As the Crow Flies

Chapter 16

I'm usually good on faces, and the moment I saw the man weighing those potatoes I knew at once that I recognized him. Then I recalled the sign above the shop door. Of course, Trumper, Corporal C. No, he ended up a sergeant, if I remember correctly. And what was his friend called, the one who got the MM? Ah, yes, Prescott, Private T. Explanation of death not altogether satisfactory. Funny the details one's mind considers worthy of retention.

When I arrived back home for lunch I told the memsahib I'd seen Sergeant Trumper again, but she didn't show a great deal of interest until I handed over the fruit and vegetables. It was then that she asked me where I'd bought them. "Trumper's," I told her. She nodded, making a note of the name without further explanation.

The following day I duly instructed the regimental secretary to send Trumper two tickets for the annual dinner and dance, then didn't give the man thought until I spotted the two of them sitting at the sergeants' table on the night of the ball. I say "the two of them" because Trumper was accompanied by an extremely attractive girl. Yet for most of the evening he seemed to ignore the lady in favor of someone whose name I didn't catch, a young woman I might add who had previously been seated a few places away from me on the top table. When the adjutant asked Elizabeth for a dance I took my chance, I can tell you. I marched right across the dance floor, aware that half the battalion had their eyes on me, bowed to the lady in question and asked her for the honor. Her name, I discovered, was Miss Salmon, and she danced like an officer's wife. Bright as a button she was too, and gay with it. I just can't imagine what Trumper thought he was up to, and if it had been any of my business I would have told him so.

After the dance was over I took Miss Salmon up to meet Elizabeth, who seemed equally enchanted. Later the memsahib told me that she had learned the girl was engaged to a Captain Trentham of the regiment, who was now serving in India. Trentham, Trentham . . . I remembered that there was a young officer in the battalion by that name—won an MC on the Marne—but there was something else about him that I couldn't immediately recall. Poor girl, I thought, because I had put Elizabeth through the same sort of ordeal when they posted me to Afghanistan in 1882. Lost an eye to those bloody Afghans and nearly lost the only woman I've ever loved at the same time. Still, it's bad form to marry before you're a captain—or after you're a major, for that matter.

On the way home, Elizabeth warned me that she had invited Miss Salmon and Trumper round to Gilston Road the following morning.

"Why?" I asked.

"It seems they have a proposition to put to you."

The next day they arrived at our little house in Tregunter Road even before the grandfather clock had finished chiming eleven and I settled them down in the drawing room before saying to Trumper, "So what's all this about, Sergeant?" He made no attempt to reply—it was Miss Salmon who turned out to be the spokesman for the two of them. Without a wasted word she set about presenting a most convincing case for my joining their little enterprise, in a non-executive capacity you understand, on a salary of one hundred pounds per annum. Although I didn't consider the proposition was quite up my street, I was touched by their confidence in me and promised I would give their proposal a great deal of thought. Indeed I said I would write to them and let them know my decision in the near future.

Elizabeth fully concurred with my judgment but felt the least I could do was conduct a little field reconnaissance of my own before I decided to finally turn down the offer.

For the next week I made sure I was somewhere in the vicinity of 147 Chelsea Terrace every working day. I quite often sat on a bench opposite the shop, from where without being seen I could watch how they went about their business. I chose different times of the day to carry out my observation, for obvious reasons. Sometimes I would appear first thing in the morning, at others during the busiest hour, then again perhaps later in the afternoon. On one occasion I even watched them close up for the day, when I quickly discovered that Sergeant Trumper was no clock-watcher: Number 147 turned out to be the last shop in the row to close its doors to the public. I don't mind telling you that both Trumper and Miss Salmon made a most favorable impression on me. A rare couple, I told Elizabeth after my final visit.

I had been sounded out some weeks before by the curator of the Imperial War Museum regarding an invitation to become a member of their council, but frankly Trumper's offer was the only other approach I'd received since hanging up my spurs the previous year. As the curator had made no reference to remuneration I assumed there wasn't any, and from the recent council papers they had sent me to browse through it looked as if their demands wouldn't exercise my time for more than about an hour a week.

After considerable soul-searching, a chat with Miss Daphne Harcourt-Browne and encouraging noises from Elizabeth—who didn't take to having me hanging about the house all hours of the day—I dropped Miss Salmon a note to let them know I was their man.

The following morning I discovered exactly what I had let myself in for when the aforementioned lady reappeared in Tregunter Road to brief me on my first assignment. Jolly good she was too, as thorough as any staff officer I ever had under my command, I can tell you.

Becky—she had told me that I should stop calling her "Miss Salmon" now that we were "partners"—said that I should treat our first visit to Child's of Fleet Street as a "dry run," because the fish she really wanted to land wasn't being lined up until the following week. That was when we would "move in for the kill." She kept using expressions I simply couldn't make head or tail of.

I can tell you that I came out in a muck sweat on the morning of our meeting with that first bank, and if the truth be known I nearly pulled out of the front line even before the order had been given to charge. Had it not been for the sight of those two expectant young faces waiting for me outside the bank I swear I might have withdrawn from the whole campaign.

Well, despite my misgivings, we walked out of the bank less than an hour later having successfully carried out our first sortie, and I think I can safely say, in all honesty, that I didn't let the side down. Not that I thought a lot of Hadlow, who struck me as an odd sort of cove, but then the Buffs were never what one might describe as a first-class outfit. More to the point, the damned man had never seen the whites of their eyes, which in my opinion always sorts a fellow out.

From that moment I kept a close eye on Trumper's activities, insisting on a weekly meeting at the shop so I could keep myself up to date on what was happening. I even felt able to offer the odd word of advice or encouragement from time to time. A fellow doesn't like to accept remuneration unless he feels he's pulling his weight.

To begin with, everything seemed to be going swimmingly. Then late in June of 1920 Trumper requested a private meeting. I knew he had got his eyes fixed on another establishment in Chelsea Terrace and the account was a bit stretched so I assumed that was what he wanted to discuss with me.

I agreed to visit Trumper at his flat, as he never appeared completely at ease whenever I invited him round to my club or to Tregunter Road. When I arrived that evening I found him in quite a state, and assumed something must have been troubling him at one of our three establishments, but he assured me that was not the case.

