As the Crow Flies

Chapter 35

Night after night I would lie awake worrying that Daniel must eventually work out that Charlie wasn't his father.

Whenever they stood next to each other, Daniel—tall and slim, with fair wavy hair and deep blue eyes, Charlie—at least three inches shorter, stocky, with dark wiry hair and brown eyes, I assumed Daniel must in time comment on the disparity. It didn't help that my complexion is also dark. The dissimilarities might have been comic had the implications not been so serious. Yet Daniel has never once mentioned the differences in physical make-up or character between himself and Charlie.

Charlie wanted to tell Daniel the truth about Guy right from the start, but I convinced him that we should wait until the boy was old enough to understand all the implications. But when Guy died of tuberculosis there no longer seemed any point in burdening Daniel with the past.

Later, after years of anguish and Charlie's continued remonstrations, I finally agreed to tell Daniel everything. I phoned him at Trinity the week before he was due to sail for America and asked if I could drive him down to Southampton; that way at least I knew we would be uninterrupted for several hours. I mentioned that there was something important I needed to discuss with him.

I set out for Cambridge a little earlier than was necessary and arrived well in time to help Daniel with his packing. By eleven we were heading down the A30. For the first hour he chatted away happily enough about his work at Cambridge—too many students, not enough time for research—but the moment the conversation switched to the problems we were facing with the flats, I knew he had presented me with the ideal opportunity to tell him the truth about his parentage. Then—quite suddenly—he changed the subject and I lost my nerve. I swear I would have broached the topic right there and then, but the moment had passed.

Because of all the unhappiness we subsequently experienced with the death of my mother and with the life of Mrs. Trentham while Daniel was away in America, I decided my best chance of ever being frank with my son had been squandered. I begged Charlie to allow the matter to drop once and for all. I have a fine husband. He told me I was wrong; that Daniel was mature enough to handle the truth, but he accepted that it had to be my decision. He never once referred to the matter again.

When Daniel returned from America I traveled back down to Southampton to pick him up. I don't know what it was about him but he seemed to have changed. For a start he looked different—more at ease—and the moment he saw me gave me a big hug, which quite took me by surprise. On the way back to London he discussed his visit to the States, which he had obviously enjoyed, and without going into great detail I brought him up to date on what was happening to our planning application for Chelsea Terrace. He didn't seem all that interested in my news, but to be fair Charlie never involved Daniel in the day-to-day working of Trumper's once we both realized he was destined for an academic career.

Daniel spent the next two weeks with us before returning to Cambridge, and even Charlie, not always the most observant of people, commented on how much he had changed. He was just as serious and quiet, even as secretive, but he was so much warmer towards us both that I began to wonder if he had met a girl while he had been away. I hoped so, but despite the odd hint clumsily dropped, Daniel made no mention of anyone in particular. I rather liked the idea of him marrying an American. He had rarely brought girls home in the past and always seemed so shy when we introduced him to the daughters of any of our friends. In fact he was never to be found if Clarissa Wiltshire put in an appearance which was quite often nowadays, as during their vacations from Bristol University both the twins were to be found working behind the counter at Number 1.

It must have been about a month after Daniel returned from America that Charlie told me Mrs. Trentham had withdrawn all her objections to our proposed scheme for joining the two tower blocks together. I leaped with joy. When he added that she was not going ahead with her own plans to rebuild the flats I refused to believe him and immediately assumed that there had to be some catch. Even Charlie admitted, "I've no idea what she's up to this time." Certainly neither of us accepted Daphne's theory that she might be mellowing in her old age.

Two weeks later the LCC confirmed that all objections to our scheme had been withdrawn and we could begin on our building program. That was the signal Charlie had been waiting for to inform the outside world that we intended to go public.

Charlie called a board meeting so that all the necessary resolutions could be passed.

Mr. Merrick, whom Charlie had never forgiven for causing him to sell the van Gogh, advised us to appoint Robert Fleming to be our merchant bankers in the run-up to the flotation. The banker also added that he hoped the newly formed company would continue to use Child and Company as their clearing bank. Charlie would have liked to have told him to get lost but knew only too well that if he changed banks a few weeks before going public, eyebrows would be raised in the City. The board accepted both pieces of advice, and Tim Newman of Robert Fleming's was duly invited to join the board. Tim brought a breath of fresh air to the company, representing a new breed of bankers. However, although I, like Charlie, immediately took to Mr. Newman I never really got on the same wave-length as Paul Merrick.

As the day for issuing the tender documents drew nearer, Charlie spent more and more of his time with the merchant banker. Meanwhile Tom Arnold took overall control of the running of the shops, as well as overseeing the building program with the exception of Number 1, which still remained my domain.

I had decided several months before the final announcement that I wanted to mount a major sale at the auction house just before Charlie's declaration of going public, and I was confident that the Italian collection to which I had been devoting a great deal of my time would prove to be the ideal opportunity to place Number 1 Chelsea Terrace on the map.

It had taken my chief researcher Francis Lawson nearly two years to gather some fifty-nine canvases together, all painted between 1519 and 1768. Our biggest coup was a Canaletto—The Basilica of St. Mark's—a painting that had been left to Daphne by an old aunt of hers from Cumberland. "It isn't," she characteristically told us, "as good as the two Percy already has in Lanarkshire. However, I still expect the painting to fetch a fair price, my darling. Failure will only result in offering any future custom to Sotheby's," she added with a smile.

We placed a reserve on the painting of thirty thousand pounds. I had suggested to Daphne that this was a sensible figure, remembering that the record for a Canaletto was thirty-eight thousand pounds, bid at Christie's the previous year.

While I was in the final throes of preparation for the sale Charlie and Tim Newman spent most of their time visiting institutions, banks, finance companies and major investors, to brief them on why they should take a stake in the "biggest barrow in the world."

Tim was optimistic about the outcome and felt that when the stock applications came to be counted we would be heavily oversubscribed. Even so, he thought that he and Charlie should travel to New York and drum up some interest among American investors. Charlie timed his trip to the States so that he would be back in London a couple of days before my auction was to take place and a clear three weeks before our tender document was to be offered to the public.

It was a cold Monday morning in May, and I may not have been at my brightest but I could have sworn I recognized the customer who was in deep conversation with one of our new counter assistants. It worried me that I couldn't quite place the middle-aged lady who was wearing a coat that would have been fashionable in the thirties and looked as if she had fallen on hard times and might be having to sell off one of the family heirlooms.

Once she had left the building I walked over to the desk and asked Cathy, our most recent recruit, who she was.

"A Mrs. Bennett," said the young girl behind the counter. The name meant nothing to me so I asked what she had wanted.

Cathy handed me a small oil painting of the Virgin Mary and Child. "The lady asked if this could still be considered for the Italian sale. She knew nothing of its provenance, and looking at her I have to say I wondered if it might have been stolen. I was about to have a word with Mr. Lawson."

I stared at the little oil and immediately realized it had been Charlie's youngest sister who had brought the painting in.

"Leave this one to me."

"Certainly, Lady Trumper."

I took the lift to the top floor and walked straight past Jessica Allen and on into Charlie's office. I handed over the picture for him to study and quickly explained how it had come into our possession.

He pushed the paperwork on his desk to one side and stared at the painting for some time without saying a word.

"Well, one thing's for certain," Charlie eventually offered, "Kitty is never going to tell us how or where she got hold of it, otherwise she would have come to me direct."

"So what shall we do?"

"Put it in the sale as she instructed, because you can be sure that no one is going to bid more for the picture than I will."

"But if all she's after is some cash, why not make her a fair offer for the picture?"

"If all Kitty is after was some cash, she would be standing in this office now. No, she would like nothing better than to see me crawling to her for a change."

"But if she stole the painting?"

"From whom? And even if she did there's nothing to stop us stating the original provenance in our catalogue. After all, the police must still have all the details of the theft on their files."

"But what if Guy gave it to her?"

"Guy," Charlie reminded me, "is dead."

I was delighted by the amount of interest the press and public were beginning to take in the sale. Another good omen was that several of the leading art critics and collectors were spotted during the preview week studying the pictures on display in the main gallery.

Articles about Charlie and me began to appear, first in the financial sections, then spreading over to the feature pages. I didn't care much for the sound of "The Triumphant Trumpers," as one paper had dubbed us, but Tim Newman explained to us the importance of public relations when trying to raise large sums of money. As feature after feature appeared in newspapers and magazines, our new young director became daily more confident that the flotation was going to be a success.

Francis Lawson and his new assistant Cathy Ross worked on the auction catalogue for several weeks, painstakingly going over the history of each painting, its previous owners and the galleries and exhibitions in which each had been exhibited before they were offered to Trumper's for auction. To our surprise, what went down particularly well with the public was not the paintings themselves but our catalogue, the first with every plate in color. It cost a fortune to produce, but as we had to order two reprints before the day of the sale and we sold every catalogue at five shillings a time, it wasn't long before we recovered our costs. I was able to inform the board at our monthly meeting that following two more reprints we had actually ended up making a small profit. "Perhaps you should close the art gallery and open a publishing house," was Charlie's helpful comment.

The new auction room at Number 1 held two hundred and twenty comfortably. We had never managed to fill every seat in the past, but now, as applications for tickets kept arriving by every post, we quickly had to sort out the genuine bidders from the hangers-on.

Despite cutting, pruning, being offhand and even downright rude to one or two persistent individuals, we still ended up with nearly three hundred people who expected to be found seats. Several journalists were among them, but our biggest coup came when the arts editor of the "Third Programme" phoned to inquire if they could cover the auction on radio.

Charlie arrived back from America two days before the sale and told me in the brief moments we had together that the trip had proved most satisfactory whatever that meant. He added that Daphne would be accompanying him to the auction—"Got to keep the major clients happy." I didn't mention the fact that I had quite forgotten to allocate him a seat, but Simon Matthews, who had recently been appointed as my deputy, squeezed a couple of extra chairs on the end of the seventh row and prayed that no one from the fire department would be among the bidders.

We decided to hold the sale at three o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, after Tim Newman advised us that timing was all important if we were to ensure the maximum coverage in the national papers the following day.

Simon and I were up all night before the auction with the saleroom staff, removing the pictures from the walls and placing them in the correct order ready for sale. Next we checked the lighting of the easel which would display each painting and finally placed the chairs in the auction room as close together as possible. By pulling the stand from which Simon would conduct the auction back by a few feet we were even able to add another row. It may have left less room for the spotters—who always stand by the side of the auctioneer during a sale searching for the bidders—but it certainly solved fourteen other problems.

On the morning of the auction we carried out a dress rehearsal, the porters placing each picture on the easel as Simon called the lot number, then removing it once he had brought the hammer down and called for the next lot. When eventually the Canaletto was lifted up onto the easel, the painting displayed all the polished technique and minute observation which had been the hallmark of the master. I could only smile when a moment later the masterpiece was replaced by Charlie's little picture of the Virgin Mary and Child. Despite considerable research, Cathy Ross had been quite unable to trace its antecedents, so we had merely reframed the painting and attributed it in the catalogue as sixteenth-century school. I marked it up in my book at an estimated two hundred guineas, although I was fully aware that Charlie intended to buy back the little picture whatever the price. It still worried me how Kitty had got hold of the oil, but Charlie told me continually to "stop fussing." He had bigger problems on his mind than how his sister had come into possession of Tommy's gift.

