The Final Crumpet (32 page)

Without saying a word, Nate stood up and walked to a window. Nigel noted that he seemed suddenly pale.

“Forty years is a long time…” He turned around slowly and faced Flick. “You asked for my advice about an exhibit. Well, here it is—
don’t
create one. The most sensible thing you can do is to forget Etienne Makepeace. Stop asking questions about him. Discard the information you’ve gathered. Replant the hole in the garden. Expunge Makepeace from the museum’s pantheon of tea heroes.”

Nigel decided to jump in. “We can’t do that, Nate.”

Nate’s shoulders sagged. “You haven’t told me the whole story, have you?”

“No.”

“I thought as much. It stretched credulity that you needed my wisdom to make a routine operational decision.”

“Our problem is somewhat more complicated than deciding whether or not to launch a new exhibit,” Nigel said. “The bank we chose to fund the acquisition of the Hawker collection is getting nervous about the transaction. The bank’s chairman demands a full accounting of Etienne Makepeace’s relationship to the museum before we get our money. He also wants us to find out
why
Makepeace was buried in our tea garden.”

“Find another banker.”

“We could—but he or she would ask precisely the same questions. Frankly, we want to know the answers, too.”

“Why would you suppose that I could provide them?” Nate moved close to the sofa but didn’t sit down.

“Because we know that Etienne often spent time with the ‘bigwigs’ on the third floor of the museum, including Mary Hawker Evans and representatives of the Hawker Foundation. I assume that the director of the museum sat in at those meetings.”

“You assume wrong.” Nate sighed. “I rarely attended the meetings you have in mind. The ‘bigwigs,’ to use your label for them, usually deemed my presence unnecessary. Consequently, I know very little about what went on.” He added, “Although, I have my suspicions.”

“Every item of information we get fills in another piece of the puzzle,” Flick said.

Nate abruptly raised his voice. “You speak as if you are asking me to merely break a minor confidence, young lady. To tell you what I know about Etienne Makepeace, I’ll have to commit a serious breach of British law.”

“What law?” Flick asked breathlessly.

“The Official Secrets Act. I was required to pledge my enduring silence in 1965.”

The room fell silent. Nigel, not wanting to look at Nate, stared into his half-full mug of cocoa and wondered if the former director had lost his mind.
The Official Secrets Act? What possible connection could there be between tea and state secrets?

A few moments later, Nate began to laugh. He retook his seat on the sofa next to Flick. “Please excuse my outburst of sanctimonious twaddle. You have a right to know the truth of our early days. Furthermore, I acknowledge that I’ve wanted to tell the story for decades. I’ve even fantasized about publishing my memoirs and revealing
all,
as the tabloids often say. I sincerely doubt that Her Majesty’s government will toss me in prison for revealing a forty-year-old secret. No—what holds me back today is my reluctance to make your lives at the museum even more difficult.”

Nigel glanced at Flick. She wisely had decided to say nothing and let Nate feel his own way forward, at his own pace.

Nate heaved a deeper sigh. “Both of you are too young to remember the Cold War—the
real
Cold War of the 1960s—when people truly feared that a minor conflict would escalate into a full-scale nuclear war between East and West. Keep in mind that the Cuban Missile Crisis took place during the same October when workmen were laying the brick walls of the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum.”

Nigel took another sip of cocoa. Where was his predecessor taking them with his odd history lesson?

“You see,” Nate went on, “many in Britain at the time had a strong sense that we were all at risk, that we were all soldiers in the battle against Communism. Many of us felt that every subject of the Queen had a role to play in containing the expansion of the Soviet Union.”

Nigel couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Nate, does the ‘many of us’ you refer to encompass the staff of a small tea museum in Tunbridge Wells—or the Royal Fusiliers on duty in the Fulda Pass?”

Nate hesitated long enough for Nigel to wonder if he had accidentally insulted the elderly man. At last, Nate went on, “The former, of course, Nigel. The handful of us at the museum who knew the details thought of ourselves as being at the front line in the battle against the Soviets.”

