The Final Crumpet (22 page)

“I’d better call the police.” Nigel reached for his mobile phone.

“And tell them what?” Flick said, surprised at the calm she felt.

“That a man in a green Ford Transit van threatened us.”

“Okay—then what do we say to the reporters who come calling? Or to Olivia Hart when Sir James Boyer reads the stories they write?”

“Blast! You’re right, of course, we can’t get the police involved.” Nigel returned the mobile phone to his belt. “Still, I’d love to know who that rotter is—and better yet, have an opportunity to sort him out good and proper, as my dad likes to say.”

“I don’t know his real name,” Flick said, “but from the way he spoke, I’m fairly certain we just met ‘Anonymous Bystander.’ ”

Eight

H
alfway along Castle Road, in the heart of the Tunbridge Wells Common, Nigel regretted his decision to walk to the museum that Thursday morning. He had chosen not to drive because—returning from the “clippings party” the night before—he had found a legal parking space directly beneath his flat. This was such a rare occurrence that Nigel elected to take advantage of his annual street-parking permit. Upon leaving his building, he had ignored the chill, damp wind that defied his mackintosh and guided Cha-Cha westward on Lime Hill Road.

Nigel often walked to work; he had two favorite routes.

The shortest—an easy two-kilometer hike—followed London Road past the back of the Pantiles. The longer, more scenic route—the one that Cha-Cha liked best—took them along Castle Road through the Common.

Perhaps it was the clammy mist that hovered close to the ground, or possibly the occasional icy spots that made the path treacherous, but the Common seemed unusually desolate that morning. Nigel had seen only one jogger and no other pedestrians. Each step made him feel more exposed, more vulnerable to a host of unknown dangers lurking behind trees. He began to wish for the secure feeling of slamming the car door and pushing the
Lock
button.

Of course you’re uneasy. What happened in the car park would make anyone edgy.

Remarkably, he hadn’t felt any fear when the man in the green Ford Transit van demanded that they stop seeking additional information about Etienne Makepeace. The voice had been loud and the words moderately threatening, but there had been something artificial about the bizarre confrontation. At the time, it had struck Nigel as vaguely theatrical—more pretense than genuine.

But later, as he drove home after dropping Flick at her apartment, he’d begun to think differently. What if the man in the van had been armed? Or what if he had decided to ram Nigel when he “boldly”—or perhaps foolishly—stepped out of the BMW?

Nigel shivered, unsure if it was the wintry air or a stray frisson of anxiety.

At least he had a fine cup of coffee to sustain him. He had brewed a triple shot—three individual pods—of French Roast blend to fill his stainless steel travel mug. Nigel stopped, pushed open the top slide, and took several sips.

Nigel looked around the Common. There was no one in the immediate vicinity. He let Cha-Cha off his lead; the Shiba raced off behind a tree.

The van itself had been an unremarkable Ford Transit, dark green, diesel powered—not new, but not exceptionally old. There must be thousands of similar vehicles in service across England. The only distinguishing feature had been the small loudspeaker temporarily affixed to the roof by what Nigel had recognized as a magnetic antenna mount. The driver had undoubtedly removed the loudspeaker minutes after leaving the car park. Flick had tried to read the number plate but couldn’t. Nigel sighed. Even if he or Flick had opted to notify the police, the plods could never have located the van.

It had been Flick who recognized that the man in the van spoke the same antique phrase—Etienne Makepeace “made the mistake of wooing a married barmaid”—that had appeared in the Web site submission signed by “Anonymous Bystander.”

“He clearly did it on purpose to identify himself,” Flick had said, as they traveled to her apartment. “And since no one under sixty says ‘wooing’ any more, we have to assume that he’s a contemporary of Makepeace.”

“I agree,” Nigel had replied. “But why would ‘Anonymous Bystander’ give us information via our Web site and then demand that we halt our investigation? Does that make any sense to you?”

“Not much—unless ‘Anonymous Bystander’ is the jealous husband who shot Makepeace. Maybe he’s trying to control what we find out because he’s worried about being discovered forty years after the murder?”

Nigel had shaken his head. “I repeat the question I just asked: Why would a guilty party respond to our request for information in the first place?”

In the end, neither Nigel nor Flick had a sensible explanation for the bizarre episode in the Crescent Road Car Park. They’d sat in the BMW, in front of Flick’s apartment, for nearly a half hour trying to figure out what “Anonymous Bystander” had meant by a “modest demonstration of our capacity to influence the future of the museum.” That seemed the oddest threat—or promise—of all.

“We’ll see what today brings,” Nigel murmured. Cha-Cha emerged from behind a bush. Nigel reattached the lead.

“We’re going to have an interesting morning, Cha-Cha,” he said, “as we wait for the other shoe to drop. I’m counting on you to be our watchdog.”

The Shiba gave a yodel-like bark, trotted to the end of his lead, and tugged Nigel toward the intersection of Castle Road and London Road.

Ten minutes later, Nigel and Cha-Cha reached the roundabout on Eridge Road. Nigel saw two small lorries parked in front of the museum that belonged, he presumed, to Garwood & McHue. As he neared the front door, he counted three workmen in nondescript uniforms working outside the building. Two of them were standing on ladders that reached beyond the first floor. They were installing two of the small acorn-shaped TV cameras—one above the museum’s front door surround, the other alongside decorative stonework on the edge of the building. The black plastic gizmos seemed to blend well with the trim; once in place, they would be almost invisible.

Nigel felt Cha-Cha increase the pull on his lead as they approached the side entrance. The dog clearly anticipated his early morning visit with Earl in the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom. Nigel unfastened the lead and let Cha-Cha run ahead.