"Well, out with it then, Trumper," I said.

"It's not that easy, to be honest, sir," he replied, so I remained silent in the hope that it might help him relax and get whatever it was off his chest.

"It's Becky, sir," he blurted out eventually.

"First-class girl," I assured him.

"Yes, sir, I agree. But I'm afraid she's pregnant."

I confess that I had already learned this news some days before from Becky herself, but as I had given the lady my word not to tell anyone, including Charlie, I feigned surprise. Although I realize times have changed, I knew Becky had been strictly brought up and in any case she had never struck me as that sort of girl, if you know what I mean.

"Of course, you'll want to know who the father is," Charlie added.

"I had assumed—" I began, but Charlie immediately shook his head.

"Not me," he said. "I only wish it was. Then at least I could marry her and wouldn't have to bother you with the problem."

"Then who is the culprit?" I asked.

He hesitated before saying, "Guy Trentham, sir."

"Captain Trentham? But he's in India, if I remember correctly."

"That's right, sir. And I've had the devil's own job persuading Becky to write and let him know what's happened; she says it would only ruin his career."

"But not telling him could well ruin her whole life," I suggested testily. Just imagine the stigma of being an unmarried mother, not to mention having to bring up an illegitimate child. "In any case, Trentham's bound to find out eventually, don't you know."

"He may never learn the truth from Becky, and I certainly don't have the sort of influence that would make him do the decent thing."

"Are you holding anything else back about Trentham that I ought to know about, Trumper?"

"No, sir."

Trumper replied a little too quickly for me to be totally convinced.

"Then you'll have to leave the problem of Trentham to me," I told him. "Meanwhile you get on with running the shops. But be sure to let me know the moment it's all out in the open so I don't go around looking as if I haven't a clue what's going on." I rose to leave.

"The whole world will know before much longer," Charlie said.

I had said "leave the problem to me" without the slightest idea of what I was going to do about it, but when I had returned home that night I discussed the whole affair with Elizabeth. She advised me to have a chat with Daphne, who she felt confident would know considerably more about what was going on than Charlie did. I suspected she was right.

Elizabeth and I duly invited Daphne to tea at Tregunter Road a couple of days later. She confirmed everything Charlie had said and was also able to fill in one or two missing pieces of the jigsaw.

In Daphne's opinion Trentham had been Becky's first serious romance, and certainly to her knowledge Becky had never slept with any other man before they had met, and only once with Trentham. Captain Trentham, she assured us, was unable to boast the same blameless reputation.

The rest of her news did not augur well for a simple solution, as it turned out that Guy's mother could not be relied on to insist that her son do the decent thing by Becky. On the contrary, Daphne knew the woman was already preparing the ground to ensure that no one could possibly believe that Trentham could be in any way responsible.

"But what about Trentham's father?" I asked. "Do you think I should have a word with him? Although we were in the same regiment we were never in the same battalion, don't you know."

"He's the only member of that family I really care for," Daphne admitted. "He's the MP for Berkshire West, a Liberal."

"Then that has to be my approach route," I replied. "I can't abide the man's politics, but that won't stop him from knowing the difference between right and wrong."

Yet another letter sent on club notepaper elicited an immediate reply from the major, inviting me to drinks at Chester Square the following Monday.

I arrived punctually at six, and was taken into the drawing room where I was greeted by a quite charming lady who introduced herself as Mrs. Trentham. She was not at all what I expected after Daphne's description; in fact she was a rather handsome woman. She was profuse in her apologies: it seemed that her husband had been held up at the House of Commons by a running three-line whip, which even I knew meant he was unable to leave the Palace of Westminster on pain of death. I made an instant decision—wrongly I realize in retrospect—that this matter couldn't wait a moment longer and I must relay my message to the major through his wife.

"I find this is all rather embarrassing actually," I began.

"Do feel free to speak quite openly, Colonel. I can assure you that I am fully in my husband's confidence. We have no secrets from each other."

"Well, to be frank with you, Mrs. Trentham, the matter I wish to touch on concerns your son Guy."

"I see" was all she said.

"And his fiancée, Miss Salmon."

"She is not, and never has been, his fiancée," said Mrs. Trentham, her voice revealing a sudden edge.

"But I was given to understand—"

"That promises were made to Miss Salmon by my son? I can assure you, Colonel, that nothing could be further from the truth."

Slightly taken aback, I was unable to think of a diplomatic way of letting the lady know the real purpose behind my wanting to see her husband. So I simply said, "Whatever promises were or were not made, madam, I do feel that you and your husband should be aware that Miss Salmon is expecting a child."

"And what has that to do with me?" Mrs. Trentham stared directly at me with no fear showing in her eyes.

"Simply that your son is undoubtedly the father."

"We only have her word for that, Colonel."

"That, madam, was unworthy of you," I told her. "I know Miss Salmon to be a thoroughly decent and honest girl. And in any case, if it were not your son, who else could it have possibly been?"

"Heaven knows," said Mrs. Trentham. "Any number of men, I would have thought, judging by her reputation. After all, her father was an immigrant."

"So was the King's father, madam," I reminded her. "But he still would have known how to conduct himself had he been faced with the same predicament."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Colonel."

"I mean, madam, that your son must either marry Miss Salmon or at least resign from the regiment and make suitable arrangements to see the child is properly provided for."

"It seems I must make it clear to you once again, Colonel, that this sad state of affairs has nothing whatsoever to do with my son. I can assure you that Guy stopped seeing the girl some months before he sailed for India."

"I know that is not the case, madam, because—"

"Do you, Colonel? Then I must ask what exactly this whole business has to do with you in the first place?"

"Simply that Miss Salmon and Mr. Trumper are both colleagues of mine," I explained.

"I see," she said. "Then I suspect you will not have to look much further to discover who is the real father."

"Madam, that was also uncalled for. Charlie Trumper is not—"

"I cannot see any purpose in continuing this conversation, Colonel," Mrs. Trentham said, rising from her chair. She began to walk towards the door, not even bothering to glance in my direction. "I must warn you, Colonel, that should I hear this slander repeated in any quarter I shall not hesitate to instruct solicitors to take the necessary action to defend my son's good reputation."

