As the Crow Flies

Chapter 19

As I sat alone on that bench in Chelsea Terrace staring across at a shop with the name "Trumper's" painted over the awning, a thousand questions went through my mind. Then I saw Posh Porky—or, to be accurate, I thought it must be her, because if it was, during my absence she'd changed into a woman. What had happened to that flat chest, those spindly legs, not to mention the spotty face? If it hadn't been for those flashing brown eyes I might have remained in doubt.

She went straight into the shop and spoke to the man who had been acting as if he was the manager. I saw him shake his head; she then turned to the two girls behind the counter who reacted in the same way. She shrugged, before going over to the till, pulling out the tray and beginning to check the day's takings.

I had been watching the manager carry out his duties for over an hour before Becky arrived, and to be fair he was pretty good, although I had already spotted several little things that could have been done to help improve sales, not least among them moving the counter to the far end of the shop and setting up some of the produce in boxes out on the pavement, so that the customers could be tempted to buy. "You must advertise your wares, not just hope people will come across them," my granpa used to say. However, I remained patiently on that bench until the staff began to empty the shelves prior to closing up the premises.

A few minutes later Becky came back out onto the pavement and looked up and down the street as if she were waiting for someone. Then the young man, who was now holding a padlock and key, joined her and nodded in my direction. Becky looked over towards the bench for the first time.

Once she had seen me I jumped up and crossed the road to join her. For some time neither of us spoke. I wanted to hug her, but we ended up just shaking hands rather formally, before I asked, "So what's the deal?"

"Couldn't find anyone else who would supply me with free cream buns," she told me, before going on to explain why she had sold the baker's shop and how we had come to own 147 Chelsea Terrace. When the staff had left for the night, she showed me round the flat. I couldn't believe my eyes—a bathroom with a toilet, a kitchen with crockery and cutlery, a front room with chairs and a table, and a bedroom—not to mention a bed that didn't look as if it would collapse when you sat down on it.

Once again I wanted to hug her, but I simply asked if she could stay and share dinner, as I had a hundred other questions that still needed answering.

"Sorry, not tonight," she said as I opened my case and began to unpack. "I'm off to a concert with a gentleman friend." No sooner had she added some remark about Tommy's picture than she smiled and left. Suddenly I was on my own again.

I took off my coat, rolled up my sleeves, went downstairs to the shop and for several hours moved things around until everything was exactly where I wanted it. By the time I had packed away the last box I was so exhausted that I only just stopped myself collapsing on the bed and grabbing some kip fully dressed. I didn't draw the curtains so as to be sure I would wake by four.

I dressed quickly the following morning, excited by the thought of returning to a market I hadn't seen for nearly two years. I arrived at the garden a few minutes before Bob Makins, who I quickly discovered knew his way around without actually knowing his way about. I accepted that it would take me a few days before I could work out which dealers were being supplied by the most reliable farmers, who had the real contacts at the docks and ports, who struck the most sensible price day in, day out, and, most important of all, who would take care of you whenever there was any sort of real shortage. None of these problems seemed to worry Bob, as he strolled around the market in an uninterrupted, undemanding circle, collecting his wares.

I loved the shop from the moment we opened that first morning, my first morning. It took me a little time to get used to Bob and the girls calling me "sir" but it also took them almost as long to become used to where I'd put the counter and to having to place the boxes out on the pavement before the customers were awake. However, even Becky agreed that it was an inspiration to place our wares right under the noses of potential buyers, although she wasn't sure how the local authorities would react when they found out.

"Hasn't Chelsea ever heard of passing trade?" I asked her.

Within a month I knew the name of every regular customer who patronized the shop, and within two I was aware of their likes, dislikes, passions and even the occasional fad that each imagined must be unique to them. After the staff had packed up at the end of each day I would often walk across the road and sit on the bench opposite and just watch the comings and goings in Chelsea Terrace SW10. It didn't take long to realize that an apple was an apple whoever wanted to take a bite out of it, and Chelsea Terrace was no different from Whitechapel when it came to understanding a customer's needs: I suppose that must have been the moment I thought about owning a second shop. Why not? Trumper's was the only establishment in Chelsea Terrace that regularly had a queue out onto the street.

Becky, meanwhile, continued her studies at the university and kept attempting to arrange for me to meet her gentleman friend. If the truth be known, I was trying to avoid Trentham altogether, as I had no desire to come in contact with the man I was convinced had killed Tommy.

Eventually I ran out of excuses and agreed to have dinner with them.

When Becky entered the restaurant with Daphne and Trentham, I wished that I had never agreed to spend the evening with them in the first place. The feeling must have been mutual, for Trentham's face registered the same loathing I felt for him, although Becky's friend, Daphne, tried to be friendly. She was a pretty girl and it wouldn't have surprised me to find that a lot of men enjoyed that hearty laugh. But blue-eyed, curly-headed blondes never were my type. I pretended for form's sake that Trentham and I hadn't met before.

I spent one of the most miserable evenings of my life wanting to tell Becky everything I knew about the bastard, but aware as I watched them together that nothing I had to reveal could possibly have any influence on her. It didn't help when Becky scowled at me for no reason. I just lowered my head and scooped up some more peas.

Becky's roommate, Daphne Harcourt-Browne, continued to do her best, but even Charlie Chaplin would have failed to raise a smile with the three of us as an audience.

Shortly after eleven I called for the bill, and a few minutes later we all left the restaurant. I let Becky and Trentham walk ahead in the hope that it would give me a chance to slip away, but to my surprise double-barreled Daphne hung back, claiming she wanted to find out what changes I'd made to the shop.

From her opening question as I unlocked the front door I realized she didn't miss much.

"You're in love with Becky, aren't you?" she asked quite matter-of-factly.

"Yes," I replied without guile, and went on to reveal my feelings in a way I would never have done to someone I knew well.

Her second question took me even more by surprise.

"And just how long have you known Guy Trentham?"

As we climbed the steps to my little flat I told her that we had served together on the Western Front, but because of the difference in our rank our paths had rarely crossed.

"Then why do you dislike him so much?" Daphne asked, after she had taken the seat opposite me.

I hesitated again but then in a sudden rush of uncontrollable anger I described what had happened to Tommy and me when we were trying to reach the safety of our own lines, and how I was convinced that Guy Trentham had shot my closest friend.

When I'd finished we both sat in silence for some time before I added, "You must never let Becky know what I've just told you as I've no real proof."

She nodded her agreement and went on to tell me about the only man in her life, as if swapping one secret for another to bond our friendship. Her love for the man was so transparent that I couldn't fail to be touched. And when Daphne left around midnight she promised that she'd do everything in her power to speed up the demise of Guy Trentham. I remembered her using the word "demise," because I had to ask her what it meant. She told me, and thus I received my first tutorial with the warning that Becky had a good start on me as she had not wasted the last ten years.

My second lesson was to discover why Becky had scowled at me so often during dinner. I would have protested at her cheek, but realized she was right.