“Details? Nate—
what
details?”

“It’s difficult…” He took a deep breath and began again. “I suppose it’s best to be direct and succinct. In 1965, the British Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, conscripted the tea museum. MI6 used the museum to ‘credential’ several intelligence agents who then had legitimate tea-related reasons to visit China and the Soviet Union.”

Flick sat up straight. “Our little tea museum served as a cover for Cold War spying?”

“In so many words, yes,” Nate said. “I believe that we provided bona fides for five agents over an eighteen-month period. Their names were on our staff lists, and their research activities were described in our annual report. They even had telephone extensions and mailboxes to make them seem authentic, should anyone check.”

“But that’s outrageous!” she said. “Didn’t anyone complain? File a lawsuit? Write to their congress…I mean, member of Parliament?”

“My, my, Flick—you really don’t grasp what the sixties were like. The Hawker Foundation actively supported and cooperated with the scheme, as did Mary Hawker Evans. I had no choice in the matter, other than the unacceptable option of resigning my post in protest. But I also admit that I felt no particular outrage at what the museum was doing. The Soviets spied on us; we spied on them.” He gave a feeble laugh. “My role was especially easy. I simply looked the other way on occasion—and signed a few false letters of introduction.”

Nigel locked eyes with Flick and sensed her struggle to cope with the anger she clearly felt. The scientist inside had many more questions to ask Nathanial Swithin.

“Getting back to Etienne Makepeace…” she said, “how did he fit into the ‘scheme,’ as you call it?”

Nate prefaced his answer with a grudging nod. “Makepeace’s relationship with the museum started soon after we began to cooperate with MI6. One day, I found a letter from him in my inbox offering to deliver a trial lecture. Naturally, we accepted. Within two months, he had become a frequent visitor. He lectured, he attended the meetings you asked about, and he often browsed through our archives.”

“And he routinely harassed the women at the museum,” Flick said glumly.

“I won’t deny that our affiliation with Makepeace was, in many ways, a pact with the devil. Makepeace was an obnoxious fellow to have around, but we were a newly established museum, struggling to build a clientele. Makepeace’s lectures brought people in and boosted our reputation as a center of learning about tea. He regularly talked us up on the BBC. Whenever he lectured, reporters would flock to the Grand Hall, then write glowing stories that ran in newspapers across England.” Nate offered a tentative smile. “We needed the good, so we tolerated the bad.”

She shook her head with determination. “You should have given him the boot. Then he’d have been buried somewhere else.”

Nate peered at Flick—quizzically, Nigel thought. “I didn’t have the authority to discharge Etienne Makepeace. I thought you understood—he worked for MI6.”

Flick’s face became a mask of amazement. “Etienne Makepeace was a Cold War spy…a
spook?”

“Without a doubt.” Nate’s expression grew serious. “Makepeace never explained himself to me, but anyone with open eyes could see he was linked to the intelligence support the museum provided the government. He rubbed shoulders with the bigwigs; he routinely attended their Wednesday afternoon closed-door meetings; and when he disappeared, our association with MI6 came to an abrupt end.”

“A moment, Nate,” Nigel said. “What do you mean by ‘Wednesday afternoon’ meetings?”

“During our early years, the museum remained closed to the public every Wednesday—even during the busy summer season. The off day in the middle of the week gave the staff time to fine-tune new exhibits and do behind-the-scenes work. The meetings involving MI6 always took place on Wednesdays.”

“This…is…incredible,”
Flick said quietly, to no one in particular. She seemed to be staring at the fire. “It changes everything.”

Nate frowned. “I fear that I’ve placed a significant burden upon you. The government still considers the museum’s link with MI6 a secret. You know the truth, but you can’t do much with it—certainly not present the details in an exhibit. And as for your banker…well, I doubt he’d believe a word of my story. It seems incredibly fanciful, and I can provide no solid evidence that Etienne Makepeace was a…
ghost?
I’ve forgotten the term you used.”

Flick half smiled. “Spook.”

