The Final Crumpet (11 page)

“You’re aware of the fact, but likely not the legal implications. Because Shibas enjoy hunting, those who own Shibas are required to prevent them from stalking other people’s small pets.”

“But we didn’t own Cha-Cha on the day he went ferret hunting.”

“I beg to differ, Nigel. According to the terms of the contract your predecessor at the museum signed, Dame Elspeth’s animals—including the dog, Cha-Cha-became wards of the museum the instant she passed away. The unfortunate killing of the ferret happened, legally speaking, on your watch. In short, the problem is yours.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“The law does not always make sense.”

“Neither do you, Bleasdale. We didn’t have the animals in our possession-you did.”

“But I’m not being sued—you are.”

Nigel felt himself reach a breaking point. “Bleasdale, you’re a nattering dolt. Stop making inane comments and pay attention to me…”

Click.
The line grew quiet; then he heard the dial tone. Barrington Bleasdale had hung up on him. Nigel stared at his phone and wondered for a fleeting minute if he should call Iona Saxby, a member of the museum’s board of trustees who was also an Oxford-based solicitor of substantial repute. She would know how to resolve this problem—or at least be able to tell Nigel what to do next.

Forget it! After the miserable events of today, you don’t have sufficient strength left to deal with Iona.

The invitation had come as a complete surprise. Flick’s mobile phone had rung scarcely a minute after she stormed out of Nigel’s office. “Dr. Adams—this is Detective Inspector Marc Pennyman. Would you have a spare moment to chat?” His voice had been friendly, nothing like the officious policeman’s snarl that she associated with Pennyman.

She matched his pleasant tone. “Certainly, Detective Inspector.”

“I would like to make an appointment to meet with you—preferably away from the museum, if possible early this afternoon.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“I believe we may be able to help each other.”

Ask a policeman a silly question and get a silly, evasive answer. Flick doubted that pressing the point would encourage Pennyman to be more forthcoming. Her only choice was to answer yes or no and be done with it.

She glanced at her watch. A few minutes past one. The day was still young and her “to—do” list essentially complete. This was a perfect afternoon to play hooky for a while—to give into the urge she felt to get far, far away from Nigel Owen. She also needed some time away from her desk to come up with a strategy to overcome Nigel’s ludicrous objections. The more he whined “never,” the more certain she felt that the museum would have an Etienne Makepeace exhibit.

“Shall we say the Pantiles at one thirty? We can meet in the Italian coffee shop just past the Swan Hotel.”

“An excellent choice.” Pennyman seemed to hesitate. “I have one other request—please come alone.” He rang off before Flick could say that she had no intention of bringing anyone else.

The sunny, surprisingly warm afternoon immediately raised her spirits. As she guided Cha-Cha along Eridge Road, she felt like a tourist approaching the southern end of the Pantiles for the first time. Perhaps she should do a little window-shopping in the trendy boutiques and antique shops. She felt in a mood to spend some money on herself.

She spotted Pennyman as soon as she climbed the steps and reached the Pantiles. He clearly had decided that the day was warm enough for an alfresco meeting and had chosen a two-person table outside the coffee shop.

Good! Now I won’t have to tie Cha-Cha to a bench near the front door.

Pennyman frowned when he saw Flick accompanied by the Shiba Inu. She straightaway realized that his request to “come alone” also embraced double-coated dogs noted for bountiful shedding. Pennyman’s scowl swelled to a grimace when Cha-Cha curled up next to his chair. His hand, seemingly driven by memories of past encounters with the dog, brushed a nonexistent clump of red hair off his trousers.

“Your suit is perfectly safe, Detective Inspector,” she said.

“Cha-Cha doesn’t appear to be shedding this week.” Pennyman grunted, then said, “I’ve ordered a double-shot espresso—what would you like? I doubt they make a good cuppa here.”

“A simple cup of coffee would be lovely.”

Flick was bursting with curiosity as Pennyman signaled the waiter and placed the order. When they were alone, she said, “What brings us here this afternoon?”

“I shan’t attempt to mislead you, Dr. Adams, or otherwise take undue advantage of your willingness to cooperate with me.” He paused to look around the Pantiles. Flick guessed he wanted to make certain that no one else was listening. “By any chance, have you and your colleagues considered the possibility of establishing a permanent exhibit about Etienne Makepeace?”

Flick caught her breath. Of all the questions Pennyman might have asked, she least expected this one. For some unfathomable reason, the entire world had become interested in her curatorial plans! Why would a Kent Police detective give a rip about a Makepeace exhibit at a small museum? And why would he go out of his way to arrange an unofficial inquiry?

“We’ve made no definite decisions yet,” she said, “but I am leaning toward a modest exhibit about Makepeace’s place in the history of tea in England. Now—please tell me why you care one way or the other.”

“I made the assumption that to build a Makepeace exhibit from scratch, you would gather every bit of information you can learn about the man. I’d like to work with you and pool our knowledge.”

Flick gave a little whistle. “Wow—I never expected to hear you say something like that.”

Pennyman returned an awkward grin. “This is an unusual situation. Despite his public fame, we know very little about the private life of Etienne Makepeace. I’m hoping that your efforts will secure useful information that we don’t have. Consequently, I propose a quid pro quo.”

