The Final Crumpet (25 page)

Flick tried not to reveal the confusion she felt. “You say that Makepeace’s writings were ghostwritten?”

“Every bloody jot and tittle.” The soft laugh again. “I thought that would pique your interest.”

“Do you have…
proof
of your accusations?”

“Why else would I bother coming here today?” Maltby reached into his breast pocket and brought out a folded document. “Here is a carbon copy of a manuscript that was published in the April 1959 issue of Town and Country magazine. Forgive the occasional error; the man who prepared the draft typed it by hand on an old Imperial Model 55 typewriter. For your convenience, I have also attached a photocopy of the article as it appeared in the magazine. You will see that they are identical.”

Flick scanned the carbon copy quickly: a six-page draft on the virtues of different teas grown in Ceylon. The color of the typed characters, their slightly blurred appearance, looked right for a carbon copy. The paper was a thin “onion skin,” the kind often used for copies in the days before every office had a photocopying machine.

Maltby seemed to read her mind. “This is a museum. I suspect you have equipment that will enable you to verify the age of the carbon copy and its authenticity.”

Flick nodded. “By itself, of course, a single authentic document doesn’t prove much. It could have come from anywhere.”

“Do you take me for a dunce? Rupert Perry and I can provide copies of
dozens
of other draft manuscripts. We wrote Makepeace’s articles, books, speeches, clever ad-libs—
everything.
We earned a pittance for our work; Makepeace took the credit and became an international celebrity.”

Flick fought to maintain her composure. “May I keep this carbon copy?” she asked evenly.

Maltby replied with a sarcastic grimace. “And the photocopy of the article, too. Why else would I have given them to you?”

Flick could feel her expression tighten into a scowl. Maltby lifted his hands in an impromptu stop signal. “I perceive that my forthright manner has caused you considerable irritation. I warned Rupert Perry that that would be the case; I urged him to come instead of me, because he is charming, personable, likeable—all the things that I am not. But Rupert preferred not to travel from London to Tunbridge Wells. And so, I came instead.” He sighed. “You will have to go to him to obtain the rest of our evidence.”

“I have no intention of traveling to London, Mr. Maltby.”

“Nonsense. I’m confident that you’ll make the trip.”

“And why is that?”

“Chiefly because you are ethical, curious, and loath to perpetrate a historical catastrophe in this museum.” His sudden smile conveyed a hint of sadness. “I can read the doubts on your face. You’ve studied Etienne Makepeace enough to suspect that he falsified much of his public persona. Consequently, you’ve become skeptical of the adulation heaped on him, and you want to uncover the full extent of his deception—and possibly the motive for his death. Rupert Perry can give you the information you seek. He lived through chapters of the story that I can merely present to you as hearsay.”

“I’ll think about it. I make no promises.”

Maltby reached into a side pocket. “This mobile phone is for you. Use it to contact Rupert Perry and arrange a meeting. He is awaiting your call.”

Flick took the palm-sized device. “I have my own mobile phone.”

“Undoubtedly. However, we prepaid for one hundred minutes of service on that telephone and programmed Rupert’s number into the memory. Press 5 when you are ready to talk to him.”

“Why not just give me his phone number?”

Maltby repeated his soft laugh. “In fact, Rupert is a man who values his solitude. He can be somewhat obsessive about guarding his privacy and rarely provides his personal phone number to strangers. You will talk to him on an identical mobile device. Both were acquired using…shall we say, names of convenience. It’s a simple precaution to ensure that he is in control of all communications. Should you try to contact him using another telephone, an unexpected number will appear on his phone’s Caller ID screen. He won’t answer—and you will have squandered your only opportunity to learn the complete truth about Etienne Makepeace.”

“As I said—I’ll think about it.”

“Naturally, you will contact Rupert Perry at a time you deem most appropriate. However, I urge you not to delay. He can be unpredictable when slighted. It would be foolish to ignore such a gift, freely given. No one knows more about Makepeace than Rupert Perry.”

