivable that an editor might decide to build a human interest story around the pets.”

“What shall I say?”

“You’re the exalted director of this museum. Come up with something.”

Nigel gripped the podium hard enough to make it wobble. “All creatures great and small are thriving. Cha-Cha, our Shiba Inu, is in fine fettle. Lapsang and Souchong, our two British Shorthair cats, are purring. And Earl, our African Grey parrot, would be chirping joyously this very minute in the corner of this tearoom had you not moved his vast cage into the kitchen.” Nigel looked at Flick. “Do you have anything to add?”

“Not a blooming word!”

Philip chuckled. “I do believe our hosts are becoming irritable.”

“Excellent!” Stuart said. “The time has come to ask the zinger.”

Philip cleared his throat. “Mr. Owen, please describe the nature of your personal relationship with the chief curator.”

Nigel heard Flick gasp. He glanced sideways; she was beginning to blush.

“Mr. Pellicano,” Nigel said, “your question is out-of-bounds.”

“Not so, Nigel,” Stuart said. “Everyone in the museum knows you are…ah,
good friends.
We have to assume that a few other reporters are as clever as Philip.”

Philip beamed at the compliment. “I’ve spoken to three different museum employees who
readily”
—he emphasized the word—“told me that you are ‘romantically entwined,’ to quote one of my sources.”

“What of it?” Nigel said, louder than he intended to. “We’re the two senior executives at this museum.”

“I have a suggestion,” Flick said softly. “It just dawned on me that whatever the nature of our
relationship”
—she spoke the word with a humorous lilt—“we have functioned as a team to improve the museum. Our predecessors had difficulties working together. We don’t.”

Nigel thought about it. More than one member of the board of trustees had told him that Nathanial Swithin, the former director, rarely agreed with the priorities set by Malcolm Dunlevy, the former chief curator.

“Flick makes an excellent point,” Nigel said. “Our friendship pays dividends to the museum. We’re on the same team when problems arise—and we’ve worked together to resolve many vital issues. We’ve managed to cut costs while increasing our general attendance, our tour business, our gift shop sales, and our revenues from the tearoom. At the same time, contributions to the museum are up significantly. All in all, our combined managerial performance is worthy of recognition.” He smiled at her. “I think we should ask the trustees for raises.”

“My advice is to not share that response with the media,” Stuart said. “Work out an answer that emphasizes your genial rapport.” He put the boat horn in his pocket. “You’ve done enough rehearsing for one day. I want you to spend the rest of the afternoon studying—
really studying
—the briefing document.”

Flick gave a curt nod. Nigel said, “Aye, aye, Captain. We shall spend the remainder of today learning every useless fact and unimportant triviality about Etienne Makepeace.”

“And then take tomorrow off. I want you refreshed and stress-free on Monday morning.” Stuart reached into a battered leather briefcase that Nigel guessed was fifty years old. “Here. A pair of tickets for the Royal Tunbridge Wells Symphony Orchestra. Sunday afternoon at three. Just the thing to clear your minds.”

“What’s on the program?”

“A highly appropriate selection of pieces, Nigel. Trust me.” Nigel forced himself to return Stuart’s smile. The town of Royal Tunbridge Wells had definite limits. One could find a good tea museum, several top-notch pubs, and a few restaurants that deserved one-or two-star status—but to hear a well-played symphony, one had to travel to London.

“Thank you, Stuart,” said Flick. Nigel detected excitement in her voice. Without a doubt, she wanted to go to the concert.

Crikey!

“Yes, thank you, Stuart,” Nigel managed to add as he pocketed the tickets. “We shall strive to enjoy our day off.”

Is the rain different in England?
Flick asked herself Raindrops seemed to fall more gently here than back home in Pennsylvania and somehow had less of an ability to penetrate her Burberry. Even umbrellas gave the impression of working better in England. Perhaps Brits had perfected a more efficient umbrella-handling technique? She moved closer to Nigel and gripped his arm more tightly.

I’m glad Nigel talked me into walking to the concert.

She had hesitated when Nigel suggested that they “stroll off” the huge Sunday lunch they’d eaten at Thackeray’s on London Road. It wasn’t much of a hike to Assembly Hall, the home of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Symphony Orchestra—a kilometer at most—but given the chilly day and the steady sprinkle that had begun in the early afternoon, calling for a taxi had seemed a more sensible course of action.

But Nigel had persisted, and she had relented—chiefly because she’d enjoyed the other innovations that Nigel had suggested that morning.

“How about a light breakfast before church?” he had asked. “Say, coffee and biscotti?”

“Before church? Do we have time?”

“Indeed, we do. I thought we’d stay in town today and try the service at Holy Trinity with Christ Church. You know the modern church at the top of High Street.”

“Okay,” she said hesitantly. For the past two months, they had attended services at St. Stephen’s Church, on Pembury Road, opposite Dunorlan Park, about a mile northeast of Tunbridge Wells’ town center. The vicar of St. Stephen’s was Rev. William de Rudd, a member of the museum’s board of trustees. Would the vicar be upset not to see them among the rest of his flock?

Nigel anticipated her foreboding. “I doubt that the good Reverend de Rudd expects us to become regulars at St. Stephen’s. We’re younger than most of the congregation, and we live quite a distance away. Christ Church is my neighborhood church.”

Nigel had picked Flick up at her apartment in the Pantiles, the charming seventeenth-century colonnaded “shopping precinct” that had been the commercial center of Tunbridge Wells in its earliest days as a town. They had walked to the new Italian coffeehouse on the southern end of High Street and then tramped up the hill to reach Christ Church Center.

Flick liked the look of the place immediately—an in-town glass-and-brick facade that might be mistaken for a cinema. Once inside, there was no doubt about the building’s purpose. The architect had devoted one long wall of the sanctuary to five stained glass windows: A pair of modern windows interleaved with three Victorian-era windows designed by the famous Sir Edward Burne-Jones and built in the workshop of the equally famous William Morris.

“You must be curious about the church’s odd name,” Nigel said. “I certainly was. Well, it seems that some thirty years ago, Holy Trinity parish merged with Christ Church parish. Voila! Holy Trinity with Christ Church.”

“What on earth prompted you to do research on local churches?”

“Well…” Nigel smiled—somewhat reflectively, Flick thought. “When a person of my decidedly advanced age becomes a proper Christian and begins to attend church regularly, he needs to find a proper church home. I thought we might go church shopping, to use the American idiom.”