“Really?”

Pennyman nodded. “Yes, really.” He paused while the waiter delivered Flick’s coffee, then went on, “Although I can’t disclose the particulars of an ongoing murder investigation, I can provide you with lesser-known, presumably public, background information on Etienne Makepeace. It should save you considerable time and effort—possibly help you complete your investigation more quickly.”

“And in exchange, I share anything interesting that I discover about him?”

“Precisely.”

Flick didn’t dither. How could she lose? Pennyman’s offer was an answer to a prayer she should have spoken aloud. She had planned to ask Stuart Battlebridge for his dossier on Etienne Makepeace as the starting point of her research. Now she would have an even more authoritative package of facts prepared by the fabled Kent Constabulary.

“It’s a deal!” She offered her hand. Pennyman reached across the small table and shook it, then slid a hefty manila envelope in front of Flick.

“You’ll find Makepeace’s file inside,” he said, “along with three of my business cards. I can usually be reached at any hour of the day.” He rose to his feet. “Have fun—and enjoy your coffee.” He turned to leave, then paused. “I hesitate to give you advice, but we’ve found that a Web page is a good starting point for gathering information.”

Flick smiled. “A Web page is the first item on my list of things to do.”

She dove into the envelope. The biographical information matched the data in Stuart’s briefing, but it was more complete. Stuart said that Etienne had earned a degree in history at Cambridge—these documents explained that his focus was first-century Rome. She recalled that Etienne had been a naval intelligence officer—she now learned that he had risen to the rank of lieutenant commander. Both briefings described his success as a “Tea Sage”—the police had gone to the trouble of cataloging the different books and articles that Makepeace had written.

But…neither briefing explains how Etienne Makepeace became England’s Tea Sage.

Flick sat up in her chair. Where were the details of Etienne’s tea education? Etienne was famous for his exhaustive knowledge of tea—how did he come by it? Nothing in the file suggested that he had ever been taught how to brew a good cuppa, much less the subtleties of different tea varieties. Neither Stuart nor the police seemed to care where his vast expertise came from.

“That’s something I need to figure out,” she said to her now-empty coffee cup. “But how? How do you investigate someone who died forty years earlier?”

You don’t know—so why not ask an expert? Uncle Ted, for example.

It was approaching 10:00 a.m. in York, Pennsylvania—she pictured him in his office, sitting at his messy desk. She dialed the number on her mobile phone and listened to her uncle’s telephone ringing more than three thousand miles away.

“Homicide. Detective Adams.”

“Hi, Uncle Ted, it’s Flick.”

“Flick? Where are you?”

“In England, the island nation where I now reside permanently.”

“Don’t rub it in. Your mother complains to me about your new country once each week.”

“Mother loves England; she’s an Anglophile. That’s where I get it from.”

“Your mother—and your father, too—love
things
that are English. That’s why they operate a replica eighteenth-century English inn, complete with an authentic pub, called the White Rose of York. They are also dyed-in-the-wool Pennsylvanians who will never leave the Commonwealth.”

Flick ignored the implied gibe. “Well, I’m fine, and you sound fine, too.”

“Did you make an intercontinental telephone call to tell me that?”

“Actually, I want to pick your brain about a corpse.”

“
Another
body?”

“Relax—this corpse died way back in the sixties. His name is Etienne Makepeace.”

“Uh-huh. The famous missing Brit they dug up in your museum’s garden.”

“You’ve heard about him?” Flick squeaked. “How?”

“Oh…I came across a mention or two about Makepeace on CNN, FoxNews, NBC, ABC, CBS, BBC, and in
Time
magazine,
Newsweek,
the
New York Times,
the
York Daily Record
, the
York Dispatch
…”

“Okay, okay—I get the point. He made major news in America like he did in Britain.”

“Well—
duh!”

“Don’t make a fuss—I didn’t think the matter through.”

“I’ve been wondering when you would get around to calling me.” He chuckled softly, then became serious. “I take it that Makepeace was murdered.”

“Shot once with a vintage Russian pistol, then buried under our tea bushes.”

“Sounds like an inside job. The museum must have had a deadly docent on its staff during the sixties.”

“Probably—but I’m not interested in the murder itself.”

“On behalf of homicide investigators everywhere, I say thank you.”

“However…”

“With you, there is always a ‘however.’ ”

“I’m gathering information to create an exhibit about Makepeace at the museum.”

“Complete with a pretend skeleton, I’ll bet.”

“Complete with the story of how Etienne Makepeace became England’s Tea Sage—assuming I can find out how he managed the feat. There are troubling gaps in his biographical materials. I don’t know how to fill them. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Hmm…”

“What?”

“I’m thinking.”

“About?’’

“About how people are likely to share information with a museum—if you ask for it. Have you asked the general public to help?”

“Not yet,” Flick said, astonished that two cops an ocean apart both imagined that a modest tea museum could be a fact magnet.

“Start by setting up a Web page.”

“Way ahead of you.”

“Your next step is to create a telephone hotline.”

“How would I get people to call it?”

“Don’t you know any friendly reporters?”

“Funny you should ask. I was interviewed this morning by a BBC TV reporter.”