“I’ll see you out, Mr. Maltby,” Flick said.

“That’s hardly necessary, Dr. Adams. You should return to the important work of this museum.” He gave a friendly wave, then turned to leave. “Ta-ta.”

She waited in the Commodore Hawker Room until Nigel poked his head around the door frame. “Maltby’s gone,” he said. “He climbed into a red Peugeot 607 sedan and drove off toward Tunbridge Wells.” Nigel looked through a window that overlooked Eridge Road. He seemed to be trying to catch a glimpse of Maltby’s car.

“Who do you suppose he is?” Nigel asked.

“Evidently a ghostwriter of some sort.”

“Perhaps, although Conan thinks he wore a disguise.”

“Impossible! I was standing next to him—nothing about Maltby seemed unnatural.”

“Well, it seems that our new surveillance camera reached a different conclusion.”

Flick did a slow pirouette. “Where is the new camera? I know it’s somewhere over in the corner, but I don’t see anything out of place.”

Nigel pointed to a jeweled pewter stein on a shelf. “Notice there are now three steins on display, where before there were only two.”

“Nifty.”

Flick looked down at the carbon copy in one hand and the mobile telephone in the other. “What’s on your agenda this afternoon?”

“Ah. You think we should go to London.”

“You heard Maltby. Rupert Perry is a font of information about Etienne Makepeace—probably the only one left. I don’t think we have a choice.”

Nine

N
igel followed Conan back to his office and peered over the chief of security’s shoulder while he examined the mobile phone Maltby had given Flick. “It’s a cheap, refurbished, off-brand cell phone, sir,” Conan said, “with limited features—the kind sold for thirty pounds or so for those who choose pay-as-you-go mobile service.”

Nigel picked the phone up. As Maltby had promised, a single number had been programmed into its memory and assigned to speed dial
5.

“You don’t suppose we can lift Maltby’s fingerprints from the surface, do you?” Nigel asked.

Conan smiled. “The only fingerprints anyone would find on that phone belong to Dr. Adams, and perhaps one or two from you, sir. She held it tightly in her palm when Maltby gave it to her, and you have a healthy grip on it right now.”

“Good heavens!” Nigel dropped the phone on Conan’s desk as if it had delivered an electric shock to his hand. “Have we destroyed evidence?”

“Not really. I can’t imagine what we would do with a set of Maltby’s dabs. We don’t have access to the National Fingerprint Database. And even if we did, who’s to say that Maltby’s prints are currently on file.”

Nigel grunted. He sat down in a chair next to Conan’s desk and considered the image of Maltby that filled the surveillance camera computer monitor. There was something strange about the man’s appearance. His eyes perhaps, or possibly his mouth. Conan had mentioned a disguise but hadn’t explained what he meant.

“Pennies for your thoughts.”

Nigel looked up. Flick had quietly slipped into Conan’s office.

Nigel shrugged. “I wasn’t thinking about anything worth repeating.”

“How about you, Conan?” she asked.

“Well, ma’am, I was musing that the more we learn about Etienne Makepeace, the less likable a chap he becomes. We’ve been told that he was an easy person to fight with…an ungrateful lout…a shameless womanizer…and lastly a fake and a fraud. He was estranged from his kith and kin, reviled by those who knew him, and eventually murdered by someone who apparently did the nation a good turn. One would expect a bit of good to surface sooner or later—after all, we Britons once considered the man a national treasure—but we’ve heard nothing save bad about him. It’s a pity to discover that a revered icon is really the nastiest of men.”

Flick nodded. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. Etienne Makepeace died a hero, but he might have been unmasked as a villain any day back then had he not been murdered. He had too many blemishes to keep covered indefinitely.”

Nigel could see a touch of sadness on her face. “I can understand Makepeace being less than likable and difficult to get along with—many geniuses are. But Maltby brought us evidence that England’s Tea Sage took credit for other people’s work. That’s an unforgivable sin for a man in his position.”