On the afternoon of the auction some people were already in their seats by two-fifteen. I spotted more than one major buyer or gallery owner who had not previously encountered a packed house at Trumper's and consequently had to stand at the back.

By two forty-five there were only a few seats left, and latecomers were already crammed shoulder to shoulder down the side walls, with one or two even perched on their haunches in the center aisle. At two fifty-five Daphne made a splendid entrance, wearing a finely tailored cashmere suit of midnight-blue which I had seen featured in Vogue the previous month. Charlie, whom I felt looked a little tired, followed only a pace behind. They took their seats on the end of the seventh row—for sentimental reasons he had explained. Daphne appeared very satisfied with herself while Charlie fidgeted impatiently.

At exactly three o'clock I took my place next to the auctioneer's stand while Simon climbed the steps to his little box, paused for a moment as he scrutinized the crowd to work out where the major buyers were seated, then banged his gavel several times.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," he announced. "Welcome to Trumper's, the fine art auctioneers." He managed somehow to emphasize "the" in a most agreeable fashion. As he called for Lot Number 1 a hush came over the room. I checked the painting in my catalogue—although I think I knew the details of all fifty-nine lots by heart. It was a depiction of St. Francis of Assisi by Giovanni Battista Crespi, dated 1617. I had the little oil marked in our code as QIHH pounds, so when Simon brought down the hammer at two thousand, two hundred—seven hundred pounds more than I had estimated, I felt we were off to a good start.

Of the fifty-nine works on sale the Canaletto had been left until Lot Number 37 as I wanted an atmosphere of excitement to build before the painting reached the stand, while not leaving it so late that people started to drift away. The first hour had raised forty-seven thousand pounds and we still had not come to the Canaletto. When eventually the four-foot-wide canvas was placed in the glare of the spotlight, a gasp came from those in the audience who were seeing the masterpiece for the first time.

"A painting of St. Mark's Basilica by Canaletto," said Simon, "dated 1741"—as if we had another half dozen stored away in the basement. "Considerable interest has been shown in this item and I have an opening bid of ten thousand pounds." His eyes scanned the hushed room, as I and my spotters searched to see where the second bid might come from.

"Fifteen thousand," said Simon as he looked towards a representative from the Italian government who was seated in the fifth row.

"Twenty thousand pounds at the back of the room"—I knew it had to be the representative from the Mellon Collection. He always sat in the second to back row, a cigarette dangling from his lips to show us he was still bidding.

"Twenty-five thousand," said Simon, turning again towards the Italian government representative.

"Thirty thousand." The cigarette was still emanating smoke: Mellon remained in the chase.

"Thirty-five thousand." I spotted a new bidder, sitting in the fourth row to my right: Mr. Randall, the manager of the Wildenstein Gallery in Bond Street.

"Forty thousand," said Simon as a fresh puff of smoke emanated from the back. We were past the estimate I had given Daphne, although no emotion showed on her face.

"Do I hear fifty thousand?" said Simon. This was far too big a hike at this stage in my opinion. Looking towards the box, I noticed that Simon's left hand was shaking.

"Fifty thousand," he repeated a little nervously, when a new bidder in the front row, whom I didn't recognize, started nodding furiously.

The cigarette puffed once again. "Fifty-five thousand."

"Sixty thousand." Simon had turned his attention back in the direction of the unknown bidder, who confirmed with a sharp nod that he remained in the hunt.

"Sixty-five thousand." The Mellon representative still kept puffing away, but when Simon turned his attention back to the bidder in the front row he received a sharp shake of the head.

"Sixty-five thousand then, the bid is at the back of the room. Sixty-five thousand, are there any more bidders?" Once again Simon looked towards the underbidder in the front row. "Then I'm offering the Canaletto at sixty-five thousand pounds, sixty-five thousand pounds for the second time, then it's sold for sixty-five thousand pounds." Simon brought the gavel down with a thud—less than two minutes after the first bid had been offered, and I marked ZIHHH in my catalogue as a round of applause spontaneously burst from the audience—something I had never experienced before at Number 1.

Noisy chatter broke out all over the room as Simon turned round to me and said in a low voice, "Sorry about the mistake, Becky," and I realized that the jump from forty to fifty thousand had been nothing more than a bout of auctioneer's nerves.

I began to compose a possible headline in tomorrow's papers: "Record amount paid for Canaletto in auction at Trumper's." Charlie would be pleased.

"Can't see Charlie's little picture fetching quite that sum," Simon added with a smile, as the Virgin Mary and Child replaced the Canaletto on the stand and he turned to face his audience once again.

"Quiet please," he said. "The next item, Lot Number 38 in your catalogue, is from the school of Bronzino." He scanned the room. "I have a bid of one hundred and fifty"—he paused for a second—"pounds for this lot. Can I ask for one hundred and seventy-five?" Daphne, whom I assumed was Charlie's plant, raised her hand and I stifled a smile. "One hundred and seventy-five pounds. Do I see two hundred?" Simon looked around hopefully but received no response. "Then I'll offer it for the first time at one hundred and seventy-five pounds, for the second time, for the third time then . . ."

But before Simon could bring the gavel down a stocky man with a brownish moustache and graying hair, dressed in a tweed jacket, checked shirt and a yellow tie, leaped up from the back of the room and shouted, "That painting is not 'from the school of,' it's an original Bronzino, and it was stolen from the Church of St. Augustine, near Reims, during the First World War."

Pandemonium broke out as people stared first at the man in the yellow tie, then at the little picture. Simon banged his gavel repeatedly, but could not regain control as the journalists began to scribble furiously across their pads. I glanced across to see Charlie and Daphne, their heads bowed in frantic conversation.

Once the outcry had died down, attention began to focus on the man who had made the claim. He remained standing in his place.

"I believe you are mistaken, sir," said Simon firmly. "As I can assure you, this painting has been known to the gallery for some years."

"And I assure you, sir," replied the man, "the painting is an original, and although I do not accuse the previous owner of being a thief, I can nevertheless prove it was stolen." Several in the audience immediately glanced down at their catalogues to see the name of the most recent owner. "From the private collection of Sir Charles Trumper" was printed in bold letters along the top line.

The hubbub, if anything, was now even louder, but still the man remained standing. I leaned forward and tugged Simon's trouser leg. He bent over and I whispered my decision in his ear. He banged his gavel several times and at last the audience began to quiet. I looked across at Charlie who was as white as a sheet, then at Daphne, who remained quite calm and was holding his hand. As I believed there had to be a simple explanation to the mystery, I felt curiously detached. When Simon had finally restored order he announced, "I am advised that this lot will be withdrawn until further notice."

"Lot Number 39," he added quickly as the man in the brown tweed jacket rose and hurriedly departed from the room, pursued by a gaggle of journalists.

None of the remaining twenty-one items reached their reserve prices, and when Simon brought the gavel down for the final time that afternoon, although we had broken every house record for an Italian sale, I was only too aware what the story in the next day's papers was bound to be. I looked across at Charlie who was obviously trying his best to appear unruffled. Instinctively I turned towards the chair which had been occupied by the man in the brown tweed jacket. The room was beginning to empty as people drifted towards the doors and I noticed for the first time that directly behind the chair sat an elderly lady—sitting bolt upright, leaning forward, her two hands resting on the head of a parasol. She was staring directly at me.

Once Mrs. Trentham was sure she had caught my eye, she rose serenely from her place and glided slowly out of the gallery.

The following morning the press had a field day. Despite the fact that neither Charlie nor I had made any statement our picture was on every front page except that of The Times alongside a picture of the little oil of the Virgin Mary and Child. There was hardly a mention of the Canaletto in the first ten paragraphs of any report and certainly no accompanying photograph.

The man who made the accusation had apparently disappeared without trace and the whole episode might have died down if Monsignor Pierre Guichot, the Bishop of Reims, hadn't agreed to be interviewed by Freddie Barker, the saleroom correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, who had uncovered the fact that Guichot had been the priest at the church where the original picture had hung. The bishop confirmed to Barker that the painting had indeed mysteriously disappeared during the Great War and, more important, he had at the time reported the theft to the appropriate section of the League of Nations responsible for seeing that, under the Geneva Convention, stolen works of art were returned to their rightful owners once hostilities had ceased. The bishop went on to say that of course he would recognize the picture if he ever saw it again—the colors, the brushwork, the serenity of the Virgin's face; indeed the genius of Bronzino's composition would remain clearly in his memory until the day he died. Barker quoted him word for damning word.

The Telegraph correspondent rang my office the day the interview appeared and informed me that his paper intended to fly the distinguished cleric over at their expense so that he could study the painting firsthand and thus establish its provenance beyond doubt. Our legal advisers warned us that we would be unwise not to allow the bishop to view the painting; to deny him access would be tantamount to acknowledging we were trying to hide something. Charlie agreed without hesitation and simply added, "Let the man see the picture. I'm confident that Tommy left that church with nothing other than a German officer's helmet."

The next day, in the privacy of his office, Tim Newman warned us that if the Bishop of Reims identified the picture as the original Bronzino, then the launch of Trumper's as a public company would have to be held up for at least a year, while the auction house might never recover from such a scandal.

The following Thursday the Bishop of Reims flew into London, to be greeted by a bank of photographers whose flashbulbs popped again and again before the monsignor was driven off to Westminster, where he was staying as a guest of the archbishop.

The bishop had agreed to visit the gallery at four the same afternoon, and anyone walking through Chelsea Terrace that Thursday might have been forgiven for thinking Frank Sinatra was about to make a personal appearance. A large gathering had formed on the curbside as they waited keenly for the cleric's arrival.

I met the bishop at the entrance to the gallery and introduced him to Charlie, who bowed before kissing the episcopal ring. I think the bishop was somewhat surprised to discover that Charlie was a Roman Catholic. I smiled nervously at our visitor, who appeared to have a perpetual beam on his face—a face that was red from wine, not sun, I suspected. He glided off down the passage in his long purple cassock as Cathy led him in the direction of my room, where the picture awaited him. Barker, the reporter from the Telegraph, introduced himself to Simon as if he were dealing with someone from the underworld. He made no attempt to be civil when Simon tried to strike up a conversation with him.

The bishop came through to my little office and accepted a proffered cup of coffee. I had already placed the picture on an easel, having at Charlie's insistence refitted the original old black frame on the painting. We all sat round the table in silence as the priest stared at the Virgin Mary.

"Vous permettez?" he asked, holding out his arms.

"Certainly," I replied, and handed over the little oil.

I watched his eyes carefully as he held the painting in front of him. He seemed to take just as much interest in Charlie, whom I had never seen so nervous, as he did in the picture itself. He also glanced at Barker, who in contrast had a look of hope in his eyes. After that the bishop returned his attention to the painting, smiled and seemed to become transfixed by the Virgin Mary.

"Well?" inquired the reporter.

"Beautiful. An inspiration for any nonbeliever."

Barker also smiled and wrote his words down.

"You know," the priest added, "this painting brings back many many memories"—he hesitated for a moment and I thought my heart was going to stop before he pronounced—"but, hélas, I must inform you, Mr. Barker, that she is not the original. A mere copy of the madonna I knew so well."

The reporter stopped writing. "Only a copy?"

"Yes, je le regrette. An excellent copy, peut-être painted by a young pupil of the great man would be my guess, but nonetheless a copy."

Barker was unable to hide his disappointment as he placed his pad down on the table, looking as if he wished to make some protest.

The bishop rose and bowed in my direction. "It is my regret that you have been troubled, Lady Trumper."

I too rose and accompanied him to the door, where he was faced once again with the assembled press. The journalists fell silent as they waited for the priest to utter some revelation and I felt for a moment that he might actually be enjoying the experience.

"Is it the real thing, Bishop?" shouted a reporter in the crowd.

He smiled benignly. "It is indeed a portrait of the Blessed Virgin, but this particular example is only a copy, and of no great significance." He did not add a word to this statement before climbing back into his car to be whisked away.

"What a relief," I said once the car was out of sight. I turned round to look for Charlie, but he was nowhere to be seen. I rushed back to my office and found him holding the picture in his hands. I closed the door behind me so that we could be alone.

"What a relief," I repeated. "Now life can return to normal."

"You realize, of course, that this is the Bronzino," Charlie said, looking straight at me.

"Don't be silly," I said. "The bishop—"

"But did you see the way he held her?" said Charlie. "You don't cling to a counterfeit like that. And then I watched his eyes while he came to a decision."

"A decision?"

"Yes, as to whether or not to ruin our lives, in exchange for his beloved Virgin."

"So we've been in possession of a masterpiece without even knowing it?"

"It would seem so, but I'm still not sure who removed the painting from the chapel in the first place."

"Surely not Guy . . ."

"Why not, he's more likely to have appreciated its value than Tommy."

"But how did Guy discover where it ended up, let alone what it was really worth?"

"Company records, perhaps, or a chance conversation with Daphne might have put him in the right direction."

"But that still doesn't explain how he found out it was an original."

"I agree," said Charlie. "I suspect he didn't, and simply saw the picture as another way of discrediting me."

"Then how the blazes . . . ?"

"Whereas Mrs. Trentham has had several years to stumble across—"

"Good God, but where does Kitty fit in?"

"She was a distraction, nothing more, used by Mrs. Trentham simply to set us up."

"Will that woman go to any lengths to destroy us?"

"I suspect so. And one thing's for certain, she isn't going to be pleased when she discovers her 'best laid plans' have once again been scuppered."

I collapsed on the chair beside my husband. "What shall we do now?"

Charlie continued to cling to the little masterpiece as if he were afraid someone might try to seize it from him.

"There's only one thing we can do."

I drove us to the archbishop's house that night and parked the car outside the tradesmen's entrance. "How appropriate," Charlie remarked, before knocking quietly on an old oak door. A priest answered our call and without a word ushered us in before leading us through to see the archbishop, whom we found sharing a glass of wine with the Bishop of Reims.

"Sir Charles and Lady Trumper," the priest intoned.

"Welcome, my children," said the archbishop as he came forward to greet us. "This is an unexpected pleasure," he added, after Charlie kissed his ring. "But what brings you to my home?"

"We have a small gift for the bishop," I said as I handed over a little paper parcel to his grace. The bishop smiled the same smile as when he had declared the picture to be a copy. He opened the parcel slowly, like a child who knows he's being given a present when it isn't his birthday. He held the little masterpiece in his hands for some time before passing it to the archbishop for his consideration.

"Truly magnificent," said the archbishop, who studied it carefully before handing it back to the bishop. "But where will you display it?"

"Above the cross in the chapel of St. Augustine I consider would be appropriate," the bishop replied. "And possibly in time someone far more scholarly on such matters than myself will declare the picture to be an original." He looked up and smiled, a wicked smile for a bishop.

The archbishop turned towards me. "Would you and your husband care to join us for dinner?"

I thanked him for the kind offer and muttered some excuse about a previous engagement before we both bade them good night and quietly slipped out the way we had come.

As the door closed behind us I heard the archbishop say: "You win your bet, Pierre."

Chapter 36

"Twenty thousand pounds?" said Becky as she came to a halt outside Number 141. "You must be joking."

"That's the price the agent is demanding," said Tim Newman.

"But the shop can't be worth more than three thousand at most," said Charlie, staring at the only building on the block he still didn't own, other than the flats. "And in any case I signed an agreement with Mr. Sneddles that when—"

"Not for the books, you didn't," said the banker.

"But we don't want the books," said Becky, noticing for the first time that a heavy chain and bolt barred them from entering the premises.

"Then you can't take possession of the shop, because until the last book is sold your agreement with Mr. Sneddles cannot come into operation."

"What are the books really worth?" Becky asked.

"In his typical fashion, Mr. Sneddles has penciled a price in every one of them," said Tim Newman. "His colleague, Dr. Halcombe, tells me the total comes to around five thousand pounds with the exception—"

"So buy the lot," said Charlie, "because knowing Sneddles he probably undervalued them in the first place. Then Becky can auction the entire collection some time later in the year. That way the shortfall shouldn't be more than about a thousand."

"With the exception of a first edition of Blake's Songs of Innocence," added Newman. "Vellum bound, that is marked up in Sneddles' inventory at fifteen thousand pounds."

"Fifteen thousand pounds at a time when I'm expected to watch every penny. Who imagines that . . . ?"

"Someone who realizes you can't go ahead with the building of a department store until you are in possession of this particular shop?" suggested Newman.

"But how could she . . . ?"

"Because the Blake in question was originally purchased from the Heywood Hill bookshop in Curzon Street for the princely sum of four pounds ten shillings and I suspect the inscription solves half the mystery."

"Mrs. Ethel Trentham, I'll be bound," said Charlie.

"No, but not a bad guess. The exact words on the flyleaf, if I remember correctly, read: 'From your loving grandson, Guy. 9 July 1917.'"

Charlie and Becky stared at Tim Newman for some time until Charlie finally asked, "What do you mean—half the mystery?"

"I also suspect she needs the money," replied the banker.

"What for?" asked Becky incredulously.

"So she can purchase even more shares in Trumper's of Chelsea."

On 19 July 1948, two weeks after the bishop had resumed to Reims, the official tender document for Trumper's was released to the press to coincide with full-page advertisements taken in The Times and the Financial Times. All Charlie and Becky could do now was sit and wait for the public's response. Within three days of the announcement the share issue was oversubscribed and within a week the merchant bankers had received double the applications necessary. When all the requests had been counted, Charlie and Tim Newman were left with only one problem: how to allocate the shares. They agreed that institutions who had applied for a large holding should be taken up first, as that would give the board easy access to the majority of shares should any problem arise in the future.

The only application that puzzled Tim Newman came from Hambros who offered no explanation as to why they should wish to purchase one hundred thousand shares, which would give them control of ten percent of the company. However, Tim recommended that the chairman should accept their application in full while at the same time offering them a place on the board. This Charlie agreed to do, but only after Hambros had confirmed that the bid had not come from Mrs. Trentham or one of her proxies. Two other institutions applied for five percent: Prudential Assurance, which had serviced the company from its outset, and a United States source which Becky discovered was simply a front for one of the Field family trusts. Charlie readily accepted both these applications and the rest of the shares were then divided between another one thousand, seven hundred ordinary investors, including one hundred shares, the minimum allowed, which were taken up by an old age pensioner living in Chelsea. Mrs. Symonds had dropped Charlie a line to remind him that she had been one of his original customers when he opened his first shop.

Having distributed the shares, Tim Newman felt the next matter Charlie should consider was further appointments to the board. Hambros put up a Mr. Baverstock, a senior partner of the solicitors Baverstock, Dickens and Cobb, whom Charlie accepted without question. Becky suggested that Simon Matthews, who virtually ran the auction house whenever she was absent, should also be appointed. Again Charlie acquiesced, bringing the full complement on the board to nine.

It was Daphne who had told Becky that 17 Eaton Square was coming on the market, and Charlie only needed to see the eight-bedroom house once before he decided that was where he wanted to spend the rest of his life. It didn't seem to cross Charlie's mind that someone would have to supervise the move at the same time as Trumper's was being built. Becky might have complained if she too hadn't fallen in love with the house.

A couple of months later Becky held a housewarming party at Eaton Square. Over a hundred guests were invited to join the Trumpers for a dinner that had to be served in five different rooms.

Daphne arrived late and complained about being held up in a traffic jam on her way back from Sloane Square, while the colonel traveled down from Skye without a murmur. Daniel came over from Cambridge accompanied by Marjorie Carpenter and—to Becky's surprise—Simon Matthews arrived with Cathy Ross on his arm.

After dinner, Daphne made a short speech and presented Charlie with a scale model of Trumper's crafted in the form of a silver cigar case.

Becky judged the gift to be a success because after the last guest had left, her husband carried the case upstairs and placed it on his bedside table.

Charlie climbed into bed and took one last look at his new toy as Becky came out of the bathroom.

"Have you considered inviting Percy to be a director?" she said as she climbed into bed.

Charlie looked at her skeptically.

"The shareholders might appreciate having a marquess on the company letterhead. It would give them a feeling of confidence."

"You're such a snob, Rebecca Salmon. Always were and always will be."

"You didn't say that when I suggested the colonel should be our first chairman twenty-five years ago."

"True enough," said Charlie, "but I didn't think he'd say yes. In any case, if I wanted another outsider I'd rather have Daphne on the board. That way we get the name as well as her particular brand of common sense."

"I should have thought of that."

When Becky approached Daphne with an invitation to join the board of Trumper's as a non-executive director the duchess was overwhelmed and accepted without a second thought. To everyone's surprise Daphne approached her new responsibilities with immense energy and enthusiasm. She never missed a board meeting, always read the papers thoroughly and whenever she considered Charlie hadn't fully covered an item under discussion or, worse, was trying to get away with something, she nagged at him until she got a full explanation as to what he was up to.

"Are you still hoping to build Trumper's at the price you recommended in your original offer document, Mr. Chairman?" she asked time and time again during the next two years.

"I'm not so sure it was a good idea of yours to invite Daphne to become a director," Charlie grumbled to Becky following one particularly raucous meeting in which the marchioness had got the better of him.

"Don't blame me," Becky replied. "I would have happily settled for Percy, but then I'm a snob. "

It took nearly two years for the architects to complete the twin towers of Trumper's, their adjoining walkway and the five floors of offices above Mrs. Trentham's empty space. The task was not made any easier by Charlie's expecting business in the remaining shops to proceed as if nothing was going on around them. It was a source of wonder to all concerned that during the changeover period Trumper's lost only nineteen percent of its annual revenue.

Charlie set about supervising everything, from the exact siting of the one hundred and eighteen departments to the color of the twenty-seven acres of carpet, from the speed of the twelve lifts to the wattage of the one hundred thousand light bulbs, from the displays in the ninety-six windows to the uniforms of over seven hundred employees, each of whom displayed a little silver barrow on his lapel.

Once Charlie realized how much storage space he would need, not to mention facilities for an underground car park—now so many customers had their own vehicles, the costs went considerably over budget. However, the contractors somehow managed to complete the building by 1 September 1949, mainly because Charlie appeared on the site at four-thirty every morning and often didn't go back home much before midnight.

On 18 October 1949 the Marchioness of Wiltshire, escorted by her husband, performed the official opening ceremony.

A thousand people raised their glasses once Daphne had declared the building open. The assembled guests then did their best to eat and drink their way through the company's first year's profits. But Charlie didn't seem to notice; he moved happily from floor to floor checking that everything was exactly as he expected it to be and made sure that the major suppliers were being properly looked after.

