As the Crow Flies

Chapter 48

When Charlie burst into the drawing room that evening it was the first time that I really believed Guy Trentham was finally dead.

I sat in silence while my husband strode around the room recalling with relish every last detail of the confrontation that had taken place in Mr. Baverstock's office earlier that afternoon.

I have loved four men in my life with emotions ranging from adoration to devotion, but only Charlie encompassed the entire spectrum. Yet, even in his moment of triumph, I knew it would be left to me to take away from him the thing he most loved.

Within a fortnight of that fateful meeting, Nigel Trentham had agreed to part with his shares at the market price. Now that interest rates had risen to eight percent it was hardly surprising that he had little stomach for a protracted and bitter wrangle over any claim he might or might not have to the Hardcastle estate.

Mr. Baverstock, on behalf of the Trust, purchased all his stock at a cost of a little over seven million pounds. The old solicitor then advised Charlie that he should call a special board meeting as it was his duty to inform Companies House of what had taken place. He also warned Charlie that he must, within fourteen days, circulate all other shareholders with the details of the transaction.

It had been a long time since I'd looked forward to a board meeting with such anticipation.

Although I was among the first to take my place at the boardroom table that morning, every other director was present long before the meeting was scheduled to begin.

"Apologies for absence?" requested the chairman on the dot of ten.

"Nigel Trentham, Roger Gibbs and Hugh Folland," Jessica intoned in her best matter-of-fact voice.

"Thank you. Minutes of the last meeting," said Charlie. "Is it your wish that I should sign those minutes as a true record?"

I glanced round the faces at the boardroom table. Daphne, dressed in a perky yellow outfit, was doodling away all over her minutes. Tim Newman was looking as suave as ever and simply nodded, while Simon took a sip from the glass of water in front of him and when he caught my eye raised it in a mock toast. Ned Denning whispered something inaudible in Bob Makins' ear while Cathy placed a tick by item number two. Only Paul Merrick looked as if he wasn't enjoying the occasion. I turned my attention back to Charlie.

As no one appeared to be showing any dissent, Jessica folded back the last page of the minutes to allow Charlie to scrawl his signature below the bottom line. I noticed Charlie smile when he reread the final instruction the board had given him on the last occasion we had met: "Chairman to try and come to some amicable agreement with Mr. Nigel Trentham concerning the orderly takeover of Trumper's."

"Matters arising from the minutes?" Charlie asked. Still no one else spoke, so once again Charlie's eyes returned to the agenda. "Item number four, the future of—" he began, but then every one of us tried to speak at once.

When some semblance of order had been regained, Charlie suggested that it might be wise if the chief executive were to bring us up to date on the latest position. I joined the "Hear, hears" and nods that greeted this suggestion.

"Thank you, Chairman," said Arthur Selwyn, removing some papers from a briefcase by the side of his chair. The rest of the board waited patiently. "Members of the board will be aware that," he began, sounding like the senior civil servant he had once been, "following the announcement by Mr. Nigel Trentham that it was no longer his intention to mount a takeover bid for Trumper's, the company's shares subsequently fell from their peak of two pounds four shillings to their present price of one pound nineteen shillings."

"We're all capable of following the vagaries of the stock market," said Daphne, butting in. "What I would like to know is: what has happened to Trentham's personal shareholding?"

I didn't join in with the chorus of approval that followed as I already knew every last detail of the agreement.

"Mr. Trentham's stock," said Mr. Selwyn, continuing as if he had not been interrupted, "was, following an agreement reached between his lawyers and Miss Ross', acquired a fortnight ago by Mr. Baverstock on behalf of the Hardcastle Trust at a cost of two pounds one shilling per share."

"And will the rest of the board ever be privy to what brought about this cozy little arrangement?" asked Daphne.

"It has recently come to light," answered Selwyn, "that Mr. Trentham has, during the past year, been building up a considerable holding in the company on borrowed money, causing him to accumulate a large overdraft—an overdraft, I am given to understand, he can no longer sustain. With that in mind he has sold his personal holding in the company—some twenty-eight percent—direct to the Hardcastle Trust at the going market rate."

"Has he now?" said Daphne.

"Yes," said Charlie. "And it may also interest the board to know that during the past week I have received three letters of resignation, from Mr. Trentham, Mr. Folland and Mr. Gibbs, which I took the liberty of accepting on your behalf."

"That was indeed a liberty," said Daphne sharply.

"You feel we shouldn't have accepted their resignations?"

"I certainly do, Chairman."

"May one ask your reasons, Lady Wiltshire?"

"They're purely selfish, Mr. Chairman." I thought I detected a chuckle in her voice, as Daphne waited to be sure she had the full attention of the board. "You see, I'd been looking forward to proposing that all three of them should be sacked."