Maybe I should visit the tearoom, too.

He knew that Flick often ate a light breakfast before she went upstairs. It might be a perfect opportunity to reopen the discussion about their relationship. She had sent mixed signals the evening before. Her words proclaimed that they were no longer a twosome, but her demeanor suggested that she hadn’t fully made up her mind. There might still be hope.

Actually, I feel a bit peckish myself.

When Nigel arrived in the tearoom, Flick was in her favorite corner, saying hello to Cha-Cha, who had conveniently placed his head in her lap. Nigel approached and stopped next to an empty chair. “May I join you?” He glimpsed the table. “Good heavens! You’re drinking coffee. A whole potful.”

She looked up. Her face appeared tired.

“I had a rotten night,” she said, “without much sleep. I kept seeing green Ford vans and waking up.” She gestured toward the chair. “How about you?”

“I slept splendidly. My imagination switched on as I walked through the Common. I began to feel especially defenseless—a not at all pleasant sensation, I assure you.”

“We decided not to call the cops last night, but I think we should tell Detective Inspector Pennyman what happened.”

“Ah. The arrangement.”

She nodded. “It might be significant that we’ve been…
warned.
I imagine that’s the right word. We can ask him to keep the encounter quiet.”

Nigel spotted a stack of mugs on an adjacent table. He borrowed one and filled it.

“Have a scone, too,” Flick said. “They go great with coffee—I’m not very hungry this morning.”

“I believe I will…” he started to say, but was interrupted by Earl who began to make his loud clucking sound. “Crikey! I wish he’d stop doing that.”

“Tell me about it!” She put her hands over her ears. “Shut up, Earl—it’s too early, and I’m too tired.”

Nigel felt Cha-Cha slide past his leg as the Shiba disentangled himself from Flick. He ambled off toward Earl’s cage.

“A brilliant idea, old chum! Do your best to silence the fowl. If necessary, you have my permission to eat the blooming bird.”

Nigel broke a scone in half and dropped a spoonful of blackberry preserves on the piece he had targeted. In the distance, the clucking tapered off.

“I agree we should tell Pennyman about the green van,” he said. “We also have to inform Conan Davies on the off chance that ‘Anonymous Bystander’ has the ability to cause physical damage to the museum.”

Flick returned a sheepish grin. “I hope you don’t mind, but it’s done. I called Conan at two thirty this morning. He assured me that I’d done the right thing to wake him up.” She went on. “He would like to see both of us this morning—I quote—‘at our earliest convenience.’ ”

“I don’t mind. In fact, I feel better already. It’s a great comfort to have Conan in our corner.”

She beamed at Nigel. “I agree.”

Nigel felt his heart flutter. This was the Felicity Adams he had fallen in love with—and still loved. Did the warmth of her smile indicate that she felt the same way about him? Perhaps she was ready to reconsider her hasty departure from his life?

Not bloomin’ likely—because it’s all your fault.

Nigel abruptly remembered that he was the primary cause of their split. Nothing had changed on his side of the fence. He still couldn’t assure Flick that she could trust him without question. He turned away before Flick could see the unhappiness that he knew must have darkened his face while she was smiling.

Nigel was saved from the awkwardness of explaining his strange maneuver by the fortuitous arrival of Giselle Logan, the hostess of the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom.

“Excuse me, Dr. Adams. May I have a moment? I need some advice.”

Giselle—whose father was German, her mother from Singapore—had inherited the best genes from both parents. She was a slender brunette with striking Eurasian features, a fascinating voice, and talent for precise organization. She held an honors degree in hospitality management and would, Nigel felt sure, soon outgrow her humble job at the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum. Until that happened, however, he intended to make maximum use of her skills and talents. And so, he gave her the further responsibility of managing the museum’s growing business of hosting academic conferences. She worked closely with Flick to coordinate the use of the museum’s facilities. The museum offered an ideal setting for one-or two-day conferences of, say, twenty to thirty scholars. In past years, the museum had accommodated three or four academic conferences a year; Nigel wanted to increase the number to three a month.

“Certainly, Giselle,” Flick said. “Fire away.”

“Well…I feel rather bewildered by what occurred this morning. Thirty minutes ago, I received a call from Professor Garrett at the University of Kent. He informed me the Kent Chapter of the Society of Elizabethan Fiction has decided to cancel next month’s conference. They were scheduled for the first week in February.”

“Did he give you a reason?”

“An odd one. He said that the chapter chose the tea museum on the assumption that the tea garden would be available for their use. However, he has received information that the police intend to keep the garden off-limits indefinitely.”

“From who?” Flick stiffened, as if she’d received a personal insult. “We haven’t been told when the police will get their paraphernalia out of the garden, but I can’t imagine they will still be here in February.” She suddenly shrugged. “On the other hand, my assumption may be wishful thinking. I guess we just have to smile and accept the cancellation as one more cost of discovering Makepeace’s body in our tea garden.”

“That may not be necessary.” Giselle held up a piece of paper. “What is most peculiar is that ten minutes after the professor called, I received this email message from someone named ‘Anonymous Bystander.’ ”

“What?” Nigel bounded out of his chair and nearly tore the message from her hand. He set the document on the table so that both he and Flick could read it.

To: Giselle Logan (Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum)

Prom: Anonymous Bystander

Subject: Modest Demonstration

Our modest demonstration is complete.

Because we don’t want to cause needless injury to the museum, we point out that Professor Garrett is an easy fellow to sway. We suggest you make him a promise that should the tea garden not be available during the conference, you will reduce the cost of the meeting by fifteen percent.

Please be assured you have our best wishes for the museum’s continued success!