The Final Crumpet Read Online Free Page A

“They’ll soon exhaust the meager information provided by the police and will start searching for other story angles. You and Dr. Adams will make a happy change from the grim police spokespeople they have dealt with so far. We have a golden opportunity to ride the surge of media interest generated by the discovery of Makepeace’s body. The Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum will get a million pounds’ worth of free publicity.”
    Nigel had raised a few feeble objections. “Why should Flick and I put ourselves in the limelight? Aren’t the reporters likely to ask tricky questions? Won’t the police be mad at us if we speak to the press directly?”
    “Fear not, Nigel.” Stuart had clapped him on the shoulder.
    “We shall have a combination training session and dress rehearsal tomorrow afternoon. I shall personally prepare you to do battle with the ladies and gentlemen of the news media.”
    One more astonishment awaited Nigel when he walked into the tearoom at half past three. A makeup technician—a tall, exaggeratedly made-up blond of perhaps twenty-five—guided him to a chair, dusted his cheeks with powder, and tamed his customarily tousled hair with several well-placed squirts from a can of hair spray.
    “Is this really necessary, Stuart?” Nigel hoped his voice conveyed the growing exasperation he felt.
    “Absolutely!’’ Stuart replied. “For our training session to provide effective practice, everything must be as authentic as possible. That’s why you are wearing makeup, we’ve set up an array of photographic lights, and you see six unfamiliar faces in the second row of chairs.”
    Nigel shaded his eyes. The six—all men in their twenties and thirties—were indeed unfamiliar. Two were holding little tape recorders, two were making notes on pads, and two seemed to be scowling at him.
    “They are Gordon & Battlebridge staffers.” Stuart chuckled. “Don’t they look like working reporters?”
    When Nigel replied with a grudging “uh-huh,” Stuart said, “Please take your place behind the podium, alongside Felicity.”
    Nigel stepped up on the raised platform and whispered to her, “Don’t you think this fuss is starting to get silly?”
    “Actually, I’m quite impressed. Stuart clearly has everything under control.”
    Nigel watched Stuart sit down in the first row of chairs, next to a stocky man who looked vaguely familiar. Nigel swallowed a laugh; because the pudgy man wore a duff-colored cashmere pullover while the equally pudgy Stuart Battlebridge had on his usual Aran sweater, the pair looked remarkably like Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
    And then Nigel realized with a start that the man was the local reporter who had fled from the tea garden the day before. Nigel stepped away from the podium. “Stuart, did you invite a real member of the press to our rehearsal?”
    Stuart smiled. “Nigel, meet the man who announced the Etienne Makepeace story to the world—Philip Pellicano, of the Kent and Sussex Courier.”
    The reporter saluted Nigel briskly with the stack of five-by-seven cards he held in his right hand. Nigel returned a feeble nod and rejoined Flick.
    Stuart continued. “Philip will provide another dimension of authenticity today. There’s nothing better than practicing with real questions from a real reporter—don’t you agree?” He didn’t wait for Nigel to answer. “In exchange for Philip’s help, we’ve allowed him to chat with museum employees to get background information, and we promised him special access to you and Flick, if he should require it.”
    Nigel wondered which “we” Stuart had in mind. He had never given Gordon & Battlebridge permission to cut deals with the Kent and Sussex Courier.
    “Shall we begin?” Stuart suddenly became as solemn as a physician preparing to conduct an unpleasant physical examination. “I trust that both of you read the briefing document that my staff assembled during the wee hours. It contains all that we could learn quickly