The Final Crumpet Read Online Free Page B

about Etienne Makepeace.”
    “I scanned it this morning,” Flick said. “I plan to study it this afternoon.”
    “Same here,” Nigel said, doubting that he would ever waste time reading the document in question. It was five pages of closely typed text, filled with irrelevant biographical details of a man who died nearly four decades ago. Moreover, Nigel hadn’t much liked receiving homework from Stuart Battlebridge at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning.
    “Good!” Stuart said. “One detail I did not include in the briefing document is the extent of the press coverage related to the discovery of Makepeace’s body. During the past eighteen hours, no fewer than thirty percent of the news stories read on British radio and television have been about Etienne Makepeace. If this does not turn out to be the story of the century, it will certainly rank as a strong candidate. I am confident that we will have a robust media turnout on Monday morning.” Stuart paused to heighten the dramatic effect. “Philip, ask your first question.”
    The reporter consulted his cache of cards. “Mr. Owen, do you think the discovery of Etienne Makepeace’s body in your garden will benefit or harm the museum in the long run?”
    Nigel pondered the answer. Benefit or harm? It’s hard to say. Probably a little of both.
    “Well, I suppose there are both good and bad aspects…”
    Honk! Nigel jumped six inches as Stuart cut him off with a blast from a palm-sized boat horn.
    “Never respond directly to a loaded question like that,” Stuart half shouted. “Any answer you give will make you sound like a mercenary businessman.” He spoke to Philip. “Ask your question again, but direct it to me.”
    Philip simpered at Stuart. “Mr. Battlebridge, do you think the discovery of Etienne Makepeace’s body in your garden will benefit or harm the museum in the long run?”
    “I couldn’t begin to answer that question, sir,” Stuart said, his voice brimming with regret. “We simply don’t think in those terms. What I can say is that everyone at the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum is delighted to have helped to resolve a national mystery that has lasted almost four decades.” Stuart peered at Nigel. “Do you see how it’s done?”
    Nigel managed a halfhearted smile despite a strong yearning to charge down off the raised platform and punch Stuart’s snoot. “Yes, Stuart. I believe I do.”
    Philip gazed again at his cards. “Mr. Owen, we understand that the presence of Etienne Makepeace’s body below the Assam tea plants stunted their growth. Can you explain why?”
    Nigel felt a grin form on his face. He’d been asked a straightforward question, and he had a ready answer. “It’s quite simple, really. The roots of the plants were blocked by a layer of roofing tiles placed atop the…”
    Honk!
    Nigel caught his breath. “What’s wrong now?”
    “Another bad answer!” Stuart bellowed. “The police have not yet publicly revealed that tiles were found in the grave.”
    “Correct!” Philip jumped in. “In fact, DI Pennyman asked us not to mention the roofing tiles in our story.”
    “The police spokeswoman made the same request of the museum yesterday,” Stuart said.
    “Nobody told me,” Nigel said.
    “To the contrary. I carefully specified the two subjects to avoid in the briefing paper.”
    “I must have missed your instructions.”
    “You’ll find them on the first page. In large type.”
    Nigel peeked at Flick, who seemed on the verge of laughing. “In that event,” he said, “perhaps Dr. Adams would like the opportunity to field a question?”
    Flick’s smile faded and then quickly returned. “I’m game. Ask away.”
    “An excellent point,” Stuart said, “which brings me to another important lesson I want you to learn. You’re a businessman, Nigel; you don’t have the proper credentials to answer questions about tea plants. You should have instantly referred the question to the chief curator.”