by Ron Benrey
“The orthodox technique sounds more expensive.”
Flick nodded. “A tea picker needs to collect three hundred leaves to make one pound of tea. All that hand labor adds to the cost. Orthodox processing is usually reserved for the best grades of tea—the kind sold loose rather than in tea bags.” She added, “I have a question for you.”
“Fire away.”
“Does MI5 ever work with the police in Tunbridge Wells?”
“Ah, the celebrated Kent County constabulary, now known officially as the Kent police. Well, naturally I am forbidden to give you specific details, but anyone perusing a map of Kent will find Dover, one of the country’s major ports, and Folkstone, the English end of the Channel Tunnel, and Manston, which has a recently developed international airport.”
“In other words, one might safely reach the conclusion that MI5 has a well-established relationship with the Kent police.”
“Indeed one might.”
Flick guided Nicholas through the first-floor lobby into the Tea at Sea Gallery.
“These models are exquisite,” he said. “The tea clippers were beautiful ships.”
“And built purposely for speed. Their sleek lines and large sails represent the pinnacle of merchant sailing ship technology. A well-found tea clipper could go as fast as twenty knots if the wind was right.” She pointed to a painting on the far wall. “There’s Taeping arriving in London on the sixth of September 1866, with Ariel a short distance behind her. Both clippers left from Foochow, China, on the twenty-ninth of May. They traveled sixteen thousand miles in about a hundred days—a journey that used to take a full year in a traditional sailing ship.”
“Why did a ship meant to carry tea leaves have to be fast?”
“The usual answer: money. The first ships that arrived with the new tea crop from China could command much higher prices for their cargoes.”
“May I conduct an experiment?” Nicholas asked. He touched the hull of the closest model, a clipper named the Fiery Cross. He smiled at Flick and said, “Nothing happened.”
“What did you think might happen?”
“Bells. Flashing lights. Screaming security guards.” He gave a careless wave. “Conan Davies told me that individual items on display are not alarmed. Obviously he was right.”
“I know how to disable our security system when I enter the museum after hours and then turn it back on again when I leave—but I don’t understand the specific details of how the alarm works. That’s on my list of things to learn when I have more free time. Are we good or bad?”
“Quite good actually.” Nicholas looked around the room. “I can see three passive infrared motion detectors on the walls. Apparently there are a dozen on each floor. They switch on to provide secondary defense in depth when everyone has left the museum. As Conan explained to me, your primary alarm protects the perimeter of the museum proper—the main building and your tearoom. A network of magnetic switches on the windows and doors will detect any intruder imprudent enough to break in after hours. His trespass will trigger a silent alarm and bring the police here in minutes. Even your greenhouse has its own dedicated alarm system. In short, you have a top-of-the-line security system.”
Flick looked away from Nicholas to hide the frisson of annoyance she felt. In all her thinking about Elspeth’s discoveries, she had foolishly ignored the museum’s elaborate intruder alarm.
Why didn’t our “quite good” security system call the police when someone replaced several of the antiquities on display with fakes?
Not even Houdini could have made the exchanges during the day. The antiquities marked with big red Fs in Elspeth’s little black book were too large to smuggle under a coat or inside a bag. Each “swap” required a round-trip: bringing a counterfeit item in and taking a genuine item out. It had to have been done when the museum was closed, when the security system was armed and operating.
But that presented a new problem. Only a small group of museum staffers had personal access codes to arm and disarm the perimeter alarm: the acting director, the chief curator, the chief of security, and the four security guards. And the biometric sensor would recognize only their finger images. Only those individuals could disable the motion detectors that protected the museum.
Simply put, none of the five trustees on Elspeth’s list could—in theory—enter the building by himself or herself after hours. How did the guilty trustee manage to bypass a sophisticated security system?
Figure it out later—after Nicholas leaves.
She surveyed the room. He had moved across the gallery to a display case full of nineteenth-century navigation instruments. The stars of the exhibit were two venerable ship chronometers built by Brockbank & Atkins, a London clock-maker, in the 1840s. A small overhead spotlight made their polished wooden boxes glow and the brass rims around their dials gleam like gold. Trevor Dangerfield and Mirabelle Hubbard took turns winding the clocks every day the museum was open. They still kept nearly perfect time.
Flick sidled up to Nicholas. “How about you?” she said.
“How about me—what?”
“Do you know much about the Kent police?”
He gazed at her quizzically. “I know the odd fact learned here and there. Why do you ask?”
Flick shrugged as innocently as she could. “Curiosity mostly. My uncle is a detective in York, Pennsylvania. I understand police procedure in the United States, but not in England.”
“What might you be curious about?”
“Let’s say there was an antiquities-related murder in this museum, the sort of murder you talked about earlier, except that it involved items that were stolen from this museum. Would our local police station in Tunbridge Wells conduct the investigation?”
“Almost certainly not. The Tunbridge Wells Police Station on Civic Way is a satellite used by local patrol officers. It doesn’t have the resources required to conduct a full-scale homicide investigation. Kent’s Major Crime Unit is based in Maidstone, at Kent Police Headquarters. The detectives probably would manage the case from an incident room established there.”