Few members of the board were able to keep a straight face at this suggestion.

"Not to be recorded in the minutes," said Charlie, turning towards Jessica. "Thank you, Mr. Selwyn, for an admirable summary of the present situation. Now, as I cannot believe there is anything to be gained by continuing to rake over those particular coals, let us move on to item number five, the banking hall."

Charlie sat back contentedly while Cathy reported to us that the new facility was making a respectable monthly return and she could see no reason why the figures should not continue to improve for the foresee able future. "In fact," she said, "I believe the time has come for Trumper's to offer its regular customers their own credit card as . . ."

I stared at the miniature MC that hung from a gold chain around Cathy's neck, the missing link that Mr. Roberts always insisted had to exist. Cathy was still unable to recall a great deal of what had taken place in her life before she had come to work in London, but I agreed with Dr. Atkins' assessment that we should no longer waste our time with the past but let her concentrate on the future.

None of us doubted that when the time came to select a new chairman we wouldn't have far to look. The only problem I had to face now was how to convince the present chairman that perhaps the time had come for him to make way for someone younger.

"Do you have any strong feelings about upper limits, Chairman?" asked Cathy.

"No, no, it all makes good sense to me," said Charlie, sounding unusually vague.

"I'm not so sure that I'm able to agree with you on this occasion, Chairman," said Daphne.

"And why's that, Lady Wiltshire?" asked Charlie, smiling benignly.

"Partly because you haven't been listening to a single word that's been said for about the last ten minutes," Daphne declared, "how can you possibly know what you're agreeing to?"

"Guilty," said Charlie. "I confess my mind was on the other side of the world. However," he continued, "I did read Cathy's report on the subject and I suggest that the upper limits will have to vary from customer to customer, according to their credit rating, and we may well need to employ some new staff in future who have been trained in the City, rather than on the high street. Even so, I shall still require a detailed timetable if we're to consider seriously the introduction of such a scheme, which should be ready for presentation at the next board meeting. Is that possible, Miss Ross?" Charlie asked firmly, no doubt hoping that yet another example of his well-known "thinking on his feet" had released him from the jaws of Daphne.

"I will have everything ready for the board to consider at least a week before our next meeting."

"Thank you," said Charlie. "Item number six. Accounts."

I listened intently as Selwyn presented the latest figures, department by department. Once again I became aware of Cathy questioning and probing whenever she felt we were not being given a full enough explanation for any loss or innovation. She sounded like a better informed, more professional version of Daphne.

"What are we now projecting will be the profit forecast for the year 1965?" she asked.

"Approximately nine hundred and twenty thousand pounds," replied Selwyn, running his finger down a column of figures.

That was the moment when I realized what had to be achieved before I could convince Charlie he should announce his retirement.

"Thank you, Mr. Selwyn. Shall we move on to item number seven?" said Charlie. "The appointment of Miss Cathy Ross as deputy chairman of the board." Removing his glasses, Charlie added, "I don't feel it will be necessary for me to make a long speech on why—"

"Agreed," said Daphne. "It therefore gives me considerable pleasure to propose Miss Ross as deputy chairman of Trumper's."

"I should like to second that proposal," volunteered Arthur Selwyn. I could only smile at the sight of Charlie with his mouth wide open, but he still managed to ask, "Those in favor?" I raised my hand along with all but one director.

Cathy rose and gave a short acceptance speech in which she thanked the board for their confidence in her and assured them of her total commitment to the future of the company.

"Any other business?" asked Charlie, as he began stacking up his papers.

"Yes," replied Daphne. "Having had the pleasure of proposing Miss Ross as deputy chairman I feel the time has come for me to hand in my resignation."

"But why?" asked Charlie, looking shocked.

"Because I shall be sixty-five next month, Chairman, and I consider that to be a proper age to make way for younger blood."

"Then I can only say—" began Charlie and this time none of us tried to stop him making a long and heartfelt speech. When he had finished we all banged the table with the palm of a hand.

Once order had been regained, Daphne said simply, "Thank you. I could not have expected such dividends from a sixty-pound investment."

Within weeks of Daphne's leaving the company, whenever a sensitive issue came under discussion with the board Charlie would admit to me after the meeting was over that he missed the marchioness' particular brand of maddening common sense.

"And I wonder if you'll miss me and my nagging tongue quite as much when I hand in my resignation?" I asked.

"What are you talking about, Becky?"

"Only that I'll be sixty-five in a couple of years and intend to follow Daphne's example."