Friends, relations, shareholders, buyers, sellers, journalists, hangers-on, gatecrashers and even customers were celebrating on every floor. By one o'clock Becky was so tired that she decided to start looking for her husband in the hope that he might agree to go home. She found her son in the kitchen department examining a refrigerator that would have been too large for his room in Trinity. Daniel assured his mother that he had seen Charlie leaving the building about half an hour before.

"Leaving the building?" Becky said, in disbelief. "Surely your father wouldn't have gone home without me?" She took the lift to the ground floor and walked quickly towards the main entrance. The doorman saluted her as he held open one of the massive double doors that led out onto Chelsea Terrace.

"Have you seen Sir Charles, by any chance?" Becky asked him.

"Yes, m'lady." He nodded in the direction of the far side of the road.

Becky looked across to see Charlie seated on his bench, an old man perched by his side. They were chatting animatedly as they stared across at Trumper's. The old man pointed at something that had attracted his attention and Charlie smiled. Becky quickly crossed the road but the colonel had sprung to attention long before she had reached his side.

"How lovely to see you, my dear," he said as he leaned forward to kiss Becky on the cheek. "I only wish Elizabeth had lived to see it."

"As I understand it, we're being held to ransom," said Charlie. "So perhaps it's time we took a vote on the issue."

Becky looked around the boardroom table, wondering which way the vote would fall. The full board had been working together for three months since Trumper's had opened its doors to the public, but this was the first major issue on which there had been any real disagreement.

Charlie sat at the head of the table, looking unusually irritable at the thought of not getting his own way. On his right was the company secretary, Jessica Allen. Jessica did not have a vote but was there to see that whenever a vote occurred it would be faithfully recorded. Arthur Selwyn, who had worked with Charlie at the Ministry of Food during the war, had recently left the civil service to replace Tom Arnold on his retirement as managing director. Selwyn was proving to be an inspired choice, shrewd and thorough, while being the ideal foil to the chairman as he tended to avoid confrontation whenever possible.

Tim Newman, the company's young merchant banker, was sociable and friendly and almost always backed Charlie, though he was not averse to giving a contrary view if he felt the company finances might suffer. Paul Merrick, the finance director, was neither sociable nor friendly and continued to make it abundantly clear that his first loyalty would always be to Child's Bank and its investment. As for Daphne, she rarely voted the way anyone might expect her to, and certainly was no placeman for Charlie or anyone else, for that matter. Mr. Baverstock, a quiet, elderly solicitor who represented ten percent of the company stock on behalf of Hambros, spoke rarely, but when he did everyone listened, including Daphne.

Ned Denning and Bob Makins, both of whom had now served Charlie for nearly thirty years, would rarely go against their chairman's wishes, while Simon Matthews often showed flashes of independence that only confirmed Becky's initial high opinion of him.

"The last thing we need at the moment is a strike," said Merrick. "Just at a time when it looks as if we've turned the corner."

"But the union's demands are simply outrageous," said Tim Newman. "A ten-shilling raise, a forty-four-hour week before overtime becomes automatic—I repeat, they're outrageous."

"Most of the other major stores have already agreed to those terms," interjected Merrick, consulting an article from the Financial Times that lay in front of him.

"Chucked the towel in would be nearer the mark," came back Newman. "I must warn the board that this would add to our wages bill by some twenty thousand pounds for the current year and that's even before we start to consider overtime. So there's only one group of people who will suffer in the long run, and that's our shareholders."

"Just how much does a counter assistant earn nowadays?" asked Mr. Baverstock quietly.

"Two hundred and sixty pounds a year," said Arthur Selwyn without having to check. "With incremental raises so that if they have completed fifteen years' service with the company, the sum could be as high as four hundred and ten pounds a year."

"We've been over these figures on countless occasions," said Charlie sharply. "The time has come to decide—do we stand firm or just give in to the union's demands?"

"Perhaps we're all overreacting, Mr. Chairman," said Daphne, who hadn't spoken until then. "It may not prove to be quite as black or white as you imagine."

"You have an alternative solution?" Charlie made no attempt to hide his incredulity.

"I might have, Mr. Chairman. First, let's consider what's at stake if we do give our staff the raise. An obvious drain on resources, not to mention what the Japanese would call 'face.' On the other hand, if we don't agree to their demands, it's possible that we might lose some of the better as well as the weaker brethren to one of our main rivals."

"So what are you suggesting, Lady Wiltshire?" asked Charlie, who always addressed Daphne by her title whenever he wished to show he didn't agree with her.

"Compromise, perhaps," replied Daphne, refusing to rise. "If Mr. Selwyn considers that to be at all possible at this late stage. Would the trade unions, for example, be willing to contemplate an alternative proposal on wages and hours, drawn up in negotiation with our managing director?"

"I could always have a word with Don Short, the leader of USDAW, if the board so wishes," said Arthur Selwyn. "In the past I've always found him a decent, fair-minded man and he's certainly shown a consistent loyalty to Trumper's over the years."

"The managing director dealing direct with the trade union's representative?" barked Charlie. "Next you'll want to put him on the board."

"Then perhaps Mr. Selwyn should make an informal approach," said Daphne. "I'm confident he can handle Mr. Short with consummate skill."

"I agree with Lady Wiltshire," said Mr. Baverstock.

"Then I propose that we allow Mr. Selwyn to negotiate on our behalf," continued Daphne. "And let's hope he can find a way of avoiding an all-out strike without actually giving in to everything the unions are demanding."

"I'd certainly be willing to have a try," said Selwyn. "I could report back to the board at our next meeting."

Once again Becky admired the way Daphne and Arthur Selwyn between them had defused a time bomb the chairman would have been only too happy to let explode on the boardroom table.

"Thank you, Arthur," Charlie said a little begrudgingly. "So be it. Any other business?"

"Yes," said Becky. "I would like to bring to the board's attention a sale of Georgian silver that will be taking place next month. Catalogues will be sent out during the coming week and I do hope any directors who are free on that particular day will try to attend."

"How did the last antiques sale work out?" asked Mr. Baverstock.

Becky checked her file. "The auction raised twenty-four thousand, seven hundred pounds, of which Trumper's kept seven and a half percent of everything that came under the hammer. Only three items failed to reach their reserve prices, and they were called back in."

"I'm only curious about the success of the sale," said Mr. Baverstock, "because my dear wife purchased a Charles II court cupboard."

"One of the finest items in the sale," said Becky.

"My wife certainly thought so because she bid far more for the piece than she had intended. I'd be obliged if you didn't send her a catalogue for the silver sale."

The other members of the board laughed.

"I've read somewhere," said Tim Newman, "that Sotheby's is considering raising their commission to ten percent."

"I know," said Becky. "That's exactly why I can't contemplate the same move for at least another year. If I'm to go on stealing their best customers I must stay competitive in the short term."

Newman nodded his understanding.

"However," Becky continued, "by remaining at seven and a half percent, my profits for 1950 won't be as high as I might have hoped. But until the leading sellers are willing to come to us, that's a problem I'll continue to face."

"What about the buyers?" queried Paul Merrick.

"They aren't the problem. If you have the product to sell, the buyers will always beat a path to your door. You see, it's the sellers that are the life blood of an auction house, and they're every bit as important as the buyers."

"Funny old outfit you're running," said Charlie with a grin. "Any other business?"

As no one spoke, Charlie thanked all the members of the board for their attendance and rose from his place, a signal he always gave to indicate that the meeting was finally over.

Becky collected her papers and started walking back to the gallery with Simon.

"Have you completed the estimates on the silver sale yet?" she asked as they jumped into the lift just before the doors closed. She touched the "G" and the lift began its slow journey to the ground floor.

"Yes. Finished them last night. One hundred and thirty-two items in all. I reckon they might raise somewhere in the region of seven thousand pounds."

"I saw the catalogue for the first time this morning," said Becky. "It looks to me as if Cathy has done another first-class job. I was only able to pick up one or two minor errors but I'd still like to check over the final proofs before they go back to the printer."

"Of course," said Simon. "I'll ask her to bring all the loose sheets up to your office this afternoon." They stepped out of the lift.

"That girl has turned out to be a real find," said Becky. "Heaven knows what she was doing working in a hotel before she came to us. I shall certainly miss her when she goes back to Australia."

"Rumor has it that she's thinking of staying."

"That's good news," said Becky. "I thought she was only hoping to spend a couple of years in London before she resumed to Melbourne?"

"That's what she had originally planned. However, I may have been able to convince her that she should stay on a little longer."

Becky would have asked Simon to explain in greater detail but once they had set foot in the gallery she was quickly surrounded by staff anxious to gain her attention.

After Becky had dealt with several queries, she asked one of the girls who worked on the counter if she could locate Cathy.

"She's not actually around at the moment, Lady Trumper," the assistant told her. "I saw her go out about an hour ago."

"Do you know where she went?"

"No idea, I'm sorry."

"Well, ask her to come to my office the moment she returns. Meanwhile, could you send up those catalogue proofs for the silver sale?"

Becky stopped several times on the way back to her room to discuss other gallery problems that had arisen in her absence, so that by the time she sat down at her desk, the proofs for the silver sale were already awaiting her. She began to turn the pages slowly, checking each entry against its photograph and then the detailed description. She had to agree with Simon—Cathy Ross had done a first-class job. She was studying the photograph of the Georgian mustard pot that Charlie had overbid for at Christie's some years before when there was a knock on the door and a young woman popped her head in.

"You asked to see me?"

"Yes. Do come in, Cathy." Becky looked up at a tall, slim girl with a mass of curly fair hair and a face that hadn't quite lost all its freckles. She liked to think that her own figure had once been as good as Cathy's—but the bathroom mirror unflatteringly reminded her that she was fast approaching her fiftieth birthday. "I only wanted to check over the final catalogue proofs for the silver sale before they went back to the printer."

"I'm sorry I wasn't around when you returned from the board meeting," Cathy said. "It's just that something came up that worried me. I may be overreacting, but I felt you ought to know about it in any case."

Becky took off her classes, placed them on the desk and looked up intently. "I'm listening."

"Do you remember that man who stood up during the Italian auction and caused all that trouble over the Bronzino?"

"Will I ever forget him?"

"Well, he was in the gallery again this morning."

"Can you be sure?"

"I'm fairly confident. Well-built, graying hair, a brownish moustache and sallow complexion. He even had the nerve to wear that awful tweed jacket and yellow tie again."

"What did he want this time?"

"I can't be certain of that, although I kept a close eye on him. He didn't speak to any member of the staff, but took a great deal of interest in some of the items that were coming up in the silver sale—in particular, Lot 19."

Becky replaced her glasses and turned the catalogue pages over quickly until she came to the item in question: "A Georgian silver tea set made up of four pieces, teapot, sugar bowl, tea strainer and sugar tongs, hallmarked with an anchor. Becky looked down at the letters "AH" printed in the margin. "Estimated value seventy pounds. One of our better items."

"And he obviously agrees with you," Cathy replied, "because he spent a considerable time studying each individual piece, then made copious notes before he left. He even checked the teapot against a photograph he had brought with him."

"Our photograph?"

"No, he seemed to have one of his own."

"Did he now?" said Becky as she rechecked the catalogue photo.

"And I wasn't around when you came back from the board meeting because when he left the gallery I decided to follow him."

"Quick thinking," said Becky, smiling. "And where did our mystery man disappear to?"

"Ended up in Chester Square," said Cathy. "A large house halfway down on the right-hand side. He dropped a package through the letter box but didn't go in."

"Number 19?"

"That's right," said Cathy, looking surprised. "Do you know the house?"

"Only from the outside," said Becky without explanation.

"Is there anything else I can do to help?"

"Yes, there is. To start with, can you remember anything about the customer who brought that particular lot in for sale?"

"Certainly can," replied Cathy, "because I was called to the front desk to deal with the lady." She paused for a moment before adding, "Can't remember her name, but she was elderly and rather—genteel is the way I think you would describe her," Cathy hesitated then continued. "As I remember, she had taken a day trip down from Nottingham. She told me that she'd been left the tea set by her mother. She didn't want to sell a family heirloom but 'needs must.' I remember that expression, because I'd never heard it before."

"And what was Mr. Fellowes' opinion when you showed him the set?"

"As fine an example of the period as he'd seen come under the hammer—each piece is still in almost mint condition. Peter's convinced the lot will fetch a good price, as you can see from his estimate."

"Then we'd better call in the police straight away," said Becky. "We don't need our mystery man standing up again announcing that this particular item has been stolen too."

She picked up the telephone on her desk and asked to be put through to Scotland Yard. A few moments later an Inspector Deakins of the CID came on the line and, having listened to the details of what had taken place that morning, agreed to come round to the gallery during the afternoon.

The inspector arrived a little after three, accompanied by a sergeant. Becky took them both straight through to meet the head of the department. Peter Fellowes pointed to a minute scratch he had come across on a silver salver. Becky frowned. He stopped what he was doing and walked over to the center table where the four-piece tea set was already out on display.

"Beautiful," said the inspector as he bent over and checked the hallmark. "Birmingham around 1820 would be my guess."

Becky raised an eyebrow.

"It's my hobby," the inspector explained. "That's probably why I always end up getting these jobs." He removed a file from the briefcase he was carrying and checked through several photographs along with detailed written descriptions of recently missing pieces of silverware from the London area. An hour later he had to agree with Fellowes: none of them fitted the description of the Georgian tea set.

"Well, we've had nothing else reported as stolen that matches up with this particular lot," he admitted. "And you've polished them so superbly," he said, turning to Cathy, "that there's no hope of our identifying any prints."

"Sorry," said Cathy, blushing slightly.

"No, miss, it's not your fault, you've done a fine job. I only wish my little pieces looked so good. Still, I'd better check with the Nottingham police in case they have something on their files. If they haven't, I'll issue a description to all forces throughout the United Kingdom, just in case. And I'll also ask them to check on Mrs. . . . ?"

"Dawson," said Cathy.

"Yes, Mrs. Dawson. That may take a little time, of course, but I'll come back to you the moment I hear anything."

"Meanwhile our sale takes place three weeks next Tuesday," Becky reminded the inspector.

"Right, I'll try and give you the all-clear by then," he promised.

"Should we leave that page in the catalogue, or would you prefer the pieces to be withdrawn?" asked Cathy.

"Oh, no, don't withdraw anything. Please leave the catalogue exactly as it is. You see, someone might recognize the set and then get in touch with us."

Someone has already recognized the set, thought Becky.

"While you're at it," continued the inspector, "I'd be obliged if you could give me a copy of the catalogue picture, as well as use of one of the negatives for a day or two."

When Charlie was told about the Georgian tea set over dinner that night his advice was simple: withdraw the pieces from the sale—and promote Cathy.

"Your first suggestion isn't quite that easy," said Becky. "The catalogue is due to be sent out to the general public later this week. What explanation could we possibly give to Mrs. Dawson for removing her dear old mother's family heirloom?"

"That it wasn't her dear old mother's in the first place and you withdrew it because you've every reason to believe that it's stolen property."

"If we did that, we could find ourselves being sued for breach of contract," said Becky, "when we later discover that Mrs. Dawson's totally innocent of any such charge. If she then took us to court we wouldn't have a leg to stand on."

"If this Dawson lady is as totally innocent as you think, then why is Mrs. Trentham showing such an interest in her tea set? Because I can't help feeling she already has one of her own."

Becky laughed. "She certainly has. I know, because I've even seen it, though I never did get the promised cup of tea."

Three days later Inspector Deakins telephoned Becky to let her know that the Nottingham police had no record of anything that had been stolen in their patch fitting the tea set's description and they were also able to confirm that Mrs. Dawson was not previously known to them. He had therefore sent the details out to every other constabulary in the land. "But," he added, "outside forces aren't always that cooperative with the Met when it comes to trading information."

As Becky put the phone down, she decided to give the green light and send the catalogues out, despite Charlie's apprehension. They were posted the same day along with invitations to the press and selected customers.

A couple of journalists applied for tickets to the sale. An unusually sensitive Becky checked them out, only to find that both worked for national newspapers, and had covered Trumper's sales several times in the past.

Simon Matthews considered that Becky was overreacting, while Cathy tended to agree with Sir Charles that the wise course would be to withdraw the tea set from the auction until they had been given the all-clear by Deakins.

"If we're to withdraw a lot every time that man takes an interest in one of our sales we may as well close our front doors and take up stargazing," Simon told them.

The Monday before the sale was to take place Inspector Deakins telephoned to ask if he could see Becky urgently. He arrived at the gallery thirty minutes later, again accompanied by his sergeant. This time the only item he removed from his briefcase was a copy of the Aberdeen Evening Express dated 15 October 1949.

Deakins asked to be allowed to inspect the Georgian tea set once more. Becky nodded her agreement and the policeman studied each piece carefully against a photograph that was on an inside page of the newspaper.

"That's them all right," he said, after double-checking. He showed Becky the photograph.

Cathy and Peter Fellowes also studied each item while looking carefully at the picture from the newspaper and had to agree with Deakins that the match was perfect.

"This little lot was stolen from the Aberdeen Museum of Silver some three months ago," the inspector informed them. "The bloody local police didn't even bother to let us know. No doubt they considered it was none of our business."

"So what happens now?" asked Becky.

"The Nottingham constabulary have already visited Mrs. Dawson, where they found several other pieces of silver and jewelry hidden around the house. She's been taken to her local station in order to, as the press would have it, help the police with their inquiries." He placed the newspaper back in his briefcase. "After I've phoned them to confirm my piece of news, I expect that she'll be charged later today. However, I'm afraid I shall have to take the tea set away with me for processing at Scotland Yard."

"Of course," said Becky.

"My sergeant will write out a receipt for you, Lady Trumper, and I'd like to thank you for your cooperation." The inspector hesitated as he looked lovingly at the tea set. "A month's salary," he said with a sigh, "and stolen for all the wrong reasons." He raised his hat and the two policemen lent the gallery.

"So what do we do now?" said Cathy.

"Not much we can do." Becky sighed. "Carry on with the auction as if nothing had taken place and when the lot comes up, simply announce that the piece has been withdrawn."

"But then our man will leap up and say, 'Isn't this yet another example of advertising stolen goods and then having to withdraw them at the last moment?' We won't look so much like an auction house," said Simon, his voice rising with anger. "More like a pawnbroker. So why don't we just put three balls outside the front door, and a fence to give a clue as to the class of person we're hoping to attract?"

Becky didn't react.

"If you feel so strongly about it, Simon, why not try and turn the whole episode to our advantage?" suggested Cathy.

"What do you mean?" asked Becky as both she and Simon swung round to face the young Australian.

"We must get the press on our side for a change."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're getting at."

"Phone that journalist from the Telegraph—what was his name? Barker—and give him the inside story."

"What good would that do?" asked Becky.

"He'll have our version of what happened this time, and he'll be only too pleased to be the one journalist on the inside, especially after that fiasco with the Bronzino. "

"Do you think he'd be at all interested in a silver set worth seventy pounds?"

"With a Scottish museum involved and a professional fence arrested in Nottingham? He'll be interested all right. Especially if we don't tell anyone else."

"Would you like to handle Mr. Barker yourself, Cathy?" Becky asked.

"Just give me the chance."

The following morning, the Daily Telegraph had a small but prominent piece on page three reporting that Trumper's, the fine art auctioneers, had called in the police after they had become suspicious about the ownership of a Georgian tea set that was later discovered to have been stolen from the Aberdeen Museum of Silver. The Nottingham police had since arrested a woman whom they later charged with handling stolen goods. The article went on to say that Inspector Deakins of Scotland Yard had told the Telegraph: "We only wish every auction house and gallery in London were as conscientious as Trumper's."

The sale that afternoon was well attended, and despite losing one of the centerpieces of the auction Trumper's still managed to exceed several of the estimates. The man in the tweed coat and yellow tie didn't make an appearance.

When Charlie read the Telegraph in bed that night he remarked, "So you didn't take my advice?"

"Yes and no," said Becky. "I admit I didn't withdraw the tea set immediately, but I did promote Cathy."

Chapter 37

On 9 November 1950 Trumper's held their second annual general meeting.

The directors met at ten o'clock in the boardroom so that Arthur Selwyn could take them slowly through the procedure he intended to follow once they faced the shareholders.

At eleven o'clock sharp he guided the chairman and the eight directors out of the boardroom and into the main hall as if they were school children being led in a crocodile on their way to morning assembly.

Charlie introduced each member of the board to the assembled gathering, who numbered around one hundred and twenty—a respectable turnout for such an occasion, Tim Newman whispered in Becky's ear. Charlie went through the agenda without a prompt from his managing director and was only asked one awkward question. "Why have your costs gone so much over budget in the first full year of trading?"

Arthur Selwyn rose to explain that the expense of the building had exceeded their original estimate and that the launching had incurred certain one-off costs which would not arise again. He also pointed out that, strictly on a trading basis, Trumper's had managed to break even in the first quarter of their second year. He added that he remained confident about the year ahead, especially with the anticipated rise in the number of tourists who would be attracted to London by the Festival of Britain. However, he warned shareholders it might be necessary for the company to raise even more capital, if they hoped to increase their facilities.

When Charlie declared the AGM closed he remained seated because the board received a small ovation, which quite took the chairman by surprise.

Becky was about to return to Number 1 and continue with her work on an Impressionist sale she had planned for the spring when Mr. Baverstock came over and touched her gently on the elbow.

"May I have a word with you in private, Lady Trumper?"

"Of course, Mr. Baverstock." Becky looked around for a quiet spot where they could talk.

"I feel that perhaps my office in High Holborn would be more appropriate," he suggested. "You see, it's a rather delicate matter. Would tomorrow, three o'clock suit you?"

Daniel had phoned from Cambridge that morning and Becky couldn't remember when she had heard him sounding so chatty and full of news. She, on the other hand, was not chatty or full of news: she still hadn't been able to fathom why the senior partner of Baverstock, Dickens and Cobb should want to see her on "a rather delicate matter."

She couldn't believe that Mr. Baverstock's wife wanted to return the Charles II court cupboard or required more details on the forthcoming Impressionist sale, but as in her case anxiety always ruled over optimism, Becky spent the next twenty-six hours fearing the worst.

She didn't burden Charlie with her troubles, because the little she did know of Mr. Baverstock made her certain that if her husband were involved the lawyer would have asked to see them both. In any case, Charlie had quite enough problems of his own to deal with without being weighed down with hers.

Becky couldn't manage any lunch and arrived at the solicitor's office a few minutes before the appointed hour. She was ushered straight through to Mr. Baverstock's rooms.

She was greeted with a warm smile by her fellow director, as if she were some minor relation of his large family. He offered her the seat opposite his on the other side of a large mahogany desk.