I saw a lot of Daphne during the next few months, without Becky ever becoming aware of our true relationship. She taught me so much about the world of my new customers and even took me on trips to clothes shops, picture houses and to West End theaters to see plays that didn't have any dancing girls on the stage but I still enjoyed them. I only drew the line when she tried to get me to stop spending my Saturday afternoons watching West Ham in favor of some rugby team called the Quins. However, it was her introduction to the National Gallery and its five thousand canvases that was to start a love affair that was to prove as costly as any woman. It was to be only a few months before I was dragging her off to the latest exhibitions: Renoir, Manet and even a young Spaniard called Picasso who was beginning to attract attention among London's fashionable society. I began to hope that Becky would appreciate the change in me, but her eyes never once wavered from Captain Trentham.

On Daphne's further insistence I started reading two daily newspapers. She selected the Daily Express and the News Chronicle, and occasionally when she invited me round to Lowndes Square I even delved into one of her magazines, Punch or Strand. I began to discover who was who and who did what, and to whom. I even went to Sotheby's for the first time and watched an early Constable come under the hammer for a record price of nine hundred guineas. It was more money than Trumper's and all its fixtures and finings were worth put together. I confess that neither that magnificent country scene nor any other painting I came across in a gallery or auction house compared with my pride in Tommy's picture of the Virgin Mary and Child, which still hung above my bed.

When in January 1920 Becky presented the first year's accounts, I began to realize my ambition to own a second shop no longer had to be a daydream. Then without warning two sites became available in the same month. I immediately instructed Becky that somehow she had to come up with the money to purchase them.

Daphne later warned me on the QT that Becky was having considerable trouble raising the necessary cash, and although I said nothing I was quite expecting her to tell me that it simply wasn't possible, especially as her mind seemed to be almost totally preoccupied with Trentham and the fact that he was about to be posted to India. When Becky announced the day he left that they had become officially engaged, I could have willingly cut his throat—and then mine—but Daphne assured me that there were several young ladies in London who had at one time or another entertained the illusion that they were about to marry Guy Trentham. However, Becky herself remained so confident of Trentham's intentions that I didn't know which of the two women to believe.

The following week my old commanding officer appeared on the premises with a shopping list to complete for his wife. I'll never forget the moment he took a purse from his jacket pocket and fumbled around for some loose change. Until then it had never occurred to me that a colonel might actually live in the real world. However, he left with a promise to put me down for two ten-bob tickets at the regimental ball; he turned out to be as good as his word.

My euphoria—another Harcourt-Browne word—at meeting up with the colonel again lasted for about twenty-four hours. Then Daphne told me Becky was expecting. My first reaction was to wish I'd killed Trentham on the Western Front instead of helping to save the bloody man's life. I assumed that he would return immediately from India in order to marry her before the child was born. I hated the idea of his coming back into our lives, but I had to agree with the colonel that it was the only course of action a gentleman could possibly consider, otherwise the rest of Becky's life would be spent as a social outcast.

It was around this time that Daphne explained that if we hoped to raise some real money from the banks then we were definitely in need of a front man. Becky's sex was now militating—another of Daphne's words—against her, although she was kind enough not to mention my accent "militating" against me.

On the way home from the regimental ball Becky breezily informed Daphne that she had decided that the colonel was the obvious man to represent us whenever we had to go cap in hand seeking loans from one of the banks. I wasn't optimistic, but Becky insisted after her conversation with the colonel's wife that we at least go round to see him and present our case.

I fell in line and to my surprise we received a letter ten days later saying that he was our man.

A few days after that Becky admitted she was going to have a baby. From that moment on my consuming interest became finding out what news Becky had of Trentham's intentions. I was horrified to discover that she hadn't even written to tell him her news, although she was almost four months pregnant. I made her swear that she would send a letter that night, even if she did refuse to consider threatening him with a breach of promise suit. The following day Daphne assured me that she had watched from the kitchen window as Becky posted the letter.

I made an appointment to see the colonel and briefed him on Becky's state before the whole world knew. He said somewhat mysteriously, "Leave Trentham to me."

Six weeks later Becky told me that she had still heard nothing from the man, and I sensed for the first time that her feelings for him were beginning to wane.

I had even asked her to marry me, but she didn't take my proposal at all seriously although I had never been more sincere about anything in my life. I lay awake at night wondering what else I could possibly do to make her feel I was worthy of her.

As the weeks passed Daphne and I began to take more and more care of Becky, as daily she increasingly resembled a beached whale. There was still no word from India but long before the child was due she had stopped referring to Trentham by name.

When I first saw Daniel I wanted to be his father and was overjoyed when Becky said she hoped I still loved her.

Hoped I still loved her!

We were married a week later with the colonel, Bob Makins and Daphne agreeing to be godparents.

The following summer Daphne and Percy were themselves married, not at Chelsea Register Office but at St. Margaret's, Westminster. I watched out for Mrs. Trentham just to see what she looked like, but then I remembered that Percy had said she hadn't been invited.

Daniel grew like a weed, and I was touched that one of the first words he repeated again and again was "Dad." Despite this I could only wonder how long it would be before we had to sit down and tell the boy the truth. "Bastard" is such a vicious slur for an innocent child to have to live with.

"We don't have to worry about that for some time yet," Becky kept insisting, but it didn't stop me being fearful of the eventual outcome if we remained silent on the subject for much longer, after all some people in the Terrace already knew the truth.

Sal wrote from Toronto to congratulate me, as well as to inform me that she herself had stopped having babies. Twin girls—Maureen and Babs—and two boys—David and Rex—seemed to her quite enough, even for a good Catholic. Her husband, she wrote, had been promoted to area sales rep for E.P. Taylor so altogether they seemed to be doing rather well. She never made mention of England in her letters or of any desire to return to the country of her birth. As her only real memories of home must have been sleeping three to a bed, a drunken father and never having enough food for a second helping I couldn't really blame her.

She went on to chastise me for allowing Grace to be a far better letter-writer than I was. I couldn't claim the excuse of work, she added, as being a ward sister in a London teaching hospital left my sister with even less time than I had. After Becky had read the letter and nodded her agreement I made more of an effort over the next few months.

Kitty made periodic visits to Chelsea Terrace, but only with the purpose of talking me out of more money, her demands rising on each occasion. However, she always made certain that Becky was not around whenever she turned up. The sums she extracted, although exorbitant, were always just possible.

I begged Kitty to find a job, even offered her one myself, but she simply explained that she and work didn't seem to get along together. Our conversations rarely lasted for more than a few minutes because as soon as I'd handed over the cash she immediately sloped off. I realized that with every shop I opened it would become harder and harder to convince Kitty that she should settle down, and once Becky and I had moved into our new home on Gilston Road her visits only became more frequent.

Despite Syd Wrexall's efforts to thwart my ambition of trying to buy up every shop that became available in the terrace—I was able to get hold of seven before I came across any real opposition—I now had my eyes on Numbers 25 to 99, a block of flats which I intended to purchase without Wrexall ever finding out what I was up to; not to mention my desire to get my hands on Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, which, given its position on the street, remained crucial as part of my long-term plan to own the entire block.