“Ah, yes. Spook.”

Nigel glanced at his watch. Two forty-five. The conversation had reached an obvious low point. The time had come to offer Nathanial Swithin their good-byes.

“Thank you, Nate,” he said cordially. “You’ve been of great assistance to us today.”

“Spectacularly helpful indeed.” Flick tried to match his cheerful tone, but Nigel could hear considerable disappointment in her voice. He should probably feel the same way; they’d have little to offer Sir James Boyer come Monday. Well, when Wescott Bank reneged on their loan, they would have to find a more visionary institution. They would have lots of help from Barrington Bleasdale, whose clients expected the sale to go through quickly. It was a terrible prospect—an enormous challenge for everyone involved—but somehow getting Flick back made it seem unimportant.

“May I ask one more favor of you?” Flick said to Nate. “But of course.”

She dug into her handbag. “I have two photographs that I’d like you to look at.” She handed him the small prints of the retouched images of Martin Maltby and Rupert Perry. “Do you recognize either of these men?”

Nate studied the photos. “I don’t know this fellow.” He handed Perry’s picture to Flick but kept staring at Maltby. “This chap looks familiar. I’m sure that I’ve talked with him at the museum when we were both substantially younger. I can’t remember precisely when, although I have a vague notion that he had something to do with the Hawker Foundation.” He stared some more. “That being the case…I do know one person who might be able to put a name to the face. In fact, I should have thought of Gwen earlier.”

“Gwen who?” Flick asked.

Nate returned Maltby’s photo. “Gwen Sturgis, the Hawker Foundation’s official archivist. She’s a delightful woman who possesses the finest memory I’ve ever encountered. Gwen can put most computers to shame. The Foundation will suffer mightily when she retires next year.” He punctuated his pronouncement with a curt nod. “If Gwen ever encountered this man, she will remember the time, place, and name. Moreover, she oversees rooms full of ancient documents, photographs, and miscellany. Perhaps she can find a nugget buried deep within that will help assuage your banker’s curiosity.”

“Unhappily,” Nigel said, “we are persona non grata at the Hawker Foundation. Jeremy Strain, the current director, decided that a mere tea museum is not worthy of the foundation’s financial support. I’ve memorized the statement he made on BBC TV when he took the helm of the foundation: ‘The function of my foundation is to do measurable good in the world and not to teach the Tunbridge Wells gentry how to brew a cup of English Breakfast tea.’ ”

Nate chuckled. “I’m well aware of Jeremy’s snobbishness, and so is Gwen Sturgis. She works for the man. However, he is a theoretical stumbling block rather than an actual obstacle. As is often said, the left hand needn’t know what the right hand is doing—especially if I invite Gwen down from London for a Saturday in Tunbridge Wells.”

“We’ll provide lunch,” Nigel said.

“Good! I’m in the mood to sup on posh victuals,” Nate said with a sniff.

“Please call Gwen,” Flick said. “Find out if she’s available.” Much to Nigel’s surprise, Nate averted his eyes. “Oh, Gwen will be available. I had planned to ride the train to London tomorrow and spend a quiet day with her. We’ll simply reverse our travel plans, as we often do.”

Nigel choked back a laugh. Flick also appeared to be doing her best to hold a straight face. Evidently, Nathanial Swithin returned to England every fourth week to enjoy more than the rain.

“Where shall we meet?” Nigel asked.

“At the museum, of course,” Nate answered. “If the South Eastern Train operates on time tomorrow, she’ll arrive at ten forty. We’ll be there a few minutes before eleven.”

“Nearly eleven it is.” Nigel peeked sideways at Flick. Her earlier gloom had largely dispelled. Nigel understood; Gwen Sturgis represented a new hope for the investigation. Curiously, he felt the same way.

Nigel and Flick followed Nate out of the sitting room. “I’ll walk with you as far as Frant Road,” he said. Taffy appeared magically at Nate’s side the instant he picked up her lead. When he opened the door, Taffy raced behind a rhododendron bush.