Mr. Baverstock, Becky decided, must have been about fifty-five, perhaps sixty, with a round, friendly face and the few strands of gray hair that were left were parted neatly down the center. His dark jacket, waistcoat, gray striped trousers and black tie could have been worn by any solicitor who practiced within five square miles of the building in which they now sat. Having resumed to his own chair he began to study the pile of documents that lay in front of him before removing his half-moon spectacles.

"Lady Trumper," he began. "It's most kind of you to come and see me." In the two years they had known each other he had never once addressed her by her Christian name.

"I shall," he continued, "come straight to the point. One of my clients was the late Sir Raymond Hardcastle." Becky wondered why he had never mentioned this fact before and was about to protest when Mr. Baverstock quickly added, "But I hasten to say that Mrs. Gerald Trentham is not and never has been a client of this firm."

Becky made no effort to disguise her relief.

"I must also let you know that I had the privilege of serving Sir Raymond for over thirty years and indeed considered myself not only to be his legal adviser but towards the end of his life a close friend. I tell you this as background information, Lady Trumper, for you may feel such facts are relevant when you've heard all that I have to say."

Becky nodded, still waiting for Mr. Baverstock to get to the point.

"Some years before he died," continued the solicitor, "Sir Raymond drew up a will. In it he divided the income from his estate between his two daughters—an income, I might add, that has grown considerably since his death, thanks to some prudent investment on his behalf. The elder of his daughters was Miss Amy Hardcastle, and the younger, as I feel sure you know, Mrs. Gerald Trentham. The income from the estate has been sufficient to give both these ladies a standard of living equal to, if not considerably higher than, the one to which they had grown accustomed before his death. However—"

Will dear Mr. Baverstock ever get to the point? Becky was beginning to wonder.

"—Sir Raymond decided, in his wisdom, that the share capital should remain intact, after he allowed the firm that his father had founded and he had built up so successfully to merge with one of his greatest rivals. You see, Lady Trumper, Sir Raymond felt there was no member of the family who could obviously fill his shoes as the next chairman of Hardcastle's. Neither of his two daughters, or his grandsons for that matter—of whom I shall have more to say in a moment—did he consider competent to run a public company."

The solicitor removed his glasses, cleaned them with a handkerchief which he took out of his top pocket and peered through the lenses critically before returning to the task at hand.

"Sir Raymond, you see, had no illusions about his immediate kith and kin. His elder daughter, Amy, was a gentle, shy lady who nursed her father valiantly through his final years. When Sir Raymond died she moved out of the family house into a small seaside hotel where she resided until her death last year.

"His younger daughter, Ethel Trentham—" he continued. "Let me put this as delicately as I can—Sir Raymond considered she had perhaps lost touch with reality and certainly no longer acknowledged any attachment to her past. Anyway, I know it particularly saddened the old man not to have produced a son of his own, so when Guy was born his hopes for the future became focused on the young grandson. From that day he lavished everything on him. Later he was to blame himself for the boy's eventual downfall. He did not make the same mistake when Nigel was born, a child for whom he had neither affection nor respect.

"However, this firm was instructed to keep Sir Raymond briefed at all times with any information that came into our hands concerning members of his immediate family. Thus, when Captain Trentham resigned his commission in 1922, somewhat abruptly, we were asked to try to find out the real cause behind his leaving the colors. Sir Raymond certainly did not accept his daughter's story about an appointment as a partner with an Australian cattle broker, and indeed at one stage was sufficiently concerned that he even contemplated sending me to that continent to find out the real story. Then Guy died."

Becky sat in her chair wanting to wind Mr. Baverstock up like a gramophone and set him going well above 78 rpm, but she had already come to the conclusion that nothing she said was going to accelerate him along the track he had set himself.

"The result of our investigations," continued Baverstock, "led us to believe—and at this point, Lady Trumper, I must apologize for any indelicacy, for I do not intend to offend—that Guy Trentham and not Charles Trumper was the father of your child."

Becky bowed her head and Mr. Baverstock apologized once again before he continued.

"Sir Raymond, however, needed to be convinced that Daniel was his great-grandson, and to that end he made two separate visits to St. Paul's after the boy had won a scholarship to that school."

Becky stared at the old lawyer.

"On the first occasion he watched the boy perform in a school concert—Brahms, if I remember correctly—and on a second saw Daniel receive the Newton Prize for Mathematics from the High Master on Founders' Day. I believe you were also present on that occasion. On both visits Sir Raymond went out of his way to be sure that the boy was unaware of his presence. After the second visit, Sir Raymond was totally convinced that Daniel was his great-grandchild. I'm afraid all the men in that family are stuck with that Hardcastle jaw, not to mention a tendency to sway from foot to foot when agitated. Sir Raymond accordingly altered his will the following day."

The solicitor picked up a document bound in a pink ribbon which lay on his desk. He untied the ribbon slowly. "I was instructed, madam, to read the relevant clauses of his will to you at a time I considered appropriate, but not until shortly before the boy celebrates his thirtieth birthday. Daniel will be thirty next month, if I am not mistaken."

Becky nodded.

Baverstock acknowledged the nod and slowly unfolded the stiff sheets of parchment.

"I have already explained to you the arrangements concerning the disposal of Sir Raymond's estate. However, since Miss Amy's death Mrs. Trentham has had the full benefit of any interest earned from the Trust, now amounting to some forty thousand pounds a year. At no time to my knowledge did Sir Raymond make any provision for his elder grandson, Mr. Guy Trentham, but since he is now deceased that has become irrelevant. Subsequently he made a small settlement on his other grandson, Mr. Nigel Trentham." He paused. "And now I must quote Sir Raymond's exact words," he said, looking down at the will. He cleared his throat before continuing.

"'After all other commitments have been honored and bills paid, I leave the residue of my messuage and estate to Mr. Daniel Trumper of Trinity College, Cambridge, the full benefit of which will come into his possession on the death of his grandmother, Mrs. Gerald Trentham.'"

Now that the lawyer had at last come to the point Becky was stunned into silence. Mr. Baverstock paused for a moment in case Becky wished to say something, but as she suspected that there was still more to be revealed she remained silent. The lawyer's eyes returned to the papers in front of him.

"I feel I should add at this point that I am aware—as indeed Sir Raymond was—of the treatment you have suffered at the hands both of his grandson and his daughter, so I must also let you know that although this bequest to your son will be considerable, it does not include the farm at Ashurst in Berkshire or the house in Chester Square. Both properties, since the death of her husband, are now owned by Mrs. Gerald Trentham. Nor does it include—and I suspect this is of more importance to you—the vacant land in the center of Chelsea Terrace, which forms no part of Sir Raymond's estate. However, everything else he controlled will eventually be inherited by Daniel, although, as I explained, not until Mrs. Trentham has herself passed away."

"Is she aware of all this?"

"Indeed, Mrs. Trentham was made fully conversant with the provisions in her father's will sometime before his death. She even took advice as to whether the new clauses inserted after Sir Raymond's visits to St. Paul's could be contested."

"Did that result in any legal action?"

"No. On the contrary, she quite suddenly, and I must confess inexplicably, instructed her lawyers to withdraw any objections. But whatever the outcome, Sir Raymond stipulated most clearly that the capital could never be used or controlled by either of his daughters. That was to be the privilege of his next of kin."

Mr. Baverstock paused and placed both palms down on the blotting paper in front of him.

"Now I will finally have to tell him," murmured Becky under her breath.

"I feel that may well be the case, Lady Trumper. Indeed, the purpose of this meeting was to brief you fully. Sir Raymond was never quite sure if you had informed Daniel who his father was."

"No, we never have."

Baverstock removed his glasses and placed them on the desk. "Please take your time, dear lady, and just let me know when I have your permission to contact your son and acquaint him with his good fortune."

"Thank you," said Becky quietly, sensing the inadequacy of her words.

"Finally," said Mr. Baverstock, "I must also let you know that Sir Raymond became a great admirer of your husband and his work, indeed of your partnership together. So much so that he left a recommendation with this office that, were Trumper's ever to go public, which he anticipated they would, we were to invest a sizable stake in the new company. He was convinced that such an enterprise could only flourish and therefore prove to be a first-class investment."

"So that's why Hambros invested ten percent when we went public," said Becky. "We always wondered."

"Precisely," Mr. Baverstock added with a smile, almost of satisfaction. "It was on my specific instructions that Hambros applied for the shares on behalf of the Trust, so that there could never be any reason for your husband to be apprehensive about such a large outside shareholder.

"The amount was in fact considerably less than the estate received from dividends during that year. However, more important, we were aware from the offer documents that it was Sir Charles' intention to retain fifty-one percent of the company, and we therefore felt it might be some relief for him to know that he would have a further ten percent under his indirect control should any unforeseen problem arise at some time in the future. I can only hope that you feel we have acted in your best interests, as it was always Sir Raymond's wish that you should be told the full facts at a time that I considered appropriate, the only stipulation as I have already explained was that such information was not to be revealed to your son before his thirtieth birthday."

"You couldn't have been more considerate, Mr. Baverstock," said Becky. "I know Charlie will want to thank you personally."

"That is most kind of you, Lady Trumper. May I also add that this meeting has been a genuine delight for me. Like Sir Raymond, I have had considerable pleasure over the years in following the careers of all three of you, and I am delighted to be playing a small part in the company's future."

Having completed his task, Mr. Baverstock rose from his side of the desk and accompanied Becky silently to the front door of the building. Becky began to wonder if the solicitor spoke only when he had a brief.

"I shall wait to hear from you, dear lady, as to when I may be permitted to contact your son."

Chapter 38

The weekend after Becky's visit to Mr. Baverstock she and Charlie drove to Cambridge to see Daniel. Charlie had insisted that they could procrastinate no longer and had telephoned Daniel that evening to warn him that they were coming up to Trinity as there was something of importance they needed to ted him. On hearing this piece of news Daniel had replied, "Good, because I've also got something rather important to tell you."

On the journey to Cambridge, Becky and Charlie rehearsed what they would say and how they were going to say it, but still came to the conclusion that however carefully they tried to explain what had happened in the past, they could not anticipate how Daniel would react.

"I wonder if he'll ever forgive us?" said Becky. "You know, we should have told him years ago."

"But we didn't."

"And now we're only letting him know at a time when it could be to our financial benefit."

"And ultimately to his. After all, he'll eventually inherit ten percent of the company, not to mention the entire Hardcastle estate. We'll just have to see how he takes the news and react accordingly." Charlie accelerated when he came to a stretch of dual carriageway the other side of Rickmansworth. For some time neither of them spoke until Charlie suggested, "Let's go through the order once again. You'll start by telling him how you first met Guy—"

"Perhaps he already knows," said Becky.

"Then he surely would have asked—"

"Not necessarily. He's always been so secretive in the past, especially when dealing with us."

The rehearsal continued until they had reached the outskirts of the city.

Charlie drove slowly down the Backs past Queens College, avoiding a bunch of undergraduates who had strayed onto the road, and finally right into Trinity Lane. He brought his car to a halt in New Court and he and Becky walked across to entrance C and on up the worn stone staircase until they reached the door with "Dr. Daniel Trumper" painted above it. It always amused Becky that she hadn't even discovered that her son had been awarded his Ph.D. until someone addressed him as Dr. Trumper in her presence.

Charlie gripped his wife's hand. "Don't worry, Becky," he said. "Everything will be all right, you'll see." He gave her fingers a squeeze before knocking firmly on Daniel's door.