Although shaken, I followed her into the hall, determined to see that the matter was not allowed to rest there. I now felt Major Trentham was my only hope. As Mrs. Trentham opened the front door to show me out I said firmly, "May I presume, madam, that you will recount this conversation faithfully to your husband?"

"You may presume nothing, Colonel," were her final words as the front door was slammed in my face. The last occasion I received such treatment from a lady had been in Rangoon, and I'm bound to say that the girl in question had considerably more reason to be aggrieved.

When I repeated the conversation to Elizabeth—as accurately as I could recall—my wife pointed out to me in that clear, concise way of hers that I had been left with only three choices. The first was to write to Captain Trentham directly and demand he do the decent thing, the second would be to inform his commanding officer of everything I knew.

"And the third?" I asked.

"Never to refer to the subject again."

I considered her words carefully, and chose the middle course, dropping a note to Ralph Forbes, a first-class fellow who had succeeded me as colonel, acquainting him with the facts as I knew them. I chose my words most judiciously, aware that if Mrs. Trentham were to carry out her threat any legal action she took could only bring the regiment's good name into disrepute, perhaps even ridicule. However, I did at the same time decide to keep a fatherly eye on Becky, as she now seemed to be burning the candle at both ends, not to mention in the middle. After all, the girl was trying to prepare for her exams, as well as act as an unpaid secretary and accountant to a thriving little business, while everyone who passed her in the street must have known that it could only be a matter of weeks before she was due to give birth.

As those weeks passed, it worried me that nothing seemed to be happening on the Trentham front despite the fact that I had received a reply from Forbes assuring me that he had set up a panel of inquiry. Certainly when I inquired further of Daphne or Charlie neither of them seemed to be any better informed than I was.

It was in mid-October that year that Daniel George was born, and I was touched that Becky invited me to be a godparent, along with Bob Makins and Daphne. I was even more delighted when I learned from Becky that she and Charlie were to be married the following week. It wouldn't stop wagging tongues, of course, but at least the child would be considered legitimate in the eyes of the law.

Elizabeth and I, along with Daphne, Percy, Mrs. Salmon, Miss Roach and Bob Makins, attended the simple civil service at Chelsea Register Office, followed by a boisterous reception in Charlie's flat above the shop.

I began to think that perhaps everything had worked out for the best until some months later Daphne telephoned, asking urgently to see me. I took her to lunch at the club, where she produced a letter that she had received from Captain Trentham that morning. As I read his words I became painfully aware that Mrs. Trentham must have learned of my own letter to Forbes warning him of the consequences of a breach-of-promise suit, and immediately taken matters into her own hands. I felt the time had come to let her son know that he had not got away with it.

I left my guest to have coffee while I retired to the writing room and with the help of a stiff brandy began to compose an even stiffer letter, I can tell you. I felt my final effort covered all the necessary points in as diplomatic and realistic a way as was possible given the circumstances. Daphne thanked me, and promised she would send the letter on to Trentham verbatim.

I didn't have another conversation with her again until we met at her wedding a month later, and that was hardly an appropriate time to broach the subject of Captain Trentham.

After the service was over I strolled round to Vincent Square where the reception was being held. I kept a wary eye out for Mrs. Trentham who I assumed had also been invited. I had no desire to hold a second conversation with that particular lady.

I was, however, delighted to catch up with Charlie and Becky in the large marquee that had been erected especially for the occasion. I have never seen the girl looking more radiant, and Charlie could almost have been described as suave standing there in his morning coat, gray cravat and topper. The fine half hunter that hung from his waistcoat turned out to be a wedding gift from Becky, left to her by her father, she explained, although the rest of the outfit, Charlie reported, had to be returned to Moss Bros. first thing the following morning.

"Has the time not come, Charlie," I suggested, "for you to purchase a morning coat of your own? After all, there are likely to be considerably more of these occasions in the future."

"Certainly not," he replied. "That would only be a waste of good money."

"May I inquire why?" I asked. "Surely the cost of a—"

"Because it is my intention to purchase a tailor's shop of my own," he interjected. "I've had my eye on Number 143 for some considerable time, and I hear from Mr. Crowther that it might come on the market at any moment."

I couldn't argue with this piece of logic, although his next question baffled me completely.

"Have you ever heard of Marshall Field, Colonel?"

"Was he in the regiment?" I asked, racking my brain.

"No, he was not," replied Charlie with a grin. "Marshall Field is a department store in Chicago, where you can purchase anything you could ever want for the rest of your life. What's more they have two million square feet of selling space all under one roof."

I couldn't think of a more ghastly concept, but I didn't attempt to stop the boy's enthusiastic flow. "The building takes up an entire block," he informed me. "Can you imagine a store that has twenty-eight entrances? According to the advertisements there's nothing you can't buy, from an automobile to an apple, and they have twenty-four varieties of both. They've revolutionized retailing in the States by being the first store to give full credit facilities. They also claim that if they don't have it they'll get it for you within a week. Field's motto is: 'Give the lady what she wants.'"

"Are you suggesting that we should purchase Marshall Field in exchange for 147 Chelsea Terrace?" I asked ingenuously.

"Not immediately, Colonel. But if in time I was able to get my hands on every shop in Chelsea Terrace we could then carry out the same operation in London, and perhaps even remove the first line from their current cheeky advertisement."

I knew I was being set up so I duly asked what the line proclaimed.

"The biggest store in the world," Charlie replied.

"And how do you feel about all this?" I asked, turning my attention to Becky.

"In Charlie's case," she replied, "it would have to be the biggest barrow in the world."

Chapter 17

The first annual general meeting of Trumper's was held above the fruit and vegetable shop in the front room of 147 Chelsea Terrace. The colonel, Charlie and Becky sat round a small trestle table, not quite sure how to get things started until the colonel opened the proceedings.

"I know there are only three of us, but I still consider all our future meetings should be conducted in a professional manner." Charlie raised his eyebrows but made no attempt to stop the colonel's flow. "I have therefore taken the liberty," he began, "of setting out an agenda. Otherwise I find one can so easily forget to raise quite important issues." The colonel proceeded to pass both his colleagues a sheet of paper with five items neatly written in his own hand. "To that end the first item to come under discussion is headed 'financial report' and I'll begin by asking Becky to let us know how she sees the current fiscal position."

Becky had carefully written out her report word for word, having the previous month purchased two large leather-bound books, one red, one blue, from the stationer's at 137 and for the past fortnight having risen only minutes after Charlie had left for Covent Garden in order to be sure she could answer any questions that might arise at their first meeting. She opened up the cover of the red book and began to read slowly, occasionally referring to the blue book, which was just as large and authoritative-looking. This had the single word "Accounts" stamped in gold on the outside.

"In the year ending 31 December 1921 we showed a turnover on the seven shops of one thousand three hundred and twelve pounds and four shillings, on which we declared a profit of two hundred and nineteen pounds eleven shillings, showing seventeen percent profit on turnover. Our debt at the bank currently stands at seven hundred and seventy-one pounds, which includes our tax liability for the year, but the value of the seven shops remains in the books at one thousand two hundred and ninety pounds, which is the exact price we paid for them. This therefore does not reflect their current market value.

"I have made a breakdown of the figures on each of the shops for your consideration," said Becky, handing copies of her efforts to Charlie and the colonel, both of whom studied them carefully for several minutes before either spoke.

"Grocery is still our number one earner, I see," said the colonel, as he ran his monocle down the profit and loss column. "Hardware is only just breaking even, and the tailor's is actually eating into our profits."

"Yes," said Charlie. "I met up with a right holy friar when I bought that one."

"Holy friar?" said the colonel, perplexed.

"Liar," said Becky, not looking up from her book.

"Afraid so," said Charlie. "You see, I paid through the nose for the freehold, too much for the stock, then got myself landed with poor staff who weren't properly trained. But things have taken a turn for the better since Major Arnold took over."

The colonel smiled at the knowledge that the appointment of one of his former staff officers had been such an immediate success. Tom Arnold had resumed to Savile Row soon after the war only to find that his old job as under-manager at Hawkes had been taken up by someone who had been demobbed a few months earlier than himself, and he was therefore expected to be satisfied with the status of senior assistant. He wasn't. When the colonel told him there just might be an opening for him at Trumper's, Arnold had jumped at the opportunity.

"I'm bound to say," said Becky, studying the figures, "that people seem to have a totally different moral attitude to paying their tailor than they would ever consider applying to any other tradesman. Just look at the debtors' column."

"Agreed," said Charlie. "And I fear we won't be able to show a great deal of improvement on that until Major Arnold has managed to find replacements for at least three members of his present staff. I don't expect him to declare a profit during the next six months, although I would hope they might be able to break even by the end of the third quarter."

"Good," said the colonel. "Now what about hardware? I see Number 129 declared a decent enough profit last year, so why should the figures have fallen back so badly this? They're down over sixty pounds on 1920, declaring a loss for the first time."

"I'm afraid there's a simple enough explanation," said Becky. "The money was stolen."

"Stolen?"

"I fear so," replied Charlie. "Becky began to notice as long ago as October of last year that the weekly receipts were falling, at first only by a little but then the amount grew as a pattern began to evolve."

"Have we discovered who the culprit is?"

"Yes, that was simple enough. We switched Bob Makins from grocery when one of the staff at hardware was on holiday, and he spotted the tea leaf in no time."

"Stop it, Charlie," said Becky. "Sorry, Colonel. Thief."

"It turned out the manager, Reg Larkins, has a gambling problem," Charlie continued, "and was using our money to cover his debts. The bigger those debts became the more he needed to steal."

"You sacked Larkins, of course," said the colonel.

"The same day," said Charlie. "He turned rather nasty at the time and tried to deny that he'd ever taken a penny. But we haven't heard a word from him since and in the last three weeks we've even begun to show a small profit again. However, I'm still looking for a new manager to take over as soon as possible. I've got my eye on a young man who works at Cudson's just off the Charing Cross Road."

"Good," said the colonel. "That covers last year's problems, Charlie, so now you can frighten us with your plans for the future."

Charlie opened the smart new leather case that Becky had given him on 20 January and took out the latest report from John D. Wood. He cleared his throat theatrically and Becky had to put a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh.

"Mr. Crowther," began Charlie, "has prepared a comprehensive survey of all the properties in Chelsea Terrace."

"For which, incidentally, he has charged us ten guineas," said Becky, checking the accounts book.

"I have no quarrel with that, if it turns out to be a good investment," said the colonel.

"It already has," said Charlie. He handed over copies of Crowther's report. "As you both already know, there are thirty-six shops in Chelsea Terrace, of which we currently own seven. In Crowther's opinion a further five could well become available during the next twelve months. However, as he points out, all the shopkeepers in Chelsea Terrace are now only too aware of my role as a buyer, which doesn't exactly help keep the price down."

"I suppose that was bound to happen sooner or later."

"I agree, Colonel," said Charlie, "but it's still far sooner than I'd hoped for. In fact, Syd Wrexall, the chairman of the Shops Committee, is becoming quite wary of us."

"Why Mr. Wrexall in particular?" asked the colonel.

"He's the publican who owns the Musketeer on the other corner of Chelsea Terrace. He's started telling his customers that it's my long-term aim to buy up all the property in the block and drive out the small shopkeepers."

"He has a point," said Becky.

"Maybe, but I never expected him to form a cooperative with the sole purpose of stopping me purchasing certain properties. I was rather hoping to get my hands on the Musketeer itself in time but whenever the subject comes up he just says, 'Over my dead body.'"

"That comes as rather a blow," said the colonel.

"Not at all," said Charlie. "No one can expect to go through life without facing a moment of crisis. The secret will be spotting Wrexall's when it comes and then moving in quickly. But it does mean for the time being that I'm occasionally going to have to pay over the odds if a shop owner decides the time has come to sell."

"Not a lot we can do about that I suspect," said the colonel.

"Except call their bluff from time to time," said Charlie.

"Call their bluff? I'm not sure I catch your drift. "

"Well, we've had an approach from two shops recently with an interest in disposing of their freehold and I turned them both down out of hand."

"Why?"

"Simply because they were demanding such outrageous prices, not to mention Becky nagging me about our present overdraft."

"And have they reconsidered their position?"

"Yes and no," said Charlie. "One has already come back with a far more realistic demand, while the other is still holding out for his original price."

"Who is holding out?"

"Cuthbert's, Number 101, the wine and spirits merchant. But there's no need to make any sort of move in that direction for the time being, because Crowther says that Mr. Cuthbert has recently been looking at several properties in Pimlico, and he'll be able to keep us informed of any progress on that front. We can then make a sensible offer the moment Cuthbert commits himself."

"Well done, Crowther, I say. By the way, where do you pick up all your information?" the colonel asked.

"Mr. Bales the newsagent, and Syd Wrexall himself."

"But I thought you said Wrexall wasn't proving that helpful."

"He isn't," said Charlie, "but he'll still offer his opinion on any subject for the price of a pint, so Bob Makins has become a regular and learned never to complain about being short-measured. I even get a copy of the Shops Committee minutes before they do."

The colonel laughed. "And what about the auctioneers at Number 1? Have we still got our eye on them?"

"We most certainly have, Colonel. Mr. Fothergill, the proprietor, continues to go deeper and deeper into debt, having had another bad year. But somehow he manages to keep his head above water, if only just, but I anticipate he will finally go under some time next year, at the latest the year after, when I will be standing on the quayside waiting to throw him a lifeline. Especially if Becky feels she is ready to leave Sotheby's by then."

"I'm still learning so much," confessed Becky. "I'd rather like to stay put for as long as I can. I've completed a year in Old Masters," she added, "and now I'm trying to get myself moved to Modern, or Impressionist as they've started calling that department. You see, I still feel I need to gain as much experience as possible before they work out what I'm up to. I attend every auction I can, from silverware to old books, but I'd be far happier if we could leave Number 1 until the last possible moment."

"But if Fothergill does go under for a third time, Becky, you're our lifeboat. So what if the shop were suddenly to come on the market?"

"I could just about handle it, I suppose. I've already got my eye on the man who ought to be our general manager. Simon Matthews. He's been with Sotheby's for the past twelve years and is disenchanted at being passed over once too often. There's also a bright young trainee who's been around for about three years who I think will be the pick of the next generation of auctioneers. He's only two years younger than the chairman's son so he might be only too happy to join us if we were able to make him an attractive offer."

"On the other hand, it may well suit us for Becky to remain at Sotheby's for as long as possible," said Charlie. "Because Mr. Crowther has identified a further problem we're going to have to face in the near future."

"Namely?" queried the colonel.

"On page nine of his report, Crowther points out that Numbers 25 to 99, a block of thirty-eight flats bang in the middle of Chelsea Terrace—one of which Daphne and Becky shared until a couple of years ago—may well come on the market in the not too distant future. They're currently owned by a charitable trust who are no longer satisfied with the return they receive on their investment, and Crowther says they're considering disposing of them. Now, remembering our longterm plan, it might be wise to purchase the block as soon as possible rather than risk waiting for years when we would have to pay a far higher price or, worse, never be able to get hold of them at all."

"Thirty-eight flats," said the colonel. "Hm, how much is Crowther expecting them to fetch?"

"His guess would be around the two-thousand pound mark; they're currently only showing an income of two hundred and ten pounds a year and what with repairs and maintenance they're probably not even declaring a profit. If the property does come on the market, and we're able to afford them, Crowther also recommends that we only issue ten-year leases in future, and try to place any empty flats with staff from embassies or foreign visitors, who never make any fuss about having to move at a moment's notice."

"So the profit on the shops would end up having to pay for the flats," said Becky.

"I'm afraid so," said Charlie. "But with any luck it would only take me a couple of years, three at the outside, before I could have them showing a profit. Mind you, if the charity commissioners are involved, the paperwork could take that long."

"Nevertheless, remembering our current overdraft limit, a demand on our resources like that may well require another lunch with Hadlow," said the colonel. "Still, I can see if we need to get hold of those flats I'm left with little choice. Might even take the opportunity to bump into Chubby Duckworth at the club and drop a word in his ear." The colonel paused. "To be fair to Hadlow, he's also come up with a couple of good ideas himself, both of which I feel are worthy of our consideration, and accordingly I have placed them next on the agenda."

Becky stopped writing and looked up.

"Let me begin by saying that Hadlow is most satisfied with the way our first two years' figures have worked out, but nevertheless he feels strongly that because of the state of our overdraft and for taxation reasons we should stop being a partnership and form ourselves into a company."

"Why?" asked Charlie. "What advantage could there possibly be in that?"

"It's the new finance bill that has just gone through the Commons," explained Becky. "The change in the tax laws could well be used to our advantage, because at the moment we're trading as seven different businesses and taxed accordingly, whereas if we were to put all our shops into one company we could run the losses of, say, the tailor's shop and hardware against any gains made by the grocery store and the butcher's, and thus reduce our tax burden. It could be especially beneficial in a bad year."

"That all makes good sense to me," said Charlie. "So let's go ahead and do it."

"Well, it's not quite that easy," said the colonel, placing his monocle to his good eye. "To start with, if we were to become a company Mr. Hadlow is advising us to appoint some new directors to cover those areas in which we currently have little or no professional experience."

"Why would Hadlow expect us to do that?" asked Charlie sharply. "We've never needed anyone else to interfere with our business before."

"Because we're growing so rapidly, Charlie. We may need other people to advise us in the future who can offer expertise we simply don't at present possess. The purchasing of the flats is a good example."

"But we have Mr. Crowther for that."

"And perhaps he would feel a greater commitment to our cause if he were on the board." Charlie frowned. "I can well understand how you feel," continued the colonel. "It's your show, and you believe you don't need any outsiders to tell you how to run Trumper's. Well, even if we did form a company it would still be your show, because all the shares would be lodged in the names of you and Becky, and any assets would therefore remain totally under your control. But you would have the added advantage of non-executive directors to call on for advice."

"And to spend our money and overrule our decisions," said Charlie. "I just don't like the idea of outsiders telling me what to do."

"It wouldn't necessarily work like that," said Becky.

"I'm not convinced it will work at all."

"Charlie, you should listen to yourself sometimes. You're beginning to sound like a Luddite."

"Perhaps we should take a vote," said the colonel, trying to calm things down. "Just to see where we all stand."

"Vote? What on? Why? The shops belong to me."

Becky looked up. "To both of us, Charlie, and the colonel has more than earned his right to give an opinion."

"I'm sorry, Colonel, I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't, Charlie, but Becky's right. If you want to realize your long-term aims you'll undoubtedly need some outside help. It just won't be possible to achieve such a dream all on your own."

"And it will with outside interferers?"

"Think of them as inside helpers," said the colonel.

"So what are we voting on?" asked Charlie touchily.

"Well," began Becky, "someone should propose a resolution that we turn ourselves into a company. If that is passed we could then invite the colonel to be chairman, who can in turn appoint you as managing director and myself as secretary. I think Mr. Crowther should also be invited to join the board, along with a representative from the bank."

"I can see you've given this a lot of thought," said Charlie.

"That was my side of the bargain, if you remember our original deal correctly, Mr.Trumper," Becky replied.

"We're not Marshall Field's, you know."

"Not yet," said the colonel, with a smile. "Remember it's you, Charlie, who has taught us to think like this."

"I knew somehow it would all end up being my fault."

"So I propose the resolution that we form a company," said Becky. "Those in favor?"

Becky and the colonel each placed a hand in the air, and a few seconds later Charlie reluctantly raised his and added, "Now what?"

"My second proposal," said Becky, "is that Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton should be our first chairman."

This time Charlie's hand shot straight up.

"Thank you," said the colonel. "And my first action as chairman is to appoint Mr. Trumper as managing director and Mrs. Trumper as company secretary. And with your permission I shall approach Mr. Crowther, and I think also Mr. Hadlow, with a view to asking them to join the board."

"Agreed," said Becky, who was scribbling furiously in the minutes book as she tried to keep up.

"Any other business?" asked the colonel.

"May I suggest, Mr. Chairman," said Becky—the colonel couldn't resist a smile—"that we fix a date for our first monthly meeting of the full board."

"Any time suits me," said Charlie. "Because one thing's for certain, we won't be able to get them all round this table at any one time, unless of course you propose to hold the meetings at four-thirty in the morning. At least that way we might find out who the real workers are."

The colonel laughed. "Well, that's another way you could guarantee that all your own resolutions are passed without us ever finding out, Charlie. But I must warn you, one will no longer constitute a quorum."

"A quorum?"

"The minimum number of people needed to pass a resolution," explained Becky.

"That used to be just me," said Charlie wistfully.

"That was probably true of Mr. Marks before he met Mr. Spencer," said the colonel, "so let's settle on our next meeting being a month today."

Becky and Charlie nodded.

"Now if there is no other business I will declare the meeting closed."

"There is," said Becky, "but I don't think such information should be minuted."

"The floor's all yours," said the chairman, looking puzzled.

Becky stretched across the table and took Charlie's hand. "It comes under miscellaneous expenses," she said. "You see, I'm going to have another baby."

For once Charlie was speechless. It was the colonel who eventually asked if there were a bottle of champagne anywhere near at hand.

"I'm afraid not," said Becky. "Charlie won't let me buy anything from wine and spirits until we own the shop."

"Quite understandably," said the colonel. "Then we shall just have to walk round to my place," he added, rising from his seat and picking up his umbrella. "That way Elizabeth can join the celebration. I declare the meeting closed."

A few moments later the three of them stepped out onto Chelsea Terrace just as the postman was entering the shop. Seeing Becky he handed her a letter.

"It can only have come from Daphne with all those stamps," she told them as she ripped the envelope open and began reading its contents.

"Come on, then, what's she been up to?" asked Charlie, as they walked towards Tregunter Road.

"She's covered America and China, and as far as I can tell India's next," Becky announced. "She's also put on half a stone and met a Mr. Calvin Coolidge, whoever he is."

"The vice-president of the United States," said Charlie.

"Is that so? And they still hope to be home sometime in August, so it won't be that long before we are able to learn everything firsthand. Becky looked up to discover that only the colonel was still by her side. "Where's Charlie?" They both turned round to see him staring up at a small town house that had a "For Sale" sign attached to the wall.

They walked back towards him. "What do you think?" he asked, continuing to stare at the property.

"What do you mean, 'What do I think?'"

"I suspect, my dear, what Charlie is inquiring of you is your opinion of the house."

Becky stared up at the little house that was on three floors, its front covered in Virginia creeper.

"It's wonderful, quite wonderful."

"It's better than that," said Charlie placing his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket. "It's ours, and also ideal for someone with a wife and three children who is the managing director of an expanding business in Chelsea."

"But I don't have a second child yet, let alone a third."

"Just planning ahead," said Charlie. "Something you taught me."

"But can we afford it?"

"No, of course we can't," he said. "But I'm confident that the value of property will soon be going up in this area, once people realize they will have their own department store within walking distance. In any case, it's too late now, because I put down the deposit this morning." He placed a hand in his jacket pocket and removed a key.

"But why didn't you consult me first?" asked Becky.

"Because I knew you'd only say we couldn't afford it, as you did with the second, third, fourth, fifth and every subsequent shop."

He walked towards the front door with Becky still a yard behind him.

"But—"

"I'll leave you two to sort things out," said the colonel. "Come over to my place and have that glass of champagne just as soon as you've finished looking over your new home."

The colonel continued on down Tregunter Road, swinging his umbrella in the morning sun, pleased with himself and the world, arriving back just in time for his first whisky of the day.

He imparted all his news to Elizabeth, who had many more questions about the baby and the house than about the present state of the company accounts or her husband's appointment as chairman. Having acquitted himself as best he could, the colonel asked his manservant to place a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. He then retired to his study to check through the morning mail while he awaited the Trumpers' arrival.

There were three letters unopened on his desk: a bill from his tailor—which reminded him of Becky's strictures on such matters—an invitation to the Ashburton Shield to be held at Bisley, an annual event he always enjoyed, and a letter from Daphne, which he rather expected might simply repeat the news that Becky had already relayed to him.

The envelope was postmarked Delhi. The colonel slit it open in anticipation. Daphne dutifully repeated how much she was enjoying the trip, but failed to mention her weight problem. She did, however, go on to say that she had some distressing news to impart concerning Guy Trentham. She wrote that while they were staying in Poona, Percy had come across him one evening at the officers' club dressed in civilian clothes. He had lost so much weight that her husband hardly recognized him. He informed Percy that he had been forced to resign his commission and there was only one person to blame for his downfall: a sergeant who had lied about him in the past, and was happy to associate with known criminals. Guy was claiming that he had even caught the man stealing himself. Once he was back in England Trentham intended to . . .

The front doorbell rang.

"Can you answer it, Danvers?" Elizabeth said, leaning over the banister. "I'm upstairs arranging the flowers."

The colonel was still seething with anger when he opened the front door to find Charlie and Becky waiting on the top step in anticipation. He must have looked surprised to see them because Becky had to say, "Champagne, Chairman. Or have you already forgotten my physical state?"

"Ah, yes, sorry. My thoughts were some distance away." The colonel stuffed Daphne's letter into his jacket pocket. "The champagne should be at the perfect temperature by now," he added, as he ushered his guests through to the drawing room.

"Two and a quarter Trumpers have arrived," he barked back up the stairs to his wife.

Chapter 18

It always amused the colonel to watch Charlie spending so much of his time running from shop to shop, trying to keep a close eye on all his staff, while also attempting to concentrate his energy on any establishment that wasn't showing a worthwhile return. But whatever the various problems he faced, the colonel was only too aware that Charlie couldn't resist a spell of serving at the fruit and vegetable shop, which remained his pride and joy. Coat off, sleeves rolled up and cockney accent at its broadest, Charlie was allowed an hour a day by Bob Makins to pretend he was back on the corner of Whitechapel Road peddling his wares from his granpa's barrow.

"'Alf a pound of tomatoes, some runner beans, and your usual pound of carrots, Mrs. Symonds, if I remember correctly."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Trumper. And how's Mrs. Trumper?"

"Never better."

"And when's the baby expected?"

"In about three months, the doctor thinks."

"Don't see you serving in the shop so much nowadays."

"Only when I know the important customers are around, my luv," said Charlie. "After all, you were one of my first."

"I was indeed. So have you signed the deal on the flats yet, Mr. Trumper?"

Charlie stared at Mrs. Symonds as he handed back her change, unable to hide his surprise. "The flats?"

"Yes, you know, Mr. Trumper. Numbers 25 to 99."

"Why do you ask, Mrs. Symonds?"

"Because you're not the only person who's showing an interest in them."

"How do you know that?"

"I know because I saw a young man holding a bunch of keys, waiting outside the building for a client last Sunday morning."

Charlie recalled that the Symondses lived in a house on the far side of the Terrace immediately opposite the main entrance to the flats.

"And did you recognize them?"

"No. I watched a car draw up but then my husband seemed to think his breakfast was more important than me being nosy, so I didn't see who it was who got out.

Charlie continued to stare at Mrs. Symonds as she picked up her bag, waved a cheery goodbye and walked out of the shop.

Despite Mrs. Symonds' bombshell and Syd Wrexall's efforts to contain him, Charlie went about plotting his next acquisition. Through the combination of Major Arnold's diligence, Mr. Crowther's inside knowledge and Mr. Hadlow's loans, by late July Charlie had secured the freehold on two more shops in the Terrace—Number 133, women's clothes, and Number 101, wine and spirits. At the August board meeting Becky recommended that Major Arnold be promoted to deputy managing director of the company, with the task of keeping a watching brief on everything that was taking place in Chelsea Terrace.

Charlie had desperately needed an extra pair of eyes and ears for some time, and with Becky still working at Sotheby's during the day Arnold had begun to fill that role to perfection. The colonel was delighted to ask Becky to minute the confirmation of the major's appointment. The monthly meeting continued very smoothly until the colonel asked, "Any other business?"

"Yes," said Charlie. "What's happening about the flats?"

"I put in a bid of two thousand pounds as instructed," said Crowther. "The agent said he would recommend his clients should accept the offer, but to date I've been unable to close the deal."

"Why?" asked Charlie.

"Because Savill's rang back this morning to let me know that they have received another offer—far in excess of what they had anticipated for this particular piece of property. They thought I might want to alert the board of the present situation."

"They were right about that," said Charlie. "But how much is this other offer? That's what I want to know."

"Two thousand five hundred pounds," said Crowther.

It was several moments before anyone round the boardroom table offered an opinion.

"How on earth can they hope to show a return on that kind of investment?" Hadlow eventually asked.

"They can't," said Crowther.

"Offer them three thousand pounds."

"What did you say?" said the chairman, as they all turned to face Charlie.

"Offer them three thousand," Charlie repeated.

"But Charlie, we agreed that two thousand was a high enough price only a few weeks ago," Becky pointed out. "How can the flats suddenly be worth so much more?"

"They're worth whatever someone is willing to pay for them," Charlie replied. "So we've been left with no choice."

"But Mr. Trumper—" began Hadlow.

"If we end up with the rest of the block but then fail to get our hands on those flats, everything I have worked for will go up the spout. I'm not willing to risk that for three thousand pounds or, as I see it, five hundred."

"Yes, but can we afford such a large outlay just at this moment?" asked the colonel.

"Five of the shops are now showing a profit," said Becky, checking her inventory. "Two are breaking even and only one is actually losing money consistently."

"We must have the courage to go ahead," said Charlie. "Buy the flats, knock 'em down and then we can build half a dozen shops in their place. We'll be making a return on them before anyone can say 'Bob's your uncle.'"

Crowther gave them all a moment to allow Charlie's strategy to sink in, then asked, "So what are the board's instructions?"

"I propose that we offer three thousand pounds," said the colonel. "As the managing director has pointed out, we must take the long view, but only if the bank feels able to back us on this one. Mr. Hadlow?"

"You can just about afford three thousand pounds at the moment," said the bank manager, checking over the figures. "But that would stretch your overdraft facility to the limit. It would also mean that you couldn't consider buying any more shops for the foreseeable future."

"We don't have a choice," said Charlie, looking straight at Crowther. "Someone else is after those flats and we can't at this stage allow a rival to get their hands on them."