During 1922 everything seemed to be falling neatly into place and I began to look forward to Daphne's return from her honeymoon so I could tell her exactly what I had been up to in her absence.

The week after Daphne arrived back in England she invited us both to dinner at her new home in Eaton Square. I couldn't wait to hear all her news, knowing that she would be impressed to learn that we now owned nine shops, a new home in Gilston Road and at any moment would be adding a block of flats to the Trumper portfolio. However, I knew the question she would ask me as soon as I walked in their front door, so I had my reply ready—"It will take me about another ten years before I own the entire block—as long as you can guarantee no floods, pestilence or the outbreak of war."

Just before Becky and I set out for our reunion dinner an envelope was dropped through the letter box of 11 Gilston Road.

Even as it lay on the mat I could recognize the bold hand. I ripped it open and began to read the colonel's words. When I had finished the letter I suddenly felt sick and could only wonder why he should want to resign.

Chapter 20

Charlie stood alone in the hall and decided not to mention the colonel's letter to Becky until after they had returned from their dinner with Daphne. Becky had been looking forward to the occasion for such a long time that he feared the colonel's unexplained resignation could only put a blight on the rest of the evening.

"You all right, darling?" asked Becky when she reached the bottom of the stairs. "You look a bit pale."

"I'm just fine," said Charlie, nervously tucking the letter into an inside pocket. "Come on or we'll be late, and that would never do." Charlie looked at his wife and noticed that she was wearing the pink dress with a massive bow on the front. He remembered helping her choose it. "You look ravishing," he told her. "That gown will make Daphne green with envy."

"You don't look so bad yourself."

"When I put on one of these penguin suits I always feel like the head waiter of the Ritz," admitted Charlie as Becky straightened his white tie.

"How could you possibly know when you've never been to the Ritz?" she said, laughing.

"At least the outfit came from my own shop this time," Charlie replied as he opened the front door for his wife.

"Ah, but have you paid the bill yet?"

As they drove over to Eaton Square Charlie found it difficult to concentrate on his wife's chatty conversation while he tried to fathom why the colonel could possibly want to resign just at the point when everything was going so well.

"So how do you feel I should go about it?" asked Becky.

"Whichever way you think best," began Charlie.

"You haven't been listening to a word I've said since we left the house, Charlie Trumper. And to think we've been married for less than two years."

"Sorry," said Charlie, as he parked his little Austin Seven behind the Silver Ghost that stood directly in front of 14 Eaton Square. "Wouldn't mind living here," Charlie added, as he opened the car door for his wife.

"Not quite yet," suggested Becky.

"Why not?"

"I've a feeling that Mr. Hadlow might not feel able to sanction the necessary loan."

A butler opened the door for them even before they had reached the top step. "Wouldn't mind one of those either," said Charlie.

"Behave yourself," said Becky.

"Of course," he said. "I must remember my place."

The butler ushered them through to the drawing room where they found Daphne sipping a dry martini.

"Darlings," she said. Becky ran forward and threw her arms around her and they bumped into each other.

"Why didn't you tell me?" said Becky.

"My little secret." Daphne patted her stomach. "Still, you seem to be well ahead of me, as usual."

"Not by that much," said Becky. "So when's yours due?"

"Dr. Gould is predicting some time in January. Clarence if it's a boy, Clarissa if it's a girl."

Her guests both laughed.

"Don't you two dare snigger. Those are the names of Percy's most distinguished ancestors," she told them, just as her husband entered the room.

"True, by Jove," said Percy, "though I'm damned if I can remember what they actually did."

"Welcome home," said Charlie, shaking him by the hand.

"Thank you, Charlie," said Percy, who then kissed Becky on both cheeks. "I don't mind telling you I'm damned pleased to see you again." A servant handed him a whisky and soda. "Now, Becky, tell me everything you've been up to and don't spare me any details."

They sat down together on the sofa as Daphne joined Charlie, who was slowly circling the room studying the large portraits that hung on every wall.

"Percy's ancestors," said Daphne. "All painted by second-rate artists. I'd swap the lot of them for that picture of the Virgin Mary you have in your drawing room."

"Not this one, you wouldn't," said Charlie, as he stopped in front of the second Marquess of Wiltshire.

"Ah, yes, the Holbein," said Daphne. "You're right. But since then I'm afraid it's been downhill all the way."

"I wouldn't begin to know, m'lady," said Charlie with a grin. "You see, my ancestors didn't go a bundle on portraits. Come to think of it, I don't suppose Holbein was commissioned by that many costermongers from the East End."

Daphne laughed. "That reminds me, Charlie, what's happened to your cockney accent?"

"What was you 'oping for, Marchioness, a pound of tomatoes and 'alf a grapefruit, or just a night on the razzle?"

"That's more like it. Mustn't let a few night classes go to our head."

"Shhh," said Charlie, looking over to his wife, who was seated on the sofa. "Becky still doesn't know and I'm not saying anything until—"

"I understand," said Daphne. "And I promise you that she won't hear a thing from me. I haven't even told Percy." She glanced towards Becky, who was still deep in conversation with her husband. "By the way, how long before . . . ?"

"Ten years would be my guess," said Charlie, delivering his prepared answer.

"Oh, I thought that these things usually took about nine months," said Daphne. "Unless of course you're an elephant."

Charlie smiled, realizing his mistake. "Another two months would be my guess. Tommy if it's a boy and Debbie if it's a girl. So with a bit of luck whatever Becky delivers let's hope turns out to be the ideal partner for Clarence or Clarissa."

"A nice idea but the way the world is going at the moment," said Daphne, "I wouldn't be surprised if mine ended up as your sales assistant."

Despite Daphne bombarding him with questions Charlie still couldn't take his eyes off the Holbein. Eventually Daphne bribed him away by saying, "Come on, Charlie, let's go and have something to eat. I always seem to be famished nowadays."

Percy and Becky stood up and followed Daphne and Charlie towards the dining room.

Daphne led her guests down a long corridor and through into another room that was exactly the same size and proportion as the one they had just left. The six full-length canvases that hung from the walls were all by Reynolds. "And this time only the ugly one is a relation," Percy assured them as he took his place at one end of the table and gestured to a long gray figure of a lady that hung on the wall behind him. "And she would have found it exceedingly difficult to land a Wiltshire had she not been accompanied by an extremely handsome dowry."

They took their places at a table that had been laid for four but would have comfortably seated eight, and proceeded to eat a four-course dinner that could have happily fed sixteen. Liveried footmen stood behind each chair to ensure the slightest need was administered to. "Every good home should have one," whispered Charlie across the table to his wife.

The conversation over dinner gave the four of them a chance to catch up with everything that had taken place during the past year. By the time a second coffee had been poured Daphne and Becky left the two men to enjoy a cigar and Charlie couldn't help thinking that it was as if the Wiltshires had never been away in the first place.

"Glad the girls have left us alone," said Percy, "as I feel there is something less pleasant we ought perhaps to touch on."

Charlie puffed away at his first cigar, wondering what it must be like to suffer in this way every day.

"When Daphne and I were in India," Percy continued, "we came across that bounder Trentham." Charlie coughed as some smoke went down the wrong way and began to pay closer attention as his host revealed the conversation that had taken place between Trentham and himself. "His threat that he would 'get you,' come what may, could have been no more than an idle boast, of course," said Percy, "but Daphne felt it best that you were put fully in the picture."

"But what can I possibly do about it?" Charlie knocked an extended column of ash into a silver saucer that had been placed in front of him just in time.

"Not a lot, I suspect," said Percy. "Except to remember that forewarned is forearmed. He's expected back in England at any moment, and his mother is now telling anyone who still cares to inquire that Guy was offered such an irresistible appointment in the City that he was willing to sacrifice his commission. I can't imagine that anyone really believes her, and anyway most decent-minded people think the City's about the right place for the likes of Trentham."

"Do you think I ought to tell Becky?"

"No, I don't," said Percy. "In fact I never told Daphne about my second encounter with Trentham at the Overseas Club. So why bother Becky with the details? From what I've heard from her this evening she's got quite enough on her plate to be going on with."

"Not to mention the fact that she's about to give birth," added Charlie.

"Exactly," said Percy. "So let's leave it at that for the time being. Now, shall we go and join the ladies?"

Over a large brandy in yet another room filled with ancestors including a small oil of Bonny Prince Charlie, Becky listened to Daphne describe the Americans, whom she adored, but felt the British should never have given the darlings away; the Africans, whom she considered delightful but who ought to be given away as soon as was convenient; and the Indians, who she understood couldn't wait to be given away, according to the little man who kept arriving at Government House in a dishcloth.

"Are you by any chance referring to Gandhi?" asked Charlie, as he puffed away more confidently at his cigar. "I find him rather impressive."

On the way back to Gilston Road Becky chatted happily as she revealed all the gossip she had picked up from Daphne. It became obvious to Charlie that the two women had not touched on the subject of Trentham, or the threat he currently posed.

Charlie had a restless night, partly caused by having indulged in too much rich food and alcohol, but mainly because his mind kept switching from why the colonel should want to resign to the problem that had to be faced with Trentham's imminent return to England.

At four o'clock in the morning he rose and donned his oldest clothes before setting off to the market, something he still tried to do at least once a week, convinced there was no one at Trumper's who could work the Garden the way he did, until, quite recently, when a trader at the market called Ned Denning had managed to palm him off with a couple of boxes of overripe avocados and followed it up the next day by pressing Charlie into buying a box of oranges he'd never wanted in the first place. Charlie decided to get up very early on the third day and see if he could have the man removed from his job once and for all.

The following Monday Ned Denning joined Trumper's as the grocery shop's first general manager.

Charlie had a successful morning stocking up with provisions for both 131 and 147, and Bob Makins arrived an hour later to drive him and Ned back to Chelsea Terrace in their newly acquired van.

Once they arrived at the fruit and vegetable shop, Charlie helped unload and lay out the goods before resuming home for breakfast a few minutes after seven. He still considered it was a little early to place a phone call through to the colonel.

Cook served him up eggs and bacon for breakfast, which he shared with Daniel and his nanny. Becky didn't join them, as she had not yet recovered from the aftereffects of Daphne's dinner party.

Charlie happily spent most of breakfast trying to answer Daniel's string of unrelated, never ending questions until nanny picked up the protesting child and carried him back upstairs to the playroom. Charlie flicked open the cover of his half hunter to check the time. Although it was still only a few minutes before eight, he felt he couldn't wait any longer so he walked through to the hall, picked up the stem phone, unhooked the earpiece and asked the operator to connect him with Flaxman 172. A few moments later he was put through.

"Can I have a word with the colonel?"

"I'll tell him you're on the line, Mr. Trumper," came back the reply. Charlie was amused by the thought that he was never going to be able to disguise his accent over the telephone.

"Good morning, Charlie," came back another accent that was also immediately recognizable.

"I wonder if I might come round and see you, sir?" Charlie asked.

"Of course," said the colonel. "But could you leave it until ten, old fellow? By then Elizabeth will have gone off to visit her sister in Camden Hill."

"I'll be there at ten on the dot," promised Charlie. After he had put the phone back on the hook, he decided to occupy the two hours by completing a full round of the shops. For a second time that morning and still before Becky had stirred, he left for Chelsea Terrace.

Charlie dug Major Arnold out of hardware before beginning a spot check on all nine establishments. As he passed the block of flats he began to explain in detail to his deputy the plans he had to replace the building with six new shops.

After they had left Number 129, Charlie confided in Arnold that he was worried about wines and spirits, which he considered was still not pulling its weight. This was despite their now being able to take advantage of the new delivery service that had originally been introduced only for fruit and vegetables. Charlie was proud that his was one of the first shops in London to take orders by telephone, then drop off the goods on the same day for account customers. It was another idea he had stolen from the Americans, and the more he read about what his opposite numbers were up to in the States the more he wanted to visit that country and see how they went about it firsthand.

He could still recall his first delivery service when he used his granpa's barrow for transport and Kitty as the delivery girl. Now he ran a smart blue three-horsepower van with the words, "Trumper, the honest trader, founded in 1823," emblazoned in gold letters down both sides.

He stopped on the corner of Chelsea Terrace and stared at the one shop that would always dominate Chelsea with its massive bow window and great double door. He knew the time must almost be ripe for him to walk in and offer Mr. Fothergill a large check to cover the auctioneer's debts; a former employee of Number 1 had recently assured Charlie that his bank balance was overdrawn by more than two thousand pounds.

Charlie marched into Number 1 to pay a far smaller bill and asked the girl behind the counter if they had finished reframing the Virgin Mary and Child, which was already three weeks overdue.

He didn't complain about the delay as it gave him another excuse to nose around. The paper was still peeling off the wall behind the reception area, and there was only one girl assistant left at the desk, which suggested to Charlie that the weekly wages were not always being met.

Mr. Fothergill eventually appeared with the picture in its new gilt frame and handed the little oil over to Charlie.

"Thank you," said Charlie as he once again studied the bold brushwork of reds and blues that made up the portrait and realized just how much he had missed it.

"Wonder what it's worth?" he asked Fothergill casually as he passed over a ten-shilling note.

"A few pounds at the most," the expert declared as he touched his bow tie. "After all, you can find countless examples of the subject by unknown artists right across the continent of Europe."

"I wonder," said Charlie as he checked his watch and stuffed the receipt into his pocket. He had allowed himself sufficient time for a relaxed walk across Princess Gardens and on to the colonel's residence, expecting to arrive a couple of minutes before ten. He bade Mr. Fothergill "Good morning," and left.

Although it was still quite early, the pavements in Chelsea were already bustling with people and Charlie raised his hat to several customers he recognized.

"Good morning, Mr. Trumper."

"Good morning, Mrs. Symonds," said Charlie as he crossed the road to take a shortcut through the garden.

He began to try and compose in his mind what he would say to the colonel once he'd discovered why the chairman felt it had been necessary to offer his resignation. Whatever the reason, Charlie was determined not to lose the old soldier. He closed the park gate behind him and started to walk along the man-made path.

He stood aside to allow a lady pushing a pram to pass him and gave a mock salute to an old soldier sitting on a park bench rolling a Woodbine. Once he had crossed the tiny patch of grass, he stepped into the Gilston Road, closing the gate behind him.

Charlie continued his walk towards Tregunter Road and began to quicken his pace. He smiled as he passed his little home, quite forgetting he still had the picture under his arm, his mind still preoccupied with the reason for the colonel's resignation.

Charlie turned immediately when he heard the scream and a door slam somewhere behind him, more as a reflex than from any genuine desire to see what was going on. He stopped in his tracks as he watched a disheveled figure dash out onto the road and then start running towards him.

Charlie stood mesmerized as the tramplike figure drew closer and closer until the man came to a sudden halt only a few feet in front of him. For a matter of seconds the two men stood and stared at each other without uttering a word. Neither ruffian nor gentleman showed on a face half obscured by rough stubble. And then recognition was quickly followed by disbelief.

Charlie couldn't accept that the unshaven, slovenly figure who stood before him wearing an old army greatcoat and a battered felt hat was the same man he had first seen on a station in Edinburgh almost five years before.

Charlie's abiding memory of that moment was to be the three clean circles on both epaulettes of Trentham's greatcoat, from which the three pips of a captain must recently have been removed.

Trentham's eyes dropped as he stared at the painting for a second and then suddenly, without warning, he lunged at Charlie, taking him by surprise, and wrested the picture from his grasp. He turned and started running back down the road in the direction he had come. Charlie immediately set off in pursuit and quickly began to make up ground on his assailant, who was impeded by his heavy greatcoat, while having also to cling to the picture.

Charlie was within a yard of his quarry and about to make a dive for Trentham's waist when he heard the second scream. He hesitated for a moment as he realized the desperate cry must be coming from his own home. He knew he had been left with no choice but to allow Trentham to escape with the picture as he changed direction and dashed up the steps of Number 17. He charged on into the drawing room to find the cook and nanny standing over Becky. She was lying flat out on the sofa screaming with pain.

Becky's eyes lit up when she saw Charlie. "The baby's coming," was all she said.

"Pick her up gently, cook," said Charlie, "and help me get her to the car."

Together they carried Becky out of the house and down the path as nanny ran ahead of them to open the car door so they could place her on the backseat. Charlie stared down at his wife. Her face was drained of color and her eyes were glazed. She appeared to lose consciousness as he closed the car door.

Charlie jumped into the front of the car and shouted at cook, who was already turning the handle to get the engine started.

"Ring my sister at Guy's Hospital and explain we're on our way. And tell her to be prepared for an emergency. "

The motor spluttered into action and cook jumped to one side as Charlie drove the car out into the middle of the road, trying to keep a steady pace as he avoided pedestrians, bicycles, trams, horses and other cars as he crashed through the gears on his journey south towards the Thames.

He turned his head every few seconds to stare at his wife, not even sure if she was still alive. "Let them both live," he shouted at the top of his voice. He continued on down the Embankment as fast as he could manage, honking his horn and several times screaming at people who were casually crossing the road unaware of his plight. As he drove across Southwark Bridge he heard Becky groan for the first time.

"We'll soon be there, my darling," he promised. "Just hold on a little longer."

Once over the bridge he took the first left and maintained his speed until the great iron gates of Guy's came into view. As he swung into the courtyard and round the circular flower bed he spotted Grace and two men in long white coats standing waiting, a stretcher by their side. Charlie brought the car to a halt almost on their toes.

The two men lifted Becky gently out and placed her on the stretcher before rushing her up the ramp and into the hospital. Charlie jumped out of the car and marched by the stretcher holding Becky's hand as they climbed a flight of stairs, Grace running by his side explaining that Mr. Armitage, the hospital's senior obstetrician, was waiting for them in an operating theater on the first floor.

By the time Charlie reached the doors of the theater, Becky was already inside. They left him outside in the corridor on his own. He began to pace up and down, unaware of others bustling past him as they went about their work.

Grace came out a few minutes later to reassure him that Mr. Armitage had everything under control and that Becky could not be in better hands. The baby was expected at any moment. She squeezed her brother's hand, then disappeared back into the theater. Charlie continued his pacing, thinking only of his wife and their first child, the sight of Trentham already becoming a blur. He prayed for a boy—Tommy—who would be a brother for Daniel and perhaps one day even take over Trumper's. Pray God that Becky was not going through too much pain as she delivered their son. He paced up and down that long green-walled corridor mumbling to himself, aware once again how much he loved her.

It was to be another hour before a tall, thick-set man emerged from behind the closed doors, followed by Grace. Charlie turned to face them but as the surgeon had a mask over his face, Charlie had no way of knowing how the operation had gone. Mr. Armitage removed the mask: the expression on his face answered Charlie's silent prayer.

"I managed to save your wife's life," he said, "but I am so very sorry, Mr. Trumper, I could do nothing about your stillborn daughter."

Chapter 21

For several days after the operation Becky never left her room in the hospital.

Charlie later learned from Grace that although Mr. Armitage had saved his wife's life it might still be weeks before she was fully recovered, especially since it had been explained to Becky that she could never have another child without risking her own life.

Charlie visited her every morning and evening, but it was over a fortnight before she was able to tell her husband how Guy Trentham had forced his way into the house and then threatened to kill her unless she told him where the picture was.

"Why? I simply can't understand why," said Charlie.

"Has the picture turned up anywhere?"

"No sign of it so far," he said, just as Daphne came in bearing a huge basket of provisions. She kissed Becky on the cheek before confining that the fruit had been purchased at Trumper's that morning. Becky managed a smile as she munched her way through a peach. Daphne sat on the end of the bed and immediately launched into all her latest news.

She was able to let them know, following one of her periodic visits to the Trenthams, that Guy had disappeared off to Australia and that his mother was claiming he had never set foot in England in the first place, but traveled to Sydney direct from India.

"Via the Gilston Road," said Charlie.

"That's not what the police think," said Daphne. "They remain convinced that he left England in 1920 and they can find no proof he ever returned."

"Well, we're certainly not going to enlighten them," said Charlie, taking his wife's hand.

"Why not?" asked Daphne.

"Because even I consider Australia far enough away for Trentham to be left to his own devices: in any case nothing can be gained from pursuing him now. If the Australians give him enough rope I'm sure he'll hang himself."

"But why Australia?" asked Becky.

"Mrs. Trentham's telling everyone who cares to listen that Guy has been offered a partnership in a cattle broker's—far too good a position to turn down, even if it did mean having to resign his commission. The vicar is the only person I can find who believes the story." But even Daphne had no simple answer as to why Trentham should have been so keen to get his hands on the little oil painting.

The colonel and Elizabeth also visited Becky on several occasions and as he continually talked of the company's future and never once referred to his resignation letter Charlie didn't press him on the subject.

It was to be Crowther who eventually enlightened Charlie as to who had purchased the flats.