"But—"

"No buts, Charlie," I told him. "Number 1 now runs itself more than competently since I stole young Richard Cartwright from Christie's. In any case, Richard ought to be offered my place on the main board. After all, he's taking most of the responsibility without gaining any of the credit."

"Well, I'll tell you one thing," Charlie retorted defiantly, "I don't intend to resign, not even when I'm seventy."

During 1965, we opened three new departments: "Teenagers," which specialized in clothes and records with its own coffee shop attached; a travel agency, to cope with the growing demand for holidays abroad; and a gift department, "for the man who has everything." Cathy also recommended to the board that after almost twenty years perhaps the whole barrow needed a facelift. Charlie told me that he wasn't quite sure about such a radical upheaval, reminding me of the Fordian theory that one should never invest in anything that eats or needs to be repainted. But as Arthur Selwyn and the other directors seemed in no doubt that a refurbishment program was long overdue he only put up token resistance.

I kept to my promise—or threat as Charlie saw it—and resigned three months after my sixty-fifth birthday, leaving Charlie as the only director who still survived from the original board.

For the first time in my recollection, Charlie admitted that he was beginning to feel his age. Whenever he called for the minutes of the last meeting, he admitted, he would look around the boardroom table and realize how little he had in common with most of his fellow directors. The "bright new sparks," as Daphne referred to them, financiers, takeover specialists, and public relations men, all seemed somehow detached from the one element that had always mattered to Charlie—the customer.

They talked of deficit financing, loan option schemes and the necessity to have their own computer, often without bothering to seek Charlie's opinion.

"What can I do about it?" Charlie asked me after a board meeting at which he admitted he hardly opened his mouth.

He scowled when he heard my recommendation.

The following month Arthur Selwyn announced at the company's AGM that the pretax profits for 1966 would be 1,078,600. Charlie stared down at me as I nodded firmly from the front row. He waited for "Any other business" before he rose to tell the assembled company that he felt the time had come for him to resign. Someone else must push the barrow into the seventies, he suggested.

Everyone in the room looked shocked. They spoke of the end of an era, "no possible replacement," and said that it would never be the same again; but not one of them suggested Charlie should reconsider his position.

Twenty minutes later he declared the meeting closed.

Chapter 49

It was Jessica Allen who told the new chairman that a Mr. Corcran had phoned from the Lefevre Gallery to say that he accepted her offer of one hundred and ten thousand pounds.

Cathy smiled. "Now all we have to do is agree on a date and send out the invitations. Can you get Becky on the line for me, Jessica?"

The first action Cathy had proposed to the board after being elected unanimously as the third chairman of Trumper's was to appoint Charlie as Life President and hold a dinner in his honor at the Grosvenor House Hotel. The occasion was attended by all Trumper's staff, their husbands, wives and many of the friends Charlie and Becky had made over nearly seven decades. Charlie took his place in the center of the top table that night, one of the one thousand, seven hundred and seventy people who filled the great ballroom.

There followed a five-course meal that even Percy was unable to fault. After Charlie had been supplied with a brandy and had lit up a large Trumper's cigar, he leaned over and whispered to Becky, "I wish your father could have seen this spread." He added, "Of course, he wouldn't have come—unless he'd supplied everything from the meringues glaces to the bread rolls."

"I wish Daniel could have shared the evening with us as well," Becky replied quietly. A few moments later Cathy stood and delivered a speech that could have left no one in any doubt that they had elected the right person to follow Charlie. Cathy ended by inviting the assembled company to toast the health of the founder and first Life President. After the applause had died away, she bent down and removed something from beneath her chair. "Charlie," she said, "This is a small memento from us all to thank you for the sacrifice you once made in order to keep Trumper's afloat." Cathy turned and handed over an oil painting to Charlie, who beamed in anticipation until he saw what the subject was. His mouth opened and his cigar fell on the table as he stared in disbelief. It was some time before he could let go of The Potato Eaters and rise to respond to the calls of "Speech, speech!"

Charlie began by reminding his audience once again how everything had begun with his grandfather's barrow in Whitechapel, a barrow that now stood proudly in the food hall of Trumper's. He paid tribute to the colonel, long since dead, to the pioneers of the company, Mr. Crowther and Mr. Hadlow, as well as to two of the original staff, Bob Makins and Ned Denning—both of whom had retired only weeks before he himself had. He ended with Daphne, Marchioness of Wiltshire, who had loaned them their first sixty pounds to make it all possible.

"I wish I was fourteen years old again," he said wistfully. "Me, my barrow, and my regulars in the Whitechapel Road. Those were the 'appiest days of my life. Because at 'eart, you see, I'm a simple fruit and vegetable man." Everybody laughed, except Becky, who gazed up at her husband and recalled an eight-year-old boy in short trousers, cap in hand, standing outside her father's shop, hoping to get a free bun.

"I am proud to 'ave built the biggest barrow in the world and tonight to be among those who 'ave 'elped me push it from the East End all the way into Chelsea Terrace. I'll miss you all and I can only 'ope you'll allow me back into Trumper's from time to time."

As Charlie sat down, his staff rose to cheer him. He leaned over, took Becky by the hand and said, "Forgive me, but I forgot to tell 'em it was you what founded it in the first place."

Becky, who had never been to a football match in her life, had to spend hours listening to her husband on the subject of the World Cup, and how no fewer than three West Ham players had been selected for the England squad.

For the first four weeks after Charlie had retired as chairman, he seemed quite content to allow Stan to drive him from Sheffield to Manchester, and from Liverpool to Leeds, so that they could watch the early rounds together.

When England won a place in the semifinal Charlie used every contact he could think of to obtain two stand tickets, and his efforts were rewarded when the home side won a place in the final.

However, despite those contacts, a willingness to pay over the odds, and even writing to Alf Ramsay, the England team manager, Charlie still failed to get even a standing ticket for the final. He told Becky that he had come to the reluctant conclusion that he and Stan would have to watch the match on television.

On the morning of the game, Charlie came down to breakfast to find two stand tickets wedged in the toast rack. He was unable to eat his eggs and bacon for sheer excitement. "You're a genius, Mrs. Trumper," he said several times, interspersed with: "However did you manage it?"

"Contacts," was all Becky would say, resolved not to let Charlie know that the new computer had revealed that Mrs. Ramsay held an account at Trumper's, and Cathy had suggested she should join that select group of customers who received a ten percent discount.

The four-two victory over West Germany, with three goals scored by Geoff Hurst of West Ham, not only brought Charlie to the edge of delirium but even made Becky briefly wonder if her husband had now put Trumper's behind him and would allow Cathy a free hand as chairman.

Yet within a week of resuming home from Wembley Stadium Charlie seemed perfectly content just to potter around the house, but it was during the second week that Becky realized something had to be done if she wasn't to be driven mad as well as lose most of her domestic staff at Eaton Square. On the Monday of the third week, she dropped into Trumper's to see the manager of the travel department and during the fourth week tickets were delivered from the offices of Cunard to Lady Trumper for a trip to New York on the Queen Mary followed by an extensive tour of the United States.

"I do hope she can run the barrow without me," said Charlie, as they were driven down to Southampton.

"I expect she'll just about scrape by," said Becky, who had planned that they should be away for at least three months, to be sure that Cathy had a free hand to get on with the refurbishment program, which they both suspected Charlie would have done everything in his power to hold up.

Becky became even more convinced this would have been the case the moment Charlie walked into Bloomingdale's and started grumbling about the lack of proper space allocated to view the goods. She moved him on to Macy's where he complained of the nonexistent service, and when they arrived in Chicago he told Joseph Field that he no longer cared for the window displays that had at one time been the hallmark of the great store. "Far too garish, even for America," he assured the owner. Becky would have mentioned the words "tact" and "subtlety" had Joseph Field not agreed with his old friend's every pronouncement, while placing the blame firmly on a new manager who believed in "flower power," whatever that was.

Dallas, San Francisco and Los Angeles were no better, and when three months later Becky and Charlie climbed back on board the great liner in New York, the name of "Trumper's" was once again on Charlie's lips. Becky began to dread what might happen when they set foot back on English soil.

She only hoped that five days of calm seas and a warm Atlantic breeze might help them relax and allow Charlie to forget Trumper's for a few moments. But he spent most of the voyage back explaining his new ideas for revolutionizing the company, ideas he felt should be put into operation the moment they reached London. It was then that Becky decided she had to make a stand on Cathy's behalf.

"But you're not even a member of the board any longer," Becky reminded him, as she lay on the deck sunbathing.

"I'm the Life President," he insisted, after he had finished telling her his latest idea for tagging garments to combat shoplifting.

"But that's a purely honorary position."

"Poppycock. I intend to make my views felt whenever—"

"Charlie, that's not fair to Cathy. She's no longer the junior director of a family venture but chairman of a vast public company. The time has surely come for you to stay away from Trumper's and allow Cathy to push the barrow along on her own."

"So what am I expected to do?"

"I don't know, Charlie, and I don't care. But whatever you do it's no longer going to take place anywhere near Chelsea Terrace. Do I make myself clear?"

Charlie would have replied if a deck officer hadn't come to a halt beside them.

"Sorry to interrupt you, sir."

"You're not interrupting anything," said Charlie. "So what do you want me to do? Arrange a mutiny or organize the deck tennis draw?"

"Both those are the purser's responsibility, Sir Charles," said the young man. "But the captain wonders if you would be kind enough to join him on the bridge. He's received a cablegram from London which he feels you would want to know about immediately."

"I hope it's not bad news," said Becky, as she sat up quickly and placed the novel she had been trying to read on the deck beside her. "I told them not to contact us unless it was an emergency."

"Rubbish," said Charlie. "You're such an old pessimist. With you a bottle is always half empty." He stood up and stretched himself before accompanying the young officer along the afterdeck towards the bridge, explaining how he would organize a mutiny. Becky followed a yard behind, offering no further comment.

As the officer escorted them onto the bridge the captain turned to greet them.

"A cablegram has just come over the wires from London, Sir Charles, which I thought you would want to see immediately." He handed the message over.

"Damn, I've left my glasses back on the deck," Charlie mumbled. "Becky, you'd better read it to me." He passed the slip of paper to his wife.

Becky opened the cablegram, her fingers trembling slightly, and read the message to herself first as Charlie studied his wife's face for a clue as to its contents.

"Come on then, what is it? Half full or half empty?"

"It's a request from Buckingham Palace," she replied.

"What did I tell you," said Charlie, "you can't leave them to do anything for themselves. First day of the month, bath soap, she prefers lavender; toothpaste, he likes Colgate, and loo paper.. . . I did warn Cathy—"

"No, I don't think it's the loo paper Her Majesty is fussing about on this occasion," said Becky.

"So what's the problem?" asked Charlie.

"They want to know what title you'll take."

"Title?" said Charlie.

"Yes," said Becky, turning to face her husband. "Lord Trumper of where?"

Becky was surprised and Cathy somewhat relieved to discover how quickly Lord Trumper of Whitechapel appeared to become absorbed in the daily workings of the Upper House. Becky's fears of his continually interfering with the day-to-day business of the company evaporated the moment Charlie had donned the red ermine. For his wife, the routine brought back memories of those days during the Second World War when Charlie had worked under Lord Woolton in the Ministry of Food and she could never be sure what time of night he'd arrive home.

Six months after being told by Becky he was not to no anywhere near Trumper's, Charlie announced that he had been invited to become a member of the Agricultural Committee, where he felt he could once again use his expertise to the benefit of his fellow members. He even resumed to his old routine of rising at four-thirty each morning so that he could catch up with those parliamentary papers that always needed to be read before important meetings.

Whenever Charlie resumed home for dinner in the evening he was always full of news about some clause he had proposed in committee that day, or how an old duffer had taken up the House's time during the afternoon with countless amendments to the hare coursing bill.

When in 1970 Britain applied to join the Common Market Charlie told his wife that he had been approached by the chief whip to chair a subcommittee on food distribution in Europe and felt it was his duty to accept. From that day on, whenever Becky came down for breakfast she would discover countless order papers or copies of the Lords' daily Hansard strewn untidily all the way from Charlie's study to the kitchen, where the inevitable note had been left to explain that he had to attend yet another early subcommittee meeting or briefing from some continental supporter of Britain's entry into Europe who happened to be in London. Until then Becky had no idea how hard members of the Upper House were expected to work.

Becky continued to keep in touch with Trumper's by regular Monday morning visits. She would always go in at a time when business was fairly quiet, and to her surprise had become Charlie's main source of information as to what was happening at the store.

She always enjoyed spending a couple of hours strolling through the different departments. She couldn't help noticing how quickly fashions changed, and how Cathy always managed to keep a step ahead of her rivals, while never giving regular customers cause to grumble about unnecessary change.

Becky's final call was inevitably at the auction house to see whose paintings were due to come under the hammer. It had been some time since she had handed over her responsibility to Richard Cartwright, the former chief auctioneer, but he always made himself available to show her round the latest preview of pictures to be auctioned. "Minor Impressionists on this occasion," he assured her.

"Now at major prices," Becky replied as she studied works by Pissarro, Bonnard and Vuillard. "But we'll still have to make sure Charlie doesn't find out about this lot."

"He already has," Richard warned her. "Dropped in last Thursday on his way to the Lords, put a reserve on three lots and even found time to complain about our estimates. Claimed he had bought a large Renoir oil from you called L'homme a la peche only a few years ago for the price I was now expecting him to pay for a small pastel by Pissarro that was nothing more than a study for a major work."

"I suspect he might be right about that," said Becky as she flicked through the catalogue to check the different estimates. "And heaven help your balance sheet if he finds out that you failed to reach the reserve price on any picture he's interested in. When I ran this department he was always known as 'our loss leader.'"

As they were chatting an assistant walked over to join them, nodded politely to Lady Trumper and handed Richard a note. He studied the message before turning to Becky. "The chairman wonders if you would be kind enough to drop in and see her before you leave. Something she needs to discuss with you fairly urgently."

Richard accompanied her to the lift on the ground floor, where Becky thanked him once again for indulging an old lady.

As the lift traveled grudgingly upwards—something else that Cathy wanted to change as part of the refurbishment plan—Becky pondered on why the chairman could possibly want to see her and only hoped that she wasn't going to have to cancel dinner with them that night, as their guests were to be Joseph and Barbara Field.

Although Cathy had moved out of Eaton Square some eighteen months before into a spacious flat in Chelsea Cloisters they still managed dinner together at least once a month, and Cathy was always invited back to the house whenever the Fields or the Bloomingdales were in town. Becky knew that Joseph Field, who still sat on the board of the great Chicago store, would be disappointed if Cathy was unable to keep her appointment that night, especially as the American couple was due to return home the following day.

Jessica ushered Becky straight through to the chairman's office, where she found Cathy on the phone, her brow unusually furrowed. While she waited for the chairman to finish her call, Becky stared out of the bay window at the empty wooden bench on the far side of the road and thought of Charlie, who had happily swapped it for the red leather benches of the House of Lords.

Once Cathy had replaced the receiver, she immediately asked, "How's Charlie?"

"You tell me," said Becky. "I see him for the occasional dinner during the week and he has even been known to attend breakfast on a Sunday. But that's about it. Has he been seen in Trumper's lately?"

"Not that often. To be honest, I still feel guilty about banning him from the store."

"No need to feel any guilt," Becky told her. "I've never seen the man happier."

"I'm relieved to hear it," said Cathy. "But right now I need Charlie's advice on a more urgent matter."

"And what's that?"

"Cigars," said Cathy. "I had David Field on the phone earlier to say that his father would like a dozen boxes of his usual brand and not to bother to send them round to the Connaught because he'll be only too happy to pick them up when he comes to dinner tonight."

"So what's the problem?"

"Neither David Field nor the tobacco department has the slightest idea what his father's usual brand is. It seems Charlie always dealt with the order personally."

"You could check the old invoices."

"First thing I did," said Cathy. "But there's no record of any transaction ever taking place. Which surprised me, because if I remember correctly old Mr. Field regularly had a dozen boxes sent over to the Connaught whenever he came to London." Cathy's brow furrowed again. "That was something I always considered curious. After all, when you think about it, he must have had a large tobacco department in his own store."

"I'm sure he did," said Becky, "but it wouldn't have stocked any brands from Havana."

"Havana? I'm not with you."

"Some time in the fifties U.S. Customs banned the import of all Cuban cigars into America and David's father, who had been smoking a particular brand of Havanas long before anyone had heard of Fidel Castro saw no reason why he shouldn't be allowed to continue to indulge himself with what he considered was no more than his 'goddamned right.'"

"So how did Charlie get round the problem?"

"Charlie used to go down to the tobacco department, pick up a dozen boxes of the old man's favorite brand, return to his office, remove the bands around each cigar, then replace them with an innocuous Dutch label before putting them back in an unidentifiable Trumper's box. He always made sure that there was a ready supply on hand for Mr. Field in case he ever ran out. Charlie felt it was the least we could do to repay all the hospitality the Fields had lavished on us over the years."

Cathy nodded her understanding. "But I still need to know which brand of Cuban cigar is nothing more than Mr. Field's 'goddamned right.'"

"I've no idea," admitted Becky. "As you say Charlie never allowed anyone else to handle the order."

"Then someone's going to have to ask Charlie, either to come in and complete the order himself or at least tell us which brand Mr. Field is addicted to. So where can I expect to find the Life President at eleven-thirty on a Monday morning?"

"Hidden away in some committee room at the House of Lords would be my bet."

"No, he's not," said Cathy. "I've already phoned the Lords and they assured me he hadn't been seen this morning and what's more they weren't expecting him again this week."

"But that's not possible," said Becky. "He virtually lives in the place."

"That's what I thought," said Cathy. "Which is why I called down to Number 1 to ask for your help."

"I'll sort this out in a trice," said Becky. "If Jessica can put me through to the Lords, I know exactly the right person to speak to."

Jessica returned to her office, looked up the number and, as soon as she had been connected, put the call through to the chairman's desk, where Becky picked up the receiver.

"House of Lords?" said Becky. "Message board please . . . Is Mr. Anson there? No, well, I'd still like to leave an urgent message for Lord Trumper of Whitechapel . . . Yes, I think he's in an agricultural subcommittee this morning . . . Are you sure? . . . That can't be possible . . . You do know my husband? . . . Well, that's a relief . . . Does he . . . ? How interesting . . . No, thank you . . . No, I won't leave a message and please don't trouble Mr. Anson. Goodbye."

Becky replaced the phone and looked up to find Cathy and Jessica staring at her like two children at bedtime waiting to hear the end of a story.

"Charlie hasn't been seen in the Lords this morning. There isn't an agricultural subcommittee. He's not even a member of the full committee, and what's more they haven't set eyes on him for the past three months."

"But I don't understand," said Cathy. "How have you been getting through to him in the past?"

"With a special number supplied by Charlie that I keep by the hall phone in Eaton Square. It connects me to a Lords messenger called Mr. Anson, who always seems to know exactly where Charlie can be found at any time of the day or night."

"And does this Mr. Anson exist?" asked Cathy.

"Oh, yes," said Becky. "But it seems he works on another floor of the Lords and on this occasion I was put through to general inquiries."

"So what happens whenever you do get through to Mr. Anson?"

"Charlie usually rings back within the hour."

"So there's nothing to stop you phoning Mr. Anson now?"

"It'd rather not for the moment," said Becky. "I think I'd prefer to find out what Charlie's been up to for the past two years. Because one thing's for certain, Mr. Anson isn't going to tell me."

"But Mr. Anson can't be the only person who knows," said Cathy. "After all, Charlie doesn't live in a vacuum." They both swung round to face Jessica.

"Don't look at me," said Jessica. "He hasn't had any contact with this office since the day you banned him from Chelsea Terrace. If Stan didn't come into the canteen for lunch from time to time I wouldn't even know Charlie was still alive."

"Of course," said Becky, snapping her fingers. "Stan's the one person who must know what's going on. He still picks up Charlie first thing in the morning and brings him home last thing at night. Charlie couldn't get away with anything unless his driver was fully in his confidence."

"Right, Jessica," said Cathy as she checked her diary. "Start by canceling my lunch with the managing director of Moss Bros., then tell my secretary I'll take no calls and no interruptions until we find out exactly what our Life President has been up to. When you've done that, go down and see if Stan's in the canteen, and if he is phone me back immediately."

Jessica almost ran out of the room as Cathy turned her attention back to Becky.

"Do you think he might have a mistress?" said Becky quietly.

"Night and day for nearly two years at the age of seventy? If he has, we ought to enter him as the Bull of the Year at the Royal Agricultural Show."

"Then what can he be up to?"

"My bet is that he's taking his master's degree at London University," said Cathy. "It's always riled Charlie whenever you tease him about never properly completing his education."

"But I'd have come across the relevant books and papers all over the house."

"You already have, but they were only the books and papers he intended you to see. Don't let's forget how cunning he was when he took his BA. He fooled you for eight years."

"Perhaps he's taken a job with one of our rivals."

"Not his style," said Cathy. "He's far too loyal for that. In any case, we'd know which store it was within days, the staff and management alike would be only too happy to keep reminding us. No, it has to be simpler than that." The private phone rang on Cathy's desk. She grabbed the receiver and listened carefully before saying, "Thank you, Jessica. We're on our way."

"Let's go," she said, replacing the phone and jumping up from behind her desk. "Stan's just finishing his lunch." She headed towards the door. Becky quietly followed and without another word they took the lift to the ground floor where Joe, the senior doorman, was surprised to see the chairman and Lady Trumper hail a taxi when both their drivers were patiently waiting for them on meters.

A few minutes later Stan appeared through the same door and climbed behind the wheel of Charlie's Rolls before proceeding at a gentle pace towards Hyde Park Corner, oblivious of the taxi that was following him. The Rolls continued down Piccadilly and on through Trafalgar Square before taking a left in the direction of the Strand.

"He's going to King's College," said Cathy. "I knew I was right—it has to be his master's degree."

"But Stan's not stopping," said Becky, as the Rolls passed the college entrance and weaved its way into Fleet Street.

"I can't believe he's bought a newspaper," said Cathy.

"Or taken a job in the City," Becky added as the Rolls drove on down towards the Mansion House.

"I've got it," said Becky triumphantly, as the Rolls left the City behind them and nosed its way into the East End. "He's been working on some project at his boys' club in Whitechapel."

Stan continued east until he finally brought the car to a halt outside the Dan Salmon Center.

"But it doesn't make any sense," said Cathy. "If that's all he wanted to do with his spare time why didn't he tell you the truth in the first place? Why go through such an elaborate charade?"

"I can't work that one out either," said Becky. "In fact, I confess I'm even more baffled."

