As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  “If you felt able to help, I would be eternally grateful,” said Daphne nervously. “But first I think I ought to tell you everything I know.”

  The colonel nodded.

  “As I’m sure you’re only too aware it is I who am to blame for the two of them meeting in the first place…”

  By the time Daphne had come to the end of her story the colonel’s plate was empty.

  “I knew most of that already,” he admitted as he touched his lips with a napkin. “But you still managed to fill in one or two important gaps for me. I confess I had no idea Trentham was that much of a bounder. Looking back on it, I should have insisted on further collaboration before I agreed to allow his name being put forward for an MC.” He rose. “Now, if you’ll be good enough to amuse yourself for a few minutes by reading a magazine in the coffee room, I’ll see what I can come up with as a first draft.”

  “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,” said Daphne.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m flattered that you consider me worthy of your confidence.” The colonel stood up and strode off into the writing room.

  He didn’t reappear for nearly an hour, by which time Daphne was rereading advertisements for nannies in the Lady.

  She hastily dropped the magazine back on the table and sat bolt upright in her chair. The colonel handed over the results of his labors, which Daphne studied for several minutes before speaking.

  “God knows what Guy would do if I were to write such a letter,” she said at last.

  “He’ll resign his commission, my dear, it’s as simple as that. And none too soon, in my opinion.” The colonel frowned. “It’s high time Trentham was made aware of the consequences of his misdeeds, not least because of the responsibilities he still has to Becky and the child.”

  “But now that she’s happily married that’s hardly fair to Charlie,” Daphne pleaded.

  “Have you seen Daniel lately?” asked the colonel, lowering his voice.

  “A few months ago, why?”

  “Then you’d better take another look, because there aren’t many Trumpers, or Salmons for that matter, who have blond hair, a Roman nose and deep blue eyes. I fear the more obvious replicas are to be found in Ashurst, Berkshire. In any case, Becky and Charlie will eventually have to tell the child the truth or they’ll only store up more trouble for themselves at some later date. Send the letter,” he said, tapping his fingers on the side table, “that’s my advice.”

  Once Daphne had returned home to Lowndes Square she went straight up to her room. She sat down at her writing desk and, pausing only for a moment, began to copy out the colonel’s words.

  When she had completed her task Daphne reread the one paragraph of the colonel’s deliberations that she had left out and prayed that his gloomy prognosis would not prove to be accurate.

  Once she had completed her own version she tore up the colonel’s transcript and rang for Wentworth.

  “Just one letter to be posted” was all she said.

  The preparations for the wedding became so frantic that once Daphne had passed over the letter to Wentworth she quite forgot about the problems of Guy Trentham. What with selecting the bridesmaids without offending half her family, enduring endless dress fittings that never ran to time, studying seating arrangements so as to be certain that those members of the family who hadn’t spoken to each other in years were not placed at the same table—or for that matter in the same pew as each other—and finally having to cope with a future mother-in-law, the dowager marchioness, who, having married off three of her own daughters, always had three opinions to offer on every subject, she felt quite exhausted.

  With only a week to go Daphne suggested to Percy that they should pop along to the nearest register office and get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible—and preferably without bothering to tell anyone else.

  “Anything you say, old gel,” said Percy, who had long ago stopped listening to anyone on the subject of marriage.

  On 16 July 1921 Daphne woke at five forty-three feeling drained, but by the time she stepped out into the sunshine in Lowndes Square at one forty-five she was exhilarated and actually looking forward to the occasion.

  Her father helped her up the steps into an open carriage that her grandmother and mother had traveled in on the day they were married. A little crowd of servants and well-wishers cheered the bride as she began her journey to Westminster, while others waved from the pavement. Officers saluted, toffs blew her a kiss and would-be brides sighed as she passed by.

  Daphne, on her father’s arm, entered the church by the north door a few minutes after Big Ben had struck two, then proceeded slowly down the aisle to the accompaniment of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. She paused only for a moment before joining Percy, curtsying to the King and Queen, who sat alone in their private pews beside the altar. After all those months of waiting the service seemed over in moments. As the organ struck up “Rejoice, rejoice” and the married couple were bidden to an anteroom to sign the register, Daphne’s only reaction was to want to go through the entire ceremony again.

  Although she had secretly practiced the signature several times on her writing paper back at Lowndes Square, she still hesitated before she wrote the words, “Daphne Wiltshire.”

  Husband and wife left the church to a thunderous peal of bells and strolled on through the streets of Westminster in the bright afternoon sun. Once they had arrived at the large marquee that had been set up on the lawn in Vincent Square, they began to welcome their guests.

  Trying to have a word with every one of them resulted in Daphne’s almost failing to sample a piece of her own wedding cake, and no sooner had she taken a bite than the dowager marchioness swept up to announce that if they didn’t get on with the speeches they might as well dispense with any hope of sailing on the last tide.

  Algernon Fitzpatrick praised the bridesmaids and toasted the bride and groom. Percy made a surprisingly witty and well-received reply. Daphne was then ushered off to 45 Vincent Square, the home of a distant uncle, so that she could change into her going-away outfit.

  Once again the crowds flocked out onto the pavement to throw rice and rose petals, while Hoskins waited to dispatch the newlyweds off to Southampton.

  Thirty minutes later Hoskins was motoring peacefully down the A30 past Kew Gardens, leaving the wedding guests behind them to continue their celebrations without the bride and groom.

  “Well, now you’re stuck with me for life, Percy Wiltshire,” Daphne told her husband.

  “That, I suspect, was ordained by our mothers before we even met,” said Percy. “Silly, really.”

  “Silly?”

  “Yes. I could have stopped all their plotting years ago, by simply telling them that I never wanted to marry anyone else in the first place.”

  Daphne was giving the honeymoon serious thought for the first time when Hoskins brought the Rolls to a halt on the dockside a good two hours before the Mauretania was due even to turn her pistons. With the help of several porters Hoskins unloaded two trunks from the boot of the car—fourteen having been sent down the previous day—while Daphne and Percy headed towards the gangplank where the ship’s purser was awaiting them.

  Just as the purser stepped forward to greet the marquess and his bride someone from the crowd shouted: “Good luck, your lordship! And I’d like to say on behalf of the missus and myself that the marchioness looks a bit of all right.”

  They both turned and burst out laughing when they saw Charlie and Becky, still in their wedding outfits, standing among the crowd.

  The purser guided the four of them up the gangplank and into the Nelson stateroom, where they found yet another bottle of champagne waiting to be opened.

  “How did you manage to get here ahead of us?” asked Daphne.

  “Well,” said Charlie in a broad cockney accent, “we may not ’ave a Rolls-Royce, my lady, but we still managed to overtake ’Oskins in our little two-seater just the other side of Winchester, didn’t we?”


  They all laughed except Becky, who couldn’t take her eyes off the little diamond brooch that looked exquisite on the lapel of Daphne’s suit.

  Three toots on the foghorn, and the purser suggested that the Trumpers might care to leave the ship, assuming it was not their intention to accompany the Wiltshires to New York.

  “See you in a year or so’s time,” shouted Charlie, as he turned to wave at them from the gangplank.

  “By then we will have traveled right round the world, old gel,” Percy confided to his wife.

  Daphne waved. “Yes, and by the time we get back heaven knows what those two will have been up to.”

  COLONEL HAMILTON

  1920–1922

  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 another 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 nonexecutive 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 t
hