The Final Crumpet (30 page)

Flick tapped gently on Nigel’s door and wondered if an hour had been enough “post-Polly” recovery time. Poor Nigel had seemed shell-shocked when she left him sitting in their makeshift “Incident Room.” She wished she could leave him alone longer, but they couldn’t afford to give up a whole day—not with such little time left before the bank’s deadline.

“Come in,” spoke a faint voice from deep inside the office.

The room was dark when she stepped inside. Nigel had drawn the curtains, pulled down the shades, and switched off the lights. He lay stretched out on his leather couch, his arms crossed.

“Why are you lying in the shadows?” she asked.

“The better to contemplate a move to the hills of Afghanistan. I imagine that the daily life there will be less challenging than in Tunbridge Wells. I’ll also be able to find a lower-stress job. Perhaps defusing land mines.”

“Next question. How do you feel?”

“Foolish.”

“The same as me.”

“Ah. Polly was right about you, too?”

“Yeah. I should have understood what your dithering meant. I’ve been a nincompoop.”

“True.”

She uttered a stage snicker. “Isn’t it lovely when we both can agree about important things?”

“What time is it?”

“Eleven twenty.”

“I take it you want me up and about.”

“I’ve been thinking—don’t make any snide comments that we’ve ignored one promising lead in our investigation. Jim Sizer, Mirabelle Hubbard, and Trevor Dangerfield told us that Etienne Makepeace hobnobbed with the bigwigs at the museum, including the people from the Hawker Foundation. We need to converse with a former bigwig about Makepeace.”

“How do we accomplish that? Mary Hawker Evans is dead and so is the man who was chief curator throughout the ‘60s. I can’t even remember his name. Nathanial Swithin, my predecessor as Director, was around back then, but he’s currently relaxing on a beach in Majorca. Although I might enjoy a jaunt to Palma, we don’t have sufficient spare time to make the trip. Besides, we must assume that he’s driven all memories of this bloody institution out of his head. I definitely plan to do so when I relocate to Afghanistan. Lastly, we won’t get a whit of cooperation out of the Hawker Foundation. As you well know, Jeremy Strain, the current managing director, is not a fan of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum.”

“As it happens, Nathanial Swithin is back in England. I just spoke with him on the telephone. He’s expecting us at two this afternoon. He still lives in Tunbridge Wells, on Broadwater Down. Close enough to walk.”

“Goody.”

Flick raised the shade on the window opposite Nigel’s sofa.

“Zounds! You are a cruel, cruel woman!” He turned over and buried his face in the ancient leather upholstery.

“As you would see if you looked, the fog is completely gone, and there are large chunks of blue sky punching through the clouds. A stroll through Tunbridge Wells will do wonders for your dismal disposition.”

“I may never leave this sofa.”

“That will be awkward.” She raised another shade. “Hannah Kerrigan is dropping by at eleven thirty to show us her Photo shopped pictures of Rupert Perry and Martin Maltby.”

“Fie on thee, woman.”

“Oh. I put the mug of coffee I brought you on your desk.”

“Coffee! Bless you.” He extended his hand.

“Nope. If you want it, you get it.”

“I withdraw my blessing.”

Flick did her best not to laugh when Nigel slid off the sofa and stumbled to his desk. She continued to work her way around the office raising shades and switching on lights. The ambience—and Nigel, too—were largely restored when Hannah arrived and placed two large photos on his desk.

“Here’s my best guess of what one will find under the wigs and the makeup.”

“Conan was right,” Flick said. “The undisguised Martin Maltby looks remarkably different.”

“Quite distinguished, actually,” Hannah said. “A proper English gentleman, now that his nose is the right size and his lips don’t protrude.”

Flick examined the photograph. The man in the image looked somewhat older than the Martin Maltby she had spoken with, chiefly because Hannah had given him a mostly bald pate, with a sparse fringe of hair around his head.

Hannah went on. “I found Mr. Perry more of a challenge, because I believe that he has a poor complexion beneath his makeup. He’s more leathery-faced than rosy-cheeked, with the sort of skin that spent lots of time exposed to tropical sunshine. And, as you can see, I supposed that his head was totally shaven under his wig.”

“You do great work!” Flick said. “I’ll tape these pictures to our ‘wall of fame.’ ”

“I figured you might want to hang them.” Hannah gave Flick a small envelope. “I also made a set of smaller prints, in case you want to carry the images around with you.”

Flick peered at Nigel. He had studied both pictures intently but hadn’t said a thing.

“So, what do you think?” she asked.

“I’m greatly impressed. I didn’t think it could be done, but these images seem mostly right to me.” Nigel added, “Now all we need are their real names.”

Flick winked at Hannah. Perhaps another
attagirl
from the chief curator would counteract the somewhat faint praise offered by the director? The museum’s Webmistress didn’t notice; her wistful gaze had been riveted on Nigel all the while.

Tough luck, kid. You had your chance, but he’s soon going to be taken again. By me!

Nigel’s telephone rang. Flick glanced at the Caller ID screen.

“Speak of the devil! It’s Barrington Bleasdale.”

She cordially, but firmly, shooed Hannah out of Nigel’s office while he answered the phone. He held the receiver away from his ear. Flick moved close enough to hear both ends of the conversation.

“Good morning, Mr. Owen.” Bleasdale’s voice oozed with synthetic compassion. “I just read the unfortunate article in the
Kent and Sussex Courier.”

Flick found it difficult not to laugh.
You probably proofread the piece, too, before they ran it.

He went on, “It’s a nasty business—the awkward sort of publicity that puts you on the defensive with the public. One can hypothesize that mothers will hesitate bringing their children to a museum that is home to a destructive and dangerous animal.”

“Thank you for caring…
Barrington.”
Nigel said evenly. “And thank you for calling.”