"Come on in," shouted a voice that could only have been Daniel's. The next moment he pulled open the heavy oak door to greet them. He gave his mother a huge hug before ushering them both through to his untidy little study where tea was already laid out on a table in the center of the room.

Charlie and Becky sat down in two of the large and battered leather chairs the college had provided. They had probably been owned by the past six inhabitants of the room, and brought back memories for Becky of the chair that she had once removed from Charlie's home in Whitechapel Road and sold for a shilling.

Daniel poured them both a cup of tea and began to toast a crumpet over the open fire. Nobody spoke for some time and Becky wondered where her son had come across such a modern cashmere sweater.

"Good journey down?" Daniel asked eventually.

"Not bad," said Charlie.

"And how's the new car running in?"

"Fine."

"And Trumper's?"

"Could be worse."

"Quite a little conversationalist, aren't you, Dad? You ought to apply for the recently vacated chair of professor of English."

"Sorry, Daniel," said his mother. "It's just that he's got rather a lot on his mind at the moment, not least the subject we have to discuss with you."

"Couldn't be better timing," said Daniel, turning the crumpet over.

"Why's that?" asked Charlie.

"Because, as I warned you, there's something rather important I have to discuss with you. So who goes first?"

"Let's hear your news," said Becky quickly.

"No, I think it might be wise if we went first," Charlie intervened.

"Suits me." Daniel dropped a toasted crumpet onto his mother's plate. "Butter, jam and honey," he added, pointing to three small dishes that rested on the table in front of her.

"Thank you, darling," said Becky.

"Get on with it then, Dad. The tension's becoming too much for me to bear." He turned a second crumpet over.

"Well, my news concerns a matter we should have told you about many years ago and indeed would have done so only—"

"Crumpet, Dad?"

"Thank you," said Charlie, ignoring the steaming offering that Daniel dropped onto his plate, "—circumstances and a chain of events somehow stopped us from getting round to it."

Daniel placed a third crumpet on the end of his long toasting fork. "Eat up, Mum," he said. "Otherwise yours will only get cold. In any case, there'll be another one on its way soon."

"I'm not all that hungry," admitted Becky.

"Well, as I was saying," said Charlie. "A problem has arisen concerning a large inheritance that you will eventually—"

There was a knock on the door. Becky looked desperately towards Charlie, hoping that the interruption was nothing more than a message that could be dealt with quickly. What they didn't need at that moment was an undergraduate with an interminable problem. Daniel rose from the hearth and went over to the door.

"Come in, darling," they heard him say and Charlie stood up as Daniel's guest entered the room.

"How nice to see you, Cathy," Charlie said. "I had no idea you were going to be in Cambridge today."

"Isn't that typical of Daniel," said Cathy. "I wanted to warn you both, but he wouldn't hear of it." She smiled nervously at Becky before sitting down in one of the vacant chairs.

Becky glanced across at the two of them seated next to each other—something worried her.

"Pour yourself some tea, darling," said Daniel. "You're just in time for the next crumpet and you couldn't have arrived at a more exciting moment. Dad was just about to let me into the secret of how much I might expect to be left in his will. Am I to inherit the Trumper empire or shall I have lo be satisfied with his season ticket to the West Ham Football Club?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Cathy, half rising from her seat.

"No, no," said Charlie, waving her back down. "Don't be silly, it wasn't that important. Our news can wait until later."

"They're very hot, so watch it," said Daniel, dropping a crumpet onto Cathy's plate. "Well, if my inheritance is of such monumental insignificance then I shall have to impart my own little piece of news first. Roll of drums, curtain up opening line"—Daniel raised the toasting fork as if it were a baton—"Cathy and I are engaged to be married."

"I don't believe it," said Becky, immediately springing up from her chair to hug Cathy in delight. "What wonderful news."

"How long has this been going on?" asked Charlie. "I must have been blind."

"Nearly two years," admitted Daniel. "And to be fair, Dad, even you couldn't expect to have a telescope capable of focusing on Cambridge every weekend. I'll let you into another little secret: Cathy wouldn't allow me to tell you until Mum had invited her to join the management committee."

"As someone who's always been a dealer, my boy," said Charlie, beaming, "I can tell you you've got the better of this bargain." Daniel grinned. "In fact, I think Cathy's probably been shortchanged. But when did all this happen?"

"We met at your housewarming party. You won't remember, Sir Charles, but we bumped into each other on the stairs," Cathy said, nervously fingering the little cross that hung around her neck.

"Of course I remember and please call me Charlie. Everyone else does."

"So have you decided on a date?" asked Becky.

"We were planning to be married during the Easter vacation," said Daniel. "If that suits you?"

"Next week suits me," said Charlie. "I couldn't be happier. And where do you plan to hold the wedding?"

"The College Chapel," said Daniel without hesitation. "You see, both Cathy's parents are dead so we thought down here in Cambridge might be best, in the circumstances."

"And where will you live?" asked Becky.

"Ah, that all depends," said Daniel mysteriously.

"On what?" asked Charlie.

"I've applied for a chair in mathematics at King's, London—and I'm reliably informed that their choice will be announced to the world in two weeks' time."

"Are you at all hopeful?" asked Becky.

"Well, let me put it this way," said Daniel. "The provost has asked me to have dinner with him next Thursday at his lodgings, and as I've never set eyes on the gentleman in question before—" He broke off as the telephone interrupted his flow.

"Now, whoever can that be?" he asked rhetorically. "The monsters don't usually bother me on a Sunday." He picked up the receiver and listened for a moment.

"Yes, she is," he said after a few more seconds. "May I say who's calling? I'll let her know." He turned to face his mother. "Mr. Baverstock for you, Mum."

Becky pushed herself out of her chair and took the telephone from Daniel as Charlie looked on apprehensively.

"Is that you, Lady Trumper?"

"Yes, it is."

"Baverstock here. I'll be brief. But first, have you informed Daniel about the details of Sir Raymond's will?"

"No. My husband was just about to do so."

"Then please don't mention the subject to him until I have had the chance to see you again."

"But why not?" Becky realized it was now going to be necessary to conduct a one-sided conversation.

"It isn't something I feel comfortable about discussing over the telephone, Lady Trumper. When are you expecting to be back in town?"

"Later this evening."

"I think we should meet as soon as possible."

"Do you consider it's that important?" said Becky, still mystified.

"I do. Would seven o'clock this evening suit you?"

"Yes, I feel sure we'll be back by then."

"In that case I'll come round to Eaton Square at seven. And please, whatever you do, don't mention anything about Sir Raymond's will to Daniel. I apologize about the mystery but I fear I have been left with little choice. Goodbye, dear lady."

"Goodbye," said Becky and put the receiver down.

"Problem?" asked Charlie, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't know." Becky looked her husband straight in the eye. "It's just that Mr. Baverstock wants to see us about those papers he briefed me on last week." Charlie grimaced. "And he doesn't wish us to discuss the details with anyone else for the time being."

"Now that does sound mysterious," said Daniel, turning to Cathy. "Mr. Baverstock, my darling, is on the board of the barrow, a man who would consider phoning his wife during office hours a breach of contract."

"That sounds like the right qualifications for a place on the board of a public company."

"You've met him once before, as a matter of fact," said Daniel. "He and his wife were also at Mum's housewarming party, but I fear he isn't exactly memorable."

"Who painted that picture?" said Charlie suddenly, staring at a watercolor of the Cam that hung above Daniel's desk.

Becky only hoped the change of subject hadn't been too obvious.

On the journey back to London Becky was torn between delight at the thought of having Cathy as a daughter-in-law and anxiety over what Mr. Baverstock could possibly went to see them about.

When Charlie asked yet again for details, Becky tried to repeat the conversation she'd conducted with Baverstock word for word, but it left neither of them any the wiser.

"We'll know soon enough," said Charlie as they left the A10 to go through Whitechapel and on into the City. It always gave Charlie a thrill whenever he passed all the different barrows displaying their colorful wares and heard the cries of the merchants shouting their outrageous claims.

"I don't offer you these for . . ."

Suddenly Charlie brought the car to a halt, turned off the engine and stared out of the window.

"Why are you stopping?" asked Becky. "We haven't any time to spare."

Charlie pointed at the Whitechapel Boys' Club: it looked even more run-down and dilapidated than usual.

"You've seen the club a thousand times before, Charlie. And you know we mustn't be late for Mr. Baverstock."

He took out his diary and began unscrewing the top of his fountain pen.

"What are you up to?"

"When will you learn, Becky, to look more carefully?" Charlie was busy scribbling down the number of the estate agent on the "For Sale" sign.

"You surely don't want to open a second Trumper's in Whitechapel."

"No, but I do want to find out why they're closing my old boys' club," said Charlie. He resumed the pen to his inside pocket and pressed the button to start up the engine.

The Trumpers arrived back at 17 Eaton Square with just over half an hour to spare before Mr. Baverstock was due to visit them; and Mr. Baverstock, they both were painfully aware, was never late.

Becky immediately set about dusting the tables and plumping up the cushions in the drawing room.

"Everything looks fine to me," said Charlie. "Do stop fussing. In any case, that's what we employ a housekeeper for."

"But it's a Sunday night," Becky reminded him. She continued to check under objects she hadn't touched for months and finally put a match to the well-laid fire.

At exactly seven the front doorbell rang and Charlie left to greet his guest.

"Good evening, Sir Charles," said Mr. Baverstock, removing his hat.

Ah, yes, thought Charlie, there is someone I know who never calls me Charlie. He took Mr. Baverstock's coat, scarf and hat and hung them on the hallstand.

"I am sorry to bother you on a Sunday evening," Mr. Baverstock said as he followed his host into the drawing room carrying his Gladstone bag. "But I hope when you learn my news, you will feel I came to the right decision."

"I'm sure we will. We were naturally both intrigued by your call. But first let me offer you a drink. Whisky?"

"No, thank you," said Mr. Baverstock. "But a dry sherry would be most acceptable."

Becky poured Mr. Baverstock a Tio Pepe and her husband a whisky before she joined the two men round the fire and waited for the lawyer to explain his uncharacteristic interruption.

"This isn't easy for me, Sir Charles."

Charlie nodded. "I understand. Just take your time."

"Can I first confirm with you that you did not reveal to your son any details of Sir Raymond's will?"

"We did not. We were saved that embarrassment first by the announcement of Daniel's engagement to be married and then by your fortuitous telephone call."

"Oh, that is good news," said Mr. Baverstock. "To the charming Miss Ross, no doubt. Please do pass on my congratulations. "

"You knew all along?" said Becky.

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Baverstock. "It was obvious for everyone to see, wasn't it?"

"Everyone except us," said Charlie.

Mr. Baverstock permitted himself a wry smile before he removed a file from his Gladstone bag.

"I'll waste no more words," continued Mr. Baverstock. "Having talked to the other side's solicitors during the past few days, I have learned that at some time in the past Daniel paid a visit to Mrs. Trentham at her home in Chester Square."

Charlie and Becky were unable to hide their astonishment.

"Just as I thought," said Baverstock. "Like myself, you were both obviously quite unaware that such a meeting had taken place."

"But how could they have met—when?" asked Charlie.

"That we may never get to the bottom of, Sir Charles. However, what I do know is that at that meeting Daniel came to an agreement with Mrs. Trentham."

"And what was the nature of this agreement?" asked Charlie.