"Well, let's at least go in and find out what he's up to."

"No," said Becky, placing a hand on Cathy's arm. "I need to sit and think for a few moments before I decide what to do next. If Charlie is planning something he doesn't want us to know about, I'd hate to be the one who spoils his bit of fun, especially when it was me who banned him from going into Trumper's in the first place."

"All right," said Cathy. "So why don't we just go back to my office and say nothing of our little discovery? After all, we can always phone Mr. Anson at the Lords, who as we know will make sure Charlie returns your call within the hour. That will give me easily enough time to sort out David Field and the problem of his cigars."

Becky nodded her agreement and instructed the bemused cabbie to return to Chelsea Terrace. As the taxi swung round in a circle to begin its journey back towards the West End, Becky glanced out of the rear window at the center named after her father. "Stop," she said without warning. The cabbie threw on the brakes and brought the taxi to a sudden halt.

"What's the matter?" asked Cathy.

Becky pointed out of the back window, her eyes now fixed on a figure who was walking down the steps of the Dan Salmon Center dressed in a grubby old suit and flat cap.

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

Becky quickly paid off the cabdriver while Cathy jumped out and began to follow Stan as he headed off down the Whitechapel Road.

"Where can he be going?" asked Cathy, as they kept Stan well within their sights. The shabbily dressed chauffeur continued to march along the pavement, leaving any old soldier who saw him in no doubt of his former profession while causing the two ladies who were pursuing him to have occasionally to break into a run.

"It ought to be Cohen's the tailor's," said Becky. "Because heaven knows the man looks as if he could do with a new suit."

But Stan came to a halt some yards before the tailor's shop. Then, for the first time, they both saw another man, also dressed in an old suit and flat cap, standing beside a brand-new barrow on which was printed the words: "Charlie Salmon, the honest trader. Founded in 1969."

"I don't offer you these at two pounds, ladies," declared a voice as loud as that of any of the youngsters on the pitches nearby, "not one pound, not even fifty pence. No, I'm going to give 'em away for twenty pence."

Cathy and Becky watched in amazement as Stan Russell touched his cap to Charlie, then began to fill a woman's basket, so that his master could deal with the next customer.

"So what'll it be today, Mrs. Bates? I've got some lovely bananas just flown in from the West Indies. Ought to be selling 'em at ninety pence the bunch, but to you, my old duck, fifty pence, but be sure you don't tell the neighbors."

"What about those tatoes, Charlie?" said a heavily made-up, middle-aged woman who pointed suspiciously at a box on the front of the barrow.

"As I stand 'ere, Mrs. Bates, new in from Jersey today and I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll sell 'em at the same price as my so-called rivals are still peddling their old ones for. Could I be fairer, I ask?"

"I'll take four pounds, Mr. Salmon."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bates. Serve the lady, Stan, while I deal with the next customer." Charlie stepped across to the other side of barrow.

"And 'ow nice to see you this fine afternoon, Mrs. Singh. Two pounds of figs, nuts and raisins, if my memory serves me right. And how is Dr. Singh keeping?"

"Very busy, Mr. Salmon, very busy."

"Then we must see that 'e's well fed, mustn't we?" said Charlie. "Because if this weather takes a turn for the worse, I may need to come and seek 'is advice about my sinus trouble. And 'ow's little Suzika?"

"She's just passed three A-levels, Mr. Salmon, and will be going to London University in September to read engineering."

"Can't see the point of it myself," said Charlie as he selected some figs. "Engineerin', you say. What will they think of next? Knew a girl once from these parts who took 'erself off to university and a fat lot of good it did 'er. Spent the rest of 'er life living off 'er 'usband, didn't she? My old granpa always used to say—"

Becky burst out laughing. "So what do we do now?" she asked.

"Go back to Eaton Square, then you can look up Mr. Anson's number at the Lords and give him a call. That way at least we can be sure that Charlie will contact you within the hour."

Cathy nodded her agreement but both of them remained transfixed as they watched the oldest dealer in the market ply his trade.

"I don't offer you these for two pounds," he declared, holding up a cabbage in both hands. "I don't offer 'em for one pound, not even fifty pence."

"No, I'll give 'em away for twenty pence," whispered Becky under her breath.

"No, I'll give 'em away for twenty pence," shouted Charlie at the top of his voice.

"You do realize," said Becky as they crept back out of the market, "that Charlie's grandfather carried on to the ripe old age of eighty-three and died only a few feet from where his lordship is standing now."

"He's come a long way since then," said Cathy, as she raised her hand to hail a taxi.

"Oh, I don't know," Becky replied. "Only about a couple of miles as the crow flies."