Flick imagined tying the current issue of the Courier around a brick and tossing it through Bleasdale’s window.
Probably not a good idea.

“In point of fact,” Barrington said, “I called today for a reason. I am the bearer of good tidings who can show you the silver lining in the cloud now hanging over the museum.”

Flick looked at Nigel; they both shrugged. Flick mouthed,
“I have no idea what he’s talking about—do you?”

“Go on,” Nigel said.

“The Hawker heirs have instructed me to tell you that they are willing to ignore the agreement that Elspeth made with the museum. They are willing to have Elspeth’s animals returned to the bosom of the Hawker family.”

Flick came close to shouting, “What?” at the telephone but was able to control her zeal. Nigel grabbed a pencil and wrote on a pad of paper,
“I smell a rat.”

Flick snatched the pencil from Nigel’s hand and scrawled,
“Me, too! They’ve never been interested in the pets—even when Elspeth was alive!”

Her dealings with the Hawker heirs had been limited, but she couldn’t imagine that they cared two pins about Cha-Cha, Lapsang, Souchong, and Earl. Harriet and Alfred’s sudden concern about the little menagerie made no sense at all.

Bleasdale droned on, “Now for the good news. Harriett and Alfred have agreed to assume whatever liability you face for the death of the unfortunate ferret. They have asked me to offer the claimant a fair settlement—all in the spirit of neighborliness.”

“The claimant? That would be Bertram Holloway?”

“He’s really a fine fellow, despite his misplaced affection for ferrets.”

“Then you know him?”

“I’ve met him on one or two occasions, at Hawker family gatherings.”

“Yes, well, you’ve given us much to think about, Counselor.

When do you need an answer?”

“As quickly as possible. It’s always wise to strike when the iron is hot. One never knows when the Hawker heirs will change their minds.” Bleasdale lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Just between you and me, they can be difficult clients at times.”

“I’m more than a little curious,” Nigel said, “why Harriet and Alfred would want the pets returned?”

“Well, it seems that Harriet misses the cats while Alfred had become attached to the dog and the bird.”

“An affair of the heart?”

“Exactly. The Hawker heirs are highly affectionate people.”

“Quite.” Nigel rang off.

“That last bit about Harriet and Alfred missing the pets…,” Flick said. “Balderdash!” She smiled at Nigel. “Did I say that right?”

“Perfectly. I can’t imagine why they would want Elspeth’s pets back…”

“I can. We’ve never thought about it, but they’re worth a good deal of money.”

Nigel seemed to stiffen. “You’re right, of course. I should have realized earlier. Bleasdale wrote the letter and placed the news item—they’re all part of a grand scheme to encourage us to return the pets so the Hawkers can sell them. I wish we could repay the swine in his own currency.”

“Perhaps we can.” Flick giggled. “I have a weird idea. Where’s the anonymous mobile phone that Martin Maltby gave us?”

Nigel tugged open a desk drawer. “Right here. What else do you need?”

“The telephone number for Lion’s Peak.”

“Half a mo.” He looked it up on his computer. Flick pressed the keys.

“Alfred Hawker here,” said a boring, nasal voice.

Yippy. The least savvy of the siblings answered the phone.

Flick began speaking in her most accomplished English accent. “Yes, Mr. Hawker. This is, ah…Mrs. Lenora Fielding.” Flick wondered why a name she had last spoken twenty-five years ago popped into her head. Then she remembered: Lenora, a childhood friend, was the best twelve-year-old liar that York, Pennsylvania, had ever produced. Flick went on, “I live in Sevenoaks, Kent. I have been told that you have a pair of show-quality British Shorthair cats for sale.”

A pause, then “May I ask who told you that?”

“A friend of a friend in Tunbridge Wells. I promised I would not reveal her name.”

Another pause. “Well, it is true that we expect to have two British Shorthairs available for purchase within a few days. Both have extraordinary pedigrees.”

“Have you set a price yet?”

“As you undoubtedly know, Mrs. Fielding, show-quality British Shorthairs are difficult to acquire. We plan to have an informal auction, with the initial bids beginning at two thousand pounds each.”

“That seems an eminently fair approach. How does one place a bid?”

“Our solicitor, Barrington Bleasdale, is handling all of the details. Call him for instructions.”

“That’s ‘Bleasdale’ with a B?”

“Quite. Be sure to let him know you are interested in the cats. Should you be interested, we are also disposing of a fine-quality African Grey parrot and a pedigreed dog of the Shiba Inu breed.”

Flick cringed at the word
disposing.
“Most interesting.

Can I trouble you for your solicitor’s telephone number?”

She heard Alfred sigh. “Directory Enquiries can provide more assistance than I can in that direction. I rarely call the gentleman myself—I believe that Mr. Bleasdale has an office in Tunbridge Wells.”

She pushed the
End
button and repeated all that Alfred had said to her.

“It’s all about money,” she added. “Somehow Harriet and Alfred found out that Elspeth had exquisite taste in pets. They must be kicking themselves for insisting that the museum take them in after she died.”

“How much money are we talking about?” Nigel asked.

“Two British Shorthairs, one Grey parrot, and a Shiba Inu. I suppose their total value could reach ten thousand pounds.”

“Hmm.
Perhaps we’re being too hasty? Ten thousand quid is a lot of lolly. Do you think we could hold our own auction?”

“Over
your
dead body.”

“I take your point. What’s next?”

“Well, now that we know we’ve guessed right, we ruin Bleasdale’s day.” Flick switched to Nigel’s telephone and pressed
Redial
.

Bleasdale answered on the second ring. He must have Caller ID, too, Flick thought.

“Mr. Owen—I presume you’re calling because the museum has reached a decision about the animals?”