Flick decided to gamble. “Do you have a contact in the Major Crime Unit? A detective who might be willing to answer any other questions I have?”
Nicholas frowned at Flick. “Where is this bizarre tête-à-tête leading, Dr. Adams?” His voice had become distant, almost bureaucratic. “Are you trying to tell me that an antiquities-related murder has been committed at this museum?”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly? The question I asked you calls for a yes or no answer.”
Flick sighed. I’ve done it now. She knew at once that she had gone too far.
“Yes,” she said. “Everyone assures me that I’m wrong, but I have lingering concerns about the recent death of one of our trustees.”
“You can’t mean Dame Elspeth Hawker?”
Flick nodded.
Mitchell puffed out his cheeks. “This morning I prepared for my visit by reading a précis of recent news about the museum. My understanding is that Dame Elspeth suffered a fatal heart attack during a trustee meeting while in the presence of an experienced physician.”
“All true—except for the heart attack. I believe she was poisoned, probably by one of the other trustees.”
“Poisoned? How?”
“An overdose of Seconal placed in a pot full of preserves.”
“Why would someone want to kill an old lady?”
“To hide the theft of antiquities—”
Nicholas held up his hands. “Stop! I was mistaken to ask and I don’t want to know. This discussion is sheer lunacy on my part.” He took a step back from Flick. “I take it that no one else at the museum thinks Elspeth Hawker was murdered?”
Flick shook her head.
“And that you haven’t spoken to the Kent police?”
Another shake.
“Then why in the name of heaven tell me?”
“Because you are an expert in antiquities theft and you work for
the British equivalent of the FBI. You’re an ideal person to tell.”
“Naturally you have persuasive evidence to bolster your belief.”
Flick hesitated. Nicholas had asked a simple question. Given the skeptical edge to his voice, he expected a simple answer. But did she have one? The sum total of her “persuasive evidence” was a hurried observation she had made, an informal experiment she had conducted, and a notebook full of cryptic writing she had found. Thought about the right way, they came together to reveal the method and the motive for murder. But if Nicholas thought about them the wrong way—with a mind’s eye predisposed to disbelieve her—she would seem a complete fool.
Keep Elspeth’s notebook a secret.
“You can probably use another cup of tea,” she said. “Let me offer you one in our tearoom. That will give me a proper opportunity to describe the evidence I’ve gathered.”
“I think not.” Nicholas looked for the exit. “It’s best that I leave. If you have evidence, share it with the Kent police.” He turned away without offering his hand.
Flick called after him, “I’ll walk downstairs with you.” “No need,” he said over his shoulder. “I can see myself out.” Flick reached her office and the window across from her desk in time to see Nicholas walk to the visitors’ car park and climb into his car. To her surprise, he didn’t start the engine. Instead, he began to write on a large yellow pad. She watched him fill two pages before he put the pad down.
Oh boy. What did I just do?
Nine
Nigel put down his telephone and stared glumly at the notation he had just been compelled to scribble on his desk calendar: Informal Trustee Meeting, Saturday 2:00 p.m. The designer who had drawn the calendar knew that most sensible folk choose not to work on Saturdays and that the few who do rarely schedule silly meetings on Saturday afternoons. Consequently, he or she had made the Saturday box much smaller than the other days of the week.
Obviously you have never met Marjorie Halifax.
Not that Nigel rejected outright the notion of working on weekends. He begrudgingly reported to his office on Saturdays, on the theory that the acting director should be at the helm whenever the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum was open to the public. No, what bothered Nigel most was that he had allowed Marjorie to bully him into organizing a largely unnecessary meeting when he had more productive things to do.
Nigel had planned to spend that particular Saturday reading the boxful of information on grants and fund-raising campaigns that Augustus Hoskins had sent along with a brief note:
Here are examples of other small museums that have successfully raised the amount of money you require. You should be able to adapt their techniques and approaches to your situation. Furthermore, I pray that their successes will buoy your spirits. Bringing in forty million pounds over the next decade is doable, although your successor and Dr. Adams will have to sing for many a supper in the years to come.
Nigel felt the muscles in his neck start to tighten. He rolled his head slowly from side to side to ease the tension. He looked at Cha-Cha lying half-asleep on his sofa and said, “Marjorie Halifax is a bona fide pain in the neck.”
He craned his neck to stretch the muscles. Years ago he’d taken yoga lessons to help him cope with stress. Deep-breathing exercises had helped him deal with far tougher bosses than Marjorie Halifax. He filled his lungs slowly, then exhaled slowly.
“There will be only four trustees at the meeting, Nigel,” she had said. “There is no need to make a fuss over us. We can do without scones, although tea would be lovely. And if the boardroom is unavailable, we will happily congregate around your desk in your office.”
“The boardroom is available,” he said, struggling to retain a modicum of civility in his voice. “And I will arrange for tea to be served. Do you have an agenda in mind?”
“I hardly see a need for a formal agenda. We will gather to review the progress you have made in formulating your recommendation and also to provide whatever help we can.” Her tone shifted to noble. “Please understand that we care about you, Nigel. We are happy to give up our Saturday afternoon for your benefit. We want you to succeed.”