Six weeks later Charlie drove his wife home to Gilston Road—at a more stately pace—Mr. Armitage having suggested a quiet month resting before she considered returning to work. Charlie promised the surgeon that he would not allow Becky to do anything until he felt sure she had fully recovered.

The morning Becky returned home Charlie left her propped up in bed with a book and headed back to Chelsea Terrace where he went straight to the jewelry shop he had acquired in his wife's absence.

Charlie took a considerable time selecting a string of cultured pearls, a gold bracelet and a lady's Victorian watch, which he then instructed to be sent to Grace, to the staff nurse and to the nurse who had taken care of Becky during her unscheduled stay at Guy's. His next stop was the greengrocer's shop where he asked Bob to make up a basket of the finest fruit, while he personally selected a bottle of vintage wine from Number 101 to accompany it. "Send them both round to Mr. Armitage at 7 Cadogan Square, London SW1, with my compliments," he added.

"Right away," said Bob. "Anything else while I'm at it?"

"Yes, I want you to repeat that order every Monday for the rest of his life."

It was about a month later, in November 1922, that Charlie learned of the problems Arnold was facing with the simple task of replacing a shop assistant. In fact, selecting staff had become one of Arnold's biggest headaches of late, because for every job that became vacant fifty to a hundred people were applying to fill it. Arnold would then put together a shortlist as Charlie still insisted that he interview the final candidates before any position was confirmed.

On that particular Monday, Arnold had already considered a number of girls for the position as sales assistant at the flower shop, following the retirement of one of the company's longest-serving employees.

"Although I've already shortlisted three for the job," said Arnold, "I thought you would be interested in one of the applicants I rejected. She didn't seem to have the appropriate qualifications for this particular position. However—"

Charlie glanced at the sheet of paper Arnold passed to him. "Joan Moore. Why would I . . . ?" began Charlie, as his eyes ran swiftly down her application. "Ah, I see," he said. "How very observant of you, Tom." He read a few more lines. "But I don't need a—well, on the other hand perhaps I do." He looked up. "Arrange for me to see Miss Moore within the next week."

The following Thursday Charlie interviewed Joan Moore for over an hour at his home in Gilston Road and his first impression was of a cheery, well-mannered if somewhat immature girl. However, before he offered her the position as lady's maid to Mrs. Trumper he still had a couple of questions he felt needed answering.

"Did you apply for this job because you knew of the relationship between my wife and your former employer?" Charlie asked.

The girl looked him straight in the eyes. "Yes, sir, I did."

"And were you sacked by your previous employer?"

"Not exactly, sir, but when I left she refused to supply me with a reference."

"What reason did she give for that?"

"I was walkin' out with the second footman, 'aving failed to inform the butler, who is in charge of the 'ousehold."

"And are you still walking out with the second footman?"

The girl hesitated. "Yes, sir," she said. "You see, we're 'oping to be married as soon as we've saved up enough."

"Good," said Charlie. "Then you can report for duly next Monday morning. Mr. Arnold will deal with all the necessary arrangements."

When Charlie told Becky he had employed a lady's maid for her she laughed at first, then asked, "And what would I want with one of those?" Charlie told her exactly why she wanted "one of those." When he had finished all Becky said was, "You're an evil man, Charlie Trumper, that's for sure."

It was at the February board meeting in 1924 that Crowther warned his colleagues that Number 1 Chelsea Terrace might well come on the market earlier than anticipated.

"Why's that?" asked Charlie, a little anxiously.

"Your estimate of another two years before Fothergill would have to cave in is beginning to look prophetic."

"So how much does he want?"

"It's not quite as simple as that."

"Why not?"

"Because he's decided to auction the property himself."

"Auction it?" inquired Becky.

"Yes," said Crowther. "That way he avoids paying any fees to an outside agent."

"I see. So what are you expecting the property to fetch?" asked the colonel.

"Not an easy one to answer, that," replied Crowther. "It's four times the size of any other shop in the Terrace, it's on five floors and it's even bigger than Syd Wrexall's pub on the other corner. It also has the largest shop frontage in Chelsea and a double entrance on the corner facing the Fulham Road. For all those reasons it's not that simple to estimate its value."

"Even so, could you try and put a figure on it?" asked the chairman.

"If you were to press me I'd say somewhere in the region of two thousand, but it could be as much as three, if anyone else were to show an interest."

"What about the stock?" asked Becky. "Do we know what's happening to that?"

"Yes, it's being sold along with the building."

"And what's it worth?" asked Charlie. "Roughly?"

"More Mrs. Trumper's department than mine, I feel," said Crowther.

"It's no longer that impressive," said Becky. "A lot of Fothergill's best works have already gone through Sotheby's, and I suspect Christie's have seen just as many during the past year. However, I would still expect what's left over to fetch around a thousand pounds under the hammer."

"So the face value of the property and the stock together appears to be around the three-thousand pound mark," suggested Hadlow.

"But Number 1 will go for a lot more than that," said Charlie.

"Why?" queried Hadlow.

"Because Mrs. Trentham will be among the bidders."

"How can you be so sure?" asked the chairman.

"Because our ladies' maid is still walking out with her second footman."

The rest of the board laughed, but all the chairman volunteered was, "Not again. First the flats, now this. When will it end?"

"Not until she's dead and buried, I suspect," said Charlie.

"Perhaps not even then," added Becky.

"If you're referring to the son," said the colonel, "I doubt if he can cause too much trouble from twelve thousand miles away. But as for the mother, hell hath no fury—" he said testily.

"Commonly misquoted," said Charlie.

"What's that?" asked the chairman.

"Congreve, Colonel. The lines run, 'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.'" The colonel's mouth remained open but he was speechless. "However," Charlie continued "more to the point, I need to know what is the limit the board will allow me to bid for Number 1."

"I consider five thousand may well prove necessary given the circumstances," said Becky.

"But no more," said Hadlow, studying the balance sheet in front of him.

"Perhaps one bid over?" suggested Becky.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," said Hadlow. "What does 'one bid over' mean?"

"Bids never go to the exact figure you anticipate Mr. Hadlow. Most people who attend an auction usually have a set figure in their minds which inevitably ends in round numbers, so if you go one above that figure you often end up securing the lot."

Even Charlie nodded, as Hadlow said in admiration, "Then I agree to one bid over."

"May I also suggest," said the colonel, "that Mrs. Trumper should carry out the bidding, because with her experience—"

"That's kind of you, colonel, but I shall nevertheless need the help of my husband," said Becky with a smile. "And, in fact, the whole board's, come to that. You see I have already formulated a plan." She proceeded to brief her colleagues on what she had in mind.

"What fun," said the colonel when she had finished. "But will I also be allowed to attend the proceedings?"

"Oh, yes," said Becky. "All of you must be present, and, with the exception of Charlie and myself, you ought to be seated silently in the row directly behind Mrs. Trentham a few minutes before the auction is due to commence."

"Bloody woman," said the colonel, before adding hastily, "I do apologize."

"True. But, more important, we must never forget that she is also an amateur," Becky added.

"What's the significance of that statement?" asked Hadlow.