The old solicitor extracted yet another piece of paper from the file in front of him and reread Mrs. Trentham's handwritten words: "'In exchange for Mrs. Trentham's withdrawing her opposition to any planning permission for the building to be known as Trumper Towers, and in addition for agreeing not to proceed with her own scheme for the rebuilding of a block of flats in Chelsea Terrace, Daniel Trumper will waive any rights he might be entitled to now or at any time in the future from the Hardcastle estate.' At that time, of course, Daniel had no idea that he was the main beneficiary of Sir Raymond's will."

"So that's why she gave in without putting up a fight?" said Charlie eventually.

"It would seem so."

"He did all that without even letting us know," said Becky as her husband began to read through the document.

"That would appear to be the case, Lady Trumper."

"And is it legally binding?" were Charlie's first words after he had finished reading the page of Mrs. Trentham's handwriting.

"Yes, I'm afraid it is, Sir Charles."

"But if he didn't know the full extent of the inheritance . . . ?"

"This is a contract between two people. The courts would have to assume Daniel had relinquished his interest to any claim in the Hardcastle estate, once Mrs. Trentham had kept her part of the bargain."

"But what about coercion?"

"Of a twenty-six-year-old man by a woman over seventy when he went to visit her? Hardly, Sir Charles."

"But how did they ever meet?"

"I have no idea," replied the lawyer. "It seems that she didn't confide the full circumstances of the meeting even to her own solicitors. However, I'm sure you now understand why I considered this wasn't the most appropriate time to raise the subject of Sir Raymond's will with Daniel."

"You made the right decision," said Charlie.

"And now the subject must be closed forever," said Becky, barely louder than a whisper.

"But why?" asked Charlie, placing an arm around his wife's shoulder.

"Because I don't want Daniel to spend the rest of his life feeling he betrayed his great-grandfather when his only purpose in signing that agreement must have been to help us." The tears flowed down Becky's cheeks as she turned to face her husband.

"Perhaps I should have a word with Daniel, man to man."

"Charlie, you will never even consider raising the subject of Guy Trentham with my son again. I forbid."

Charlie removed his arm from around his wife and looked at her like a child who has been unfairly scolded.

"I'm only glad it was you who has brought us this unhappy news," said Becky, turning back to the solicitor. "You've always been so considerate when it comes to our affairs."

"Thank you, Lady Trumper, but I fear I have yet more unpalatable news to impart."

Becky gripped Charlie's hand.

"I have to report that on this occasion Mrs. Trentham has not satisfied herself with one blow at a time."

"What else can she do to us?" asked Charlie.

"It seems that she is now willing to part with her land in Chelsea Terrace."

"I don't believe it," said Becky.

"I do," said Charlie. "But at what price?"

"That is indeed the problem," said Mr. Baverstock, who bent down to remove another file from his old leather bag.

Charlie and Becky exchanged a quick glance.

"Mrs. Trentham will offer you the freehold on her site in Chelsea Terrace in exchange for ten percent of Trumper's shares"—he paused—"and a place on the board for her son Nigel."

"Never," said Charlie flatly.

"If you should reject her offer," the solicitor continued, "she intends to sell the property on the open market and accept the highest bidder whoever that might be."

"So be it," said Charlie. "We would undoubtedly end up buying the land ourselves."

"At a far higher price than the value of ten percent of our shares, I suspect," said Becky.

"That's a price worth paying after what she's put us through."

"Mrs. Trentham has also requested," continued Mr. Baverstock, "that her offer should be presented to the board in detail at your next meeting and then voted only—"

"But she doesn't have the authority to make such a demand," said Charlie.

"If you do not comply with this request," said Mr. Baverstock, "it is her intention to circulate all the shareholders with the offer and then call an extraordinary general meeting at which she will personally present her case and bring the issue to a vote."

"Can she do that?" For the first time Charlie sounded worried.

"From everything I know about that lady, I suspect she wouldn't have thrown down such a gauntlet before taking legal advice."

"It's almost as if she can always anticipate our next move," said Becky with feeling.

Charlie's voice revealed the same anxiety. "She wouldn't need to bother about our next move if her son was on the board. He could just report back to her direct after every meeting."

"So what it comes to is that we may well have to give in to her demands," said Becky.

"I agree with your judgment, Lady Trumper," said Mr. Baverstock. "However, I felt it was only proper that I should give you as much notice as possible of Mrs. Trentham's demands as it will be my painful duly to acquaint the board with the details when we next meet."

There was only one "apology for absence" when the board met the following Tuesday. Simon Matthews had to be in Geneva to conduct a rare gems sale and Charlie had assured him that his presence would not be vital. Once Mr. Baverstock had finished explaining the consequences of Mrs. Trentham's offer to the board, everyone around the table wanted to speak at once.

When Charlie had restored some semblance of order, he said, "I must make my position clear from the outset. I am one hundred percent against this offer. I don't trust the lady in question and never have. What's more, I believe that in the long term her only purpose is to harm the company."

"But, surely, Mr. Chairman," said Paul Merrick, "if she is considering selling her land in Chelsea Terrace to the highest bidder, she could always use the cash from that sale to purchase another ten percent of the company's shares at any time that suited her. So what real choice are we left with?"

"Not having to live with her son," said Charlie. "Don't forget, part of this package means offering him a place on the board."

"But if he were in possession of ten percent of the company," said Paul Merrick, "and perhaps an even higher stake for all we know, it would be nothing less than our duly to accept him as a director."

"Not necessarily," said Charlie. "Especially if we believed his sole reason for joining the board was eventually to take over the company. The last thing we need is a hostile director."

"The last thing we need is to pay more than is necessary for a hole in the ground."

For a moment no one spoke while the rest of the board considered these contrary statements.

"Let's assume for one moment," said Tim Newman, "the consequences of not accepting Mrs. Trentham's terms but instead bidding for the empty plot ourselves on the open market. That mightn't prove to be the cheapest route, Sir Charles, because I can assure you that Sears, Boots, the House of Fraser and the John Lewis Partnership—to name but four—would derive considerable pleasure from opening a new store right in the middle of Trumper's."

"Rejecting her offer may therefore turn out to be even more expensive in the long run, whatever your personal views are of the lady, Mr. Chairman," said Merrick. "In any case, I have another piece of information that the board may feel is relevant to this discussion."

"What's that?" asked Charlie, warily.

"My fellow directors may be interested to know," began Merrick rather pompously, "that Nigel Trentham has just been made redundant by Kitcat and Aitken, which is simply a euphemism for being sacked. It seems he's not proved up to the task in these leaner times. So I can't imagine his presence around this table is likely to provide us with a great deal of anxiety now or at any time in the future."

"But he could still keep his mother briefed on every move we make," said Charlie.

"Perhaps she needs to know how well the knickers are selling on the seventh floor?" suggested Merrick. "Not to mention the trouble we had with that burst water main in the gents' lavatory last month. No, Chairman, it would be foolish, even irresponsible, not to accept such an offer."

"As a matter of interest, Mr. Chairman, what would you do with the extra space, should Trumper's suddenly get hold of Mrs. Trentham's land?" asked Daphne, throwing everyone off balance for a moment.

"Expand," said Charlie. "We're already bulging at the seams. That piece of land would mean at least fifty thousand square feet. If I could only get my hands on it it would be possible for me to open another twenty departments."

"And what would such a building program cost?" Daphne continued.

"A lot of money," Paul Merrick interjected, "which we may not have at our disposal if we are made to pay well over the odds for that vacant site in the first place."

"May I remind you that we're having an exceptionally good year," said Charlie, banging the table.

"Agreed, Mr. Chairman. But may I also remind you, that when you last made a similar statement, within five years you were facing bankruptcy."

"But that was caused by an unexpected war," insisted Charlie.

"And this isn't," said Merrick. The two men stared at each other, unable to disguise their mutual loathing. "Our first duty must always be to the shareholders," continued Merrick, as he looked around the boardroom table. "If they were to find out that we had paid an excessive amount for that piece of land simply because of—and I put this as delicately as I can—a personal vendetta between the principals, we could be heavily censured at the next AGM and you, Mr. Chairman, might even be called on to resign."

"I'm willing to take that risk," said Charlie, by now almost shouting.

"Well, I'm not," said Merrick calmly. "What's more, if we don't accept her offer, we already know that Mrs. Trentham will call an extraordinary general meeting in order to put her case to the shareholders, and I've little doubt where their interests will lie. I consider the time has come to take a vote on this matter, rather than carry on with any further pointless discussion."

"But wait a moment—" Charlie began.

"No. I will not wait, Mr. Chairman, and I propose that we accept Mrs. Trentham's generous offer of releasing her land in exchange for ten percent of the company's shares."

"And what do you propose we do about her son?" asked Charlie.

"He should be invited to join the board without delay," replied Merrick.

"But—" began Charlie.

"No buts, thank you, Mr. Chairman," said Merrick. "The time has come to vote. Personal prejudices shouldn't be allowed to cloud our better judgment."

There was a moment's silence before Arthur Selwyn said, "As a formal proposal has been made, will you be kind enough to record the votes, Miss Allen?" Jessica nodded and glanced round at the nine members of the board.

"Mr. Merrick?"

"For."

"Mr. Newman?"

"For."

"Mr. Denning?"

"Against."

"Mr. Makins?"

"Against."

"Mr. Baverstock?"

The lawyer placed the palms of his hands on the table and seemed to hesitate, as if in some considerable dilemma over the decision.

"For," he said finally.

"Lady Trumper?"

"Against," Becky said without hesitation.

"Lady Wiltshire?"

"For," said Daphne quietly.

"Why?" said Becky unable to believe her response.

Daphne turned to face her old friend. "Because I'd rather have the enemy inside the boardroom causing trouble, than outside in the corridor causing even more."

Becky couldn't believe her ears.

"I assume you're against, Sir Charles?"

Charlie nodded vigorously.

Mr. Selwyn raised his eyes.

"Does that mean it's four votes each?" he inquired of Jessica.

"Yes, that's correct, Mr. Selwyn," said Jessica after she had run her thumb down the list of names a second time.

Everyone stared across at the managing director. He placed the pen he had been writing with on the blotting pad in front of him. "Then I can only do what I consider to be in the best long-term interests of the company. I cast my vote in favor of accepting Mrs. Trentham's offer."

Everyone round the table except Charlie started to talk.

Mr. Selwyn waited for some time before adding, "The motion has been carried, Mr. Chairman, by five votes to four. I will therefore instruct our merchant bankers and solicitors to carry out the necessary financial and legal arrangements to ensure that this transaction takes place smoothly and in accordance with company regulations."

Charlie made no comment, just continued to stare in front of him.

"And if there is no other business, Chairman, perhaps you should declare the meeting closed."

Charlie nodded but didn't move when the other directors rose to leave the boardroom. Only Becky remained in her place, halfway down the long table. Within moments they were alone.

"I should have got my hands on those flats thirty years ago, you know."

Becky made no comment.

"And we should never have gone public while that bloody woman was still alive."

Charlie rose and walked slowly over to the window, but his wife still didn't offer an opinion as he stared down at the empty bench on the far side of the road.

"And to think I told Simon that his presence wouldn't be vital."

Still Becky said nothing.

"Well, at least I now know what the bloody woman has in mind for her precious Nigel."

Becky raised an eyebrow as Charlie turned to face her.

"She plans that he will succeed me as the next chairman of Trumper's."