“Thank you, Marjorie. Who will be the four attendees?”
“Myself and three of the local trustees: Dorothy McAndrews, Matthew Eaton, and Vicar de Rudd. Sir Simon can’t break loose from the hospital this afternoon. And I decided not to ask Archibald or Iona to make the trip to Tunbridge Wells. No need to burden them excessively.”
But you have no compunctions against burdening me excessively.
“I presume that you want Dr. Adams to attend the meeting?” he said.
“Indeed we want our chief curator to be there,” came the reply. “You and she have a joint responsibility to make a recommendation.”
“Precisely! Dr. Adams and I intended to confer this afternoon to discuss our options. The meeting will delay us from doing that.”
Marjorie sighed deeply. “Heavens, Nigel, why do you make it difficult for us to help you? The museum is facing the worst crisis in its history. I won’t deny that the trustees need reassurance from you—and perhaps even some hand-holding. I shan’t name names, but some of us are bewildered that a businessperson with your training and experience hasn’t already made his recommendation. It seems obvious what we have to do if we are to keep the museum open.”
Nigel noted Marjorie’s use of “we” and gazed heavenward. The whole purpose of shifting the creative responsibility to Flick and him was to ensure that “we” could not be blamed if something went wrong. Marjorie knew it. So did the other trustees. Probably so did Cha-Cha.
“I had hoped to present a comprehensive proposal early next week,” Nigel said, “one that includes a detailed funding plan. I am confident that the trustees will find that more useful than a bare recommendation to buy the Hawker collection.”
“Excellent! You can tell us all about your intentions this afternoon.”
“I relish the opportunity, Marjorie,” he lied.
“Ta ta, Nigel.”
Nigel sat lost in thought until Cha-Cha yipped.
“A bit nosy, are we?” he said. “Well, if you must know, that was Marjorie Halifax. As Elspeth may have told you, Marjorie serves on the Tunbridge Wells Borough Council and fancies herself a tourism guru. She snookered three of our trustees into cosponsoring a silly meeting to make certain that Tunbridge Wells doesn’t lose a major visitors’ attraction.”
The dog’s tail wagged slowly. He appeared to be enjoying their chat.
“You should also attend, because your future is up in the air, too. If we don’t manage to acquire the collection, the local trustees will be so angry with the Hawkers that they will undoubtedly declare you persona non grata along with me.”
The dog tilted his head as if puzzled.
“I’m sorry, Cha-Cha, but I don’t know the Japanese equivalent of persona non grata. It’s Latin for ‘Get your sorry bum out of the building before sunset.’ ”
Cha-Cha dropped his tail with a thump.
“Ah, now you understand. Persona non grata means an end to sleeping on my sofa and no more tasty squirrels in the greenhouse.”
Nigel’s phone rang.
Maybe Marjorie came to her senses and cancelled the meeting.
His optimism was replaced by curiosity when he saw Margo McKendrick flash on the caller-ID panel. He wasn’t expecting any visitors today.
“Hello, Margo.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Are you having a good day?”
“I am, sir.”
“Glad to hear it.” Because I am not.
He pictured Margo sitting in the kiosk. Gracious, amiable, always considerate of other people. Not a devious bone in her body. Pity she hadn’t become a trustee.
“Please don’t tell me that Cha-Cha has deposited another eviscerated rodent on the teahouse floor?”
“Oh no, sir. There are two people here to see you. Detective Inspector Marc Pennyman and Detectiv
e Constable Sally Kerr. Both from the Kent police.”
More coppers? First a visit from MI5, now an unannounced drop-in by the local constabulary, undoubtedly to deliver a new round of superfluous warnings about stolen Iraqi treasures. Didn’t English law-enforcement personnel have anything better to do than waste the time of a busy museum keeper? Specifically, this busy museum keeper. The plods really needed to learn the difference between the British Museum and a blooming little tea museum in the hinterland of Kent County.
“Send them up.” He added, “Point them to the stairs. Don’t even tell them we have an elevator.”
Nigel met the pair in the third-floor lobby. He dithered a moment, uncertain who to greet first: the taller, but subordinate, woman or the shorter, and higher-ranking, man.
The detective inspector solved the problem by extending his hand. “I’m DI Pennyman,” he said, “and this is DC Kerr.”
Pennyman was in his late thirties, balding, with a compact build and a cheerless countenance tinted red from the brisk climb up the stairs. Kerr, perhaps ten years younger, was somewhat gangly and angular, with short ash-blond hair and a seemingly cordial smile.
Bad cop, good cop? Nigel wondered. And if so, why?
He led them into his office. No sooner had the police officers crossed the threshold than Cha-Cha leapt off the sofa, skirted the edge of the room, and padded out the door—tail tightly curled and ears drooping.
Nigel bit back a snicker. A dog that doesn’t like coppers.
He waved at the just-vacated sofa. “Please make yourselves comfortable.” He moved a visitor’s chair to face the sofa, and the three sat down.
“May I offer you a spot of tea?” Nigel said. “They tell me our tearoom brews the best in town.”