"Sometimes amateurs get carried away by the occasion, and when that happens the professionals have no chance because the amateur often ends up going one bid too far. We must remember that it may well be the first auction Mrs. Trentham has ever placed a bid at, even attended, and as she wants the premises every bit as much as we do, and has the advantage of superior resources, we will have to secure the lot by sheer cunning." No one seemed to disagree with this assessment.

Once the board meeting was over Becky took Charlie through her plan for the forthcoming auction in greater detail, and even made him attend Sotheby's one morning with orders to bid for three pieces of Dutch silver. He carried out his wife's instructions but ended up with a Georgian mustard pot he had never intended to buy in the first place.

"No better way of learning," Becky assured him. "Just be thankful that it wasn't a Rembrandt you were bidding for."

She continued to explain to Charlie the subtleties of auctions over dinner that night in far greater detail than she had with the board. Charlie learned that there were different signs you could give the auctioneer, so that rivals remained unaware that you were still bidding, while at the same time you could discover who was bidding against you.

"But isn't Mrs. Trentham bound to spot you?" said Charlie after he had cut his wife a slice of bread. "After all, you'll be the only two left bidding by that stage."

"Not if you've already put her off balance before I enter the fray," said Becky.

"But the board agreed that you—"

"That I should be allowed to go one bid over five thousand."

"But—"

"No buts, Charlie," said Becky as she served her husband up another portion of Irish stew. "On the morning of the auction I want you on parade, dressed in your best suit and sitting in the seventh row on the gangway looking very pleased with yourself. You will then proceed to bid ostentatiously up to one over three thousand pounds. When Mrs. Trentham goes to the next bid, as undoubtedly she will, you must stand up and flounce out of the room, looking defeated, while I continue the bidding in your absence."

"Not bad," said Charlie as he put his fork into a couple of peas. "But surely Mrs. Trentham will work out exactly what you're up to?"

"Not a chance," said Becky. "Because I will have an agreed code with the auctioneer that she could never hope to spot, let alone to decipher."

"But will I understand what you are up to?"

"Oh, yes," said Becky, "because you'll know exactly what I'm doing when I use the glasses ploy."

"The glasses ploy? But you don't even wear glasses."

"I will be on the day of the auction, and when I'm wearing them you'll know I'm still bidding. If I take them off, I've finished bidding. So when you leave the room all the auctioneer will see when he looks in my direction is that I still have my glasses on. Mrs. Trentham will think you've gone, and will, I suspect, be quite happy to let someone else continue with the bidding so long as she's confident they don't represent you."

"You're a gem, Mrs. Trumper," said Charlie as he rose to clear away the plates. "But what if she sees you chatting to the auctioneer or, worse, finds out your code even before Mr. Fothergill calls for the first bid?"

"She can't," said Becky. "I'll agree on the code with Fothergill only minutes before the auction begins. In any case, it will be at that moment that you will make a grand entrance, and then only seconds after the other members of the board have taken their seats directly behind Mrs. Trentham, so with a bit of luck she'll be so distracted by everything that's going on around her that she won't even notice me."

"I married a very clever girl," said Charlie.

"You never admitted as much when we were at Jubilee Street Elementary."

On the morning of the auction, Charlie confessed over breakfast that he was very nervous, despite Becky's appearing to be remarkably calm, especially after Joan had informed her mistress that the second footman had heard from the cook that Mrs. Trentham had placed a limit of four thousand pounds on her bidding.

"I just wonder . . ." said Charlie.

"Whether she planted the sum in the cook's mind?" said Becky. "It's possible. After all, she's every bit as cunning as you are. But as long as we stick to our agreed plan―and remember everyone, even Mrs. Trentham, has a limit―we can still beat her."

The auction was advertised to begin at ten A.M. A full twenty minutes before the bidding was due to commence Mrs. Trentham entered the room and swept regally down the aisle. She took her place in the center of the third row, and placed her handbag on one seat and a catalogue on the other to be certain that no one sat next to her. The colonel and his two colleagues entered the half-filled room at nine-fifty A.M. and, as instructed, filed into the seats immediately behind their adversary. Mrs. Trentham appeared to show no interest in their presence. Five minutes later Charlie made his entrance. He strolled down the center aisle, raised his hat to a lady he recognized, shook hands with one of his regular customers and finally took his place on the gangway at the end of the seventh row. He continued to chat noisily with his next-door neighbor about England's cricket tour of Australia explaining once again that he was not related to the great Australian batsman whose name he bore. The minute hand on the grandfather clock behind the auctioneer's box moved slowly towards the appointed hour.

Although the room was not much larger than Daphne's hall in Eaton Square, they had still somehow managed to pack in over a hundred chairs of different shapes and sizes. The walls were covered in a faded green baize that displayed several hook marks where pictures must have hung in the past and the carpet had become so threadbare that Charlie could see the floorboards in places. He began to feel that the cost of bringing Number 1 up to the standard he expected for all Trumper's shops was going to be greater than he had originally anticipated.

Glancing around, he estimated that over seventy people were now seated in the auction house, and wondered just how many had no interest in bidding themselves but had simply come to see the showdown between the Trumpers and Mrs. Trentham.

Syd Wrexall, as the representative of the Shops Committee, was already in the front row, arms folded, trying to look composed, his vast bulk almost taking up two seats. Charlie suspected that he wouldn't go much beyond the second or third bid. He soon spotted Mrs. Trentham seated in the third row, her gaze fixed directly on the grandfather clock.

Then, with two minutes to spare, Becky slipped into the auction house. Charlie was sitting on the edge of his seat waiting to carry out his instructions to the letter. He rose from his place and walked purposefully towards the exit. This time Mrs. Trentham did glance round to see what Charlie was up to. Innocently he collected another bill of sale from the back of the room, then returned to his seat at a leisurely pace, stopping to talk to another shop owner who had obviously taken an hour off to watch the proceedings.

When Charlie resumed to his place he didn't look in the direction of his wife, who he knew must now be hidden somewhere towards the back of the room. Nor did he once look at Mrs. Trentham, although he could feel her eyes fixed on him.

As the clock chimed ten, Mr. Fothergill—a tall thin man with a flower in his buttonhole and not a hair of his silver locks out of place—climbed the four steps of the circular wooden box. Charlie thought he looked an impressive figure as he towered over them. As soon as he had composed himself he rested a hand on the rim of the box and beamed at the packed audience, picked up his gavel and said, "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen." A silence fell over the room.

"This is a sale of the property known as Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, its fixtures, fittings and contents, which have been on view to the general public for the past two weeks. The highest bidder will be required to make a deposit of ten percent immediately following the auction, then complete the final transaction within ninety days. Those are the terms as stated on your bill of sale, and I repeat them only so that there can be no misunderstanding."

Mr. Fothergill cleared his throat and Charlie could feel his heart beat faster and faster. He watched the colonel clench a fist as Becky removed a pair of glasses out of her bag and placed them in her lap.

"I have an opening bid of one thousand pounds," Fothergill told the silent audience, many of whom were standing at the side of the room or leaning against the wall as there were now few seats vacant. Charlie kept his eyes fixed on the auctioneer. Mr. Fothergill smiled in the direction of Mr. Wrexall, whose arms remained folded in an attitude of determined resolution. "Do I see any advance on one thousand?"