She sighed. “I asked one of my curators to examine Maltby’s document. I fear it will prove to be genuine.”

“Would you like a fresh cuppa, ma’am?” Conan asked.

Flick spotted the teapot atop his bookcase and pounced. She filled a cup and then browsed the other items on offer. “Yum! Crawford’s Garibaldi biscuits. They’re hard to get in the United States, but my parents often serve them at the White Rose of York.”

Nigel found himself thinking of his former wife, Sheila. She liked Garibaldi biscuits, too, although many of their friends insisted they didn’t go well with tea. Flat, rectangular, stuffed with currants, and baked with a shiny glazed surface, they were more like miniature fruitcakes than traditional English tea biscuits.

Apparently, Cha-Cha also liked Garibaldis. He had curled up on the rug in front of Conan’s desk, pretending to snooze. His tail began to wag when he saw her break one of the biscuits in half. She tossed a nibble, which he deftly caught in midair.

Conan cleared his throat. “Mr. Maltby couldn’t have arrived at a more opportune time. He has provided a superb test subject for our new surveillance system.” The big man pulled his keyboard closer to the edge of his desk and touched several keys.

“Here he is in the visitors’ car park, walking toward our building. His Peugeot is the third car on the left.”

Conan’s fingers zipped along the keyboard.

“Here he is again when he entered the Commodore Hawker Room with Mirabelle Hubbard.”

More finger tapping.

“Finally, here is Mr. Maltby departing. As you can see, he turned right upon leaving the visitors’ car park.”

“I can almost make out the car’s number plate,” Nigel said.

“No need to strain your eyes, sir”—he tapped more keys—“we can easily freeze and enlarge the image of the plate.”

“Amazing!”

“Do you see the small red sticker on the boot lid?”

“Ah ha! The Peugeot is a hired car.”

“Indeed, sir. Should it become necessary, I’ll call in a favor from a policeman friend of mine and try to ascertain who signed the rental agreement. I doubt, however, that we would learn anything useful; Maltby obviously knows how to cover his tracks.” Conan paused, then said, “Now let me replay the first two of these sequences side by side. Do you observe any significant differences?”

Nigel peered at the screen as “Martin Maltby in the Car Park” and “Martin Maltby in the Commodore Hawker Room” walked in adjacent image windows.

“He has a definite air of bravado about him in the car park,” he said, “but a much more halting walk inside the building.”

“I believe that’s part of his disguise,” Conan said.

“You talked about a disguise earlier. What do you have in mind?”

“If I may defer your question until later, sir—what else do you perceive about the gentleman?”

“Well, I’d say he’s looking for something in the Commodore Hawker Room. He seems to be searching methodically.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Flick said. “What do you suppose he’s looking for?”

“Surveillance cameras, ma’am,” Conan said. “Maltby is a rather sophisticated operator. He guessed that he might be photographed and tried to take appropriate precautions.” The big man laughed. “Of course, so did we. I don’t believe that he ever located our hidden camera.” Conan tapped the keyboard and continued talking. “Here are two outwardly identical close-up images of Maltby’s face.”

Nigel looked. There was nothing “outwardly identical” about the photos. They seemed perfectly matched in every respect.

“The image on the left,” Conan said, “is an untouched frame caught by the camera. I have the ability to manipulate the image on the right by applying various filters. This is possible because our new surveillance cameras capture light across a broad spectrum of colors.” He laughed again. “It’s all very technical, of course, but as Mr. Garwood pointed out, all one needs to understand is how to press the right keys.
Voila!”

“What did you do?” Flick asked. “The image on the right looks…
pasty.”

“I applied a bit of infrared filtering, ma’am. It highlights anything artificial applied to the subject’s skin. I believe that the blotchy patches on his cheeks are theatrical makeup and the darker region on his nose some sort of prosthesis to change its shape.”