"Well, if those are the board's instructions I shall attempt to close the deal later today, at three thousand pounds."

"I think that's precisely what the board would wish you to do," confirmed the chairman, as he checked around the table. "Well, if there's no other business, I declare the meeting closed."

Once the meeting had broken up, the colonel took Crowther and Hadlow on one side. "I don't like the sound of this flats business at all. An offer coming out of the blue like that requires a little more explanation."

"I agree," said Crowther. "My instinct tells me that it's Syd Wrexall and his Shops Committee trying to stop Charlie taking over the whole block before it's too late."

"No," said Charlie as he joined them. "It can't be Syd because he doesn't have a car," he added mysteriously. "In any case, Wrexall and his cronies would have reached their limit long before two thousand five hundred pounds."

"So do you think it's an outside contractor?" asked Hadlow, "who has his own plans for developing Chelsea Terrace?"

"More likely to be an investor who's worked out your long-term plan and is willing to hang on until we have no choice but to pay the earth for them," said Crowther.

"I don't know who or what it is," said Charlie. "All I'm certain of is that we've made the right decision to outbid them."

"Agreed," said the colonel. "And Crowther, let me know the moment you've closed the deal. Afraid I can't hang about now. I'm taking a rather special lady to lunch at my club."

"Anyone we know?" asked Charlie.

"Daphne Wiltshire."

"Do give her my love," said Becky. "Tell her we're both looking forward to having dinner with them next Wednesday."

The colonel raised his hat to Becky, and left his four colleagues to continue discussing their different theories as to who else could possibly be interested in the flats.

Because the board meeting had run on later than he anticipated the colonel only managed one whisky before Daphne was ushered through to join him in the Ladies' Room. She had, indeed, put on a few pounds, but he didn't consider she looked any the worse for that.

He ordered a gin and tonic for his guest from the club steward, while she chatted about the gaiety of America and the heat of Africa, but he suspected that it was another continent entirely that Daphne really wanted to talk about.

"And how was India?" he eventually asked.

"Not so good, I'm afraid," said Daphne before pausing to sip her gin and tonic. "In fact, awful."

"Funny, I always found the natives rather friendly," said the colonel.

"It wasn't the natives who turned out to be the problem," replied Daphne.

"Trentham?"

"I fear so."

"Hadn't he received your letter?"

"Oh, yes, but events had long superseded that, Colonel. Now I only wish I had taken your advice and copied out your letter word for word warning him that if the question were ever put to me directly I would have to tell anyone who asked that Trentham was Daniel's father."

"Why? What has caused this change of heart?"

Daphne drained her glass in one gulp. "Sorry Colonel, but I needed that. Well, when Percy and I arrived in Poona the first thing we were told by Ralph Forbes, the Colonel of the Regiment, was that Trentham had resigned his commission."

"Yes, you mentioned as much in your letter." The colonel put his knife and fork down. "What I want to know is why?"

"Some problem with the adjutant's wife, Percy later discovered, but no one was willing to go into any detail. Evidently the subject's taboo—not the sort of thing they care to discuss in the officers' mess."

"The unmitigated bastard. If only I—"

"I couldn't agree with you more, Colonel, but I must warn you that there's worse to come."

The colonel ordered another gin and tonic for his guest and a whisky for himself before Daphne continued.

"When I visited Ashurst last weekend, Major Trentham showed me the letter that Guy had sent to his mother explaining why he had been forced to resign his commission with the Fusiliers. He claimed this had come about because you had written to Colonel Forbes informing him that Guy had been responsible for putting 'a tart from Whitechapel' in the family way. I saw the exact wording of the sentence."

The colonel's cheeks suffused with rage.

"'Whereas time has proved conclusively that Trumper was the father of the child all along.' Anyway, that's the story Trentham is putting about."

"Has the man no morals?"

"None, it would seem," said Daphne. "You see, the letter went on to suggest that Charlie Trumper is now employing you in order to make sure that you keep your mouth shut. 'Thirty pieces of silver' was the precise expression he used."

"He deserves to be horsewhipped."

"Even Major Trentham might add 'Hear, hear' to that. But my greatest fear isn't for you or even Becky for that matter, but for Charlie himself."

"What are you getting at?"

"Before we left India, Trentham warned Percy when they were on their own at the Overseas Club that Trumper would regret this for the rest of his life."

"But why blame Charlie?"

"Percy asked the same question, and Guy informed him that it was obvious that Trumper had put you up to it in the first place simply to settle an old score."

"But that's not true."

"Percy explained as much, but he just wouldn't listen."

"And in any case what did he mean by 'to settle an old score'?"

"No idea, except that later that evening Guy kept asking me about a painting of the Virgin Mother and—"

"Not the one that hangs in Charlie's front room?"

"The same, and when I finally admitted I had seen it he dropped the subject altogether."

"The man must have gone completely out of his senses."

"He seemed sane enough to me," said Daphne.

"Well, let's at least be thankful that he's stuck in India, so there's a little time to consider what course of action we should take."

"Not that much time, I fear," said Daphne.

"How come?"

"Major Trentham tells me that Guy is expected to return to these shores sometime next month."

After lunch with Daphne the colonel resumed to Tregunter Road. He was fuming with anger when his butler opened the front door to let him in, but he remained uncertain as to what he could actually do about it. The butler informed his master that a Mr. Crowther awaited him in the study.

"Crowther? What can he possibly want?" mumbled the colonel to himself before straightening a print of the Isle of Skye that hung in the hall and joining him in the study.

"Good afternoon, Chairman," Crowther said as he rose from the colonel's chair. "You asked me to report back as soon as I had any news on the flats."

"Ah, yes so I did," said the colonel. "You've closed the deal?"

"No, sir. I placed a bid of three thousand pounds with Savill's, as instructed, but then received a call from them about an hour later to inform me that the other side had raised their offer to four thousand."

"Four thousand," said the colonel in disbelief. "But who . . . ?"

"I said we were quite unable to match the sum, and even inquired discreetly who their client might be. They informed me that it was no secret whom they were representing. I felt I ought to let you know immediately, Chairman, as the name of Mrs. Gerald Trentham meant nothing to me."