"One thousand, five hundred," said Charlie, just a little too loudly. Those not involved in the intrigue looked around to see who it was who had made the bid. Several turned to their neighbors and began talking in noisy whispers.

"One thousand, five hundred," said the auctioneer. "Do I see two thousand?" Mr. Wrexall unfolded his arms and raised a hand like a child in school determined to prove he knows the answer to one of teacher's questions.

"Two thousand, five hundred," said Charlie, even before Wrexall had lowered his hand.

"Two thousand, five hundred in the center of the room. Do I see three thousand?"

Mr. Wrexall's hand rose an inch from his knee, then fell back. A deep frown formed on his face. "Do I see three thousand?" Mr. Fothergill asked for a second time. Charlie couldn't believe his luck. He was going to get Number 1 for two thousand, five hundred. Each second felt like a minute as he waited for the hammer to come down.

"Do I hear three thousand bid anywhere in the room?" said Mr. Fothergill, sounding a little disappointed. "Then I am offering Number 1 Chelsea Terrace at two thousand, five hundred pounds for the first time . . ." Charlie held his breath. "For the second time." The auctioneer started to raise his gavel. ". . . Three thousand pounds," Mr. Fothergill announced with an audible sigh of relief, as Mrs. Trentham's gloved hand settled back in her lap.

"Three thousand, five hundred," said Charlie as Mr. Fothergill smiled in his direction, but as soon as he looked back towards Mrs. Trentham she nodded to the auctioneer's inquiry of four thousand pounds.

Charlie allowed a second or two to pass before he stood up, straightened his tie and, looking grim, walked slowly down the center of the aisle and out onto the street. He didn't see Becky put her glasses on, or the look of triumph that came over Mrs. Trentham's face.

"Do I see four thousand, five hundred pounds?" asked the auctioneer, and with only a glance towards where Becky was seated he said, "I do."

Fothergill resumed to Mrs. Trentham and asked, "Five thousand pounds, madam?" Her eyes quickly searched round the room, but it became obvious for all to see that she couldn't work out where the last bid had come from. Murmurs started to turn into chatter as everyone in the auction house began the game of searching for the bidder. Only Becky, safely in her back row seat, didn't move a muscle.

"Quiet, please," said the auctioneer. "I have a bid of four thousand, five hundred pounds. Do I see five thousand anywhere in the room?" His gaze resumed to Mrs. Trentham. She raised her hand slowly, but as she did so swung quickly round to see if she could spot who was bidding against her. But no one had moved when the auctioneer said, "Five thousand, five hundred. I now have a bid of five thousand, five hundred." Mr. Fothergill surveyed his audience. "Are there any more bids?" He looked in Mrs. Trentham's direction but she in turn looked baffled, her hands motionless in her lap.

"Then it's five thousand, five hundred for the first time," said Mr. Fothergill. "Five thousand, five hundred for a second time"—Becky pursed her lips to stop herself from breaking into a large grin—"and for a third and final time," he said, raising his gavel.

"Six thousand," said Mrs. Trentham clearly, while at the same time waving her hand. A gasp went up around the room: Becky removed her glasses with a sigh, realizing that her carefully worked-out ploy had failed even though Mrs. Trentham had been made to pay triple the price any shop in the Terrace had fetched in the past.

The auctioneer's eyes resumed to the back of the room but the glasses were now clasped firmly in Becky's hand, so he transferred his gaze back to Mrs. Trentham, who sat bolt upright, a smile of satisfaction on her face.

"At six thousand for the first time," said the auctioneer, his eyes searching the room. "Six thousand for the second time then, if there are no more bids, it's six thousand for the last time . . ." Once again the gavel was raised.

"Seven thousand pounds," said a voice from the back of the room. Everyone turned to see that Charlie had resumed and was now standing in the aisle, his right hand high in the air.

The colonel looked round, and when he saw who the new bidder was he began to perspire, something he didn't like to do in public. He removed a handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped his brow.

"I have a bid of seven thousand pounds," said a surprised Mr. Fothergill.

"Eight thousand," said Mrs. Trentham, staring straight at Charlie belligerently.

"Nine thousand," barked back Charlie.

The chatter in the room quickly turned into a babble. Becky wanted to jump up and push her husband back out into the street.

"Quiet, please," said Mr. Fothergill. "Quiet!" he pleaded, almost shouting. The colonel was still mopping his brow, Mr. Crowther's mouth was open wide enough to have caught any passing fly and Mr. Hadlow's head was firmly buried in his hands.

"Ten thousand," said Mrs. Trentham who, Becky could see, was, like Charlie, now totally out of control.

The auctioneer asked, "Do I see eleven thousand?"

Charlie had a worried look on his face but he simply wrinkled his brow, shook his head and placed his hands back in his pocket.

Becky sighed with relief and, unclasping her hands, nervously put her glasses back on.

"Eleven thousand," said Mr. Fothergill, looking towards Becky, while pandemonium broke out once again as she rose to protest, having quickly removed her glasses. Charlie looked totally bemused.

Mrs. Trentham's eyes had now come to rest on Becky, whom she had finally located. With a smile of satisfaction Mrs. Trentham declared, "Twelve thousand pounds."

The auctioneer looked back towards Becky, who had placed her glasses in her bag and closed the catch with a snap. He glanced towards Charlie, whose hands remained firmly in his pockets.

"The bid is at the front of the room at twelve thousand pounds. Is anyone else bidding?" asked the auctioneer. Once again his eyes darted from Becky to Charlie before resuming to Mrs. Trentham. "Then at twelve thousand for the first time"—he looked around once more—"for the second time, for the third and final time." His gavel came down with a thud. "I declare the property sold for twelve thousand pounds to Mrs. Gerald Trentham."

Becky ran towards the door, but Charlie was already out on the pavement.

"What were you playing at, Charlie?" she demanded even before she caught up with him.

"I knew she would bid up to ten thousand pounds," said Charlie, "because that's the amount she still has on deposit at her bank."

"But how could you possibly know that?"

"Mrs. Trentham's second footman passed on the information to me this morning. He will, by the way, be joining us as our butler."

At that moment the chairman walked out onto the pavement. "I must say, Rebecca, your plan was brilliant. Had me completely fooled."

"Me too," said Charlie.

"You took an awful risk, Charlie Trumper," said Becky, not letting her husband off the hook.

"Perhaps, but at least I knew what her limit was. I had no idea what you were playing at."

"I made a genuine mistake," said Becky. "When I put my glasses back on.. . . What are you laughing at, Charlie Trumper?"

"Thank God for genuine amateurs."

"What do you mean?"

"Mrs. Trentham thought you really were bidding, and she had been tricked, so she went one bid too far. In fact, she wasn't the only one who was carried away by the occasion. I even begin to feel sorry for—"

"For Mrs. Trentham?"

"Certainly not," said Charlie. "For Mr. Fothergill. He's about to spend ninety days in heaven before he comes down to earth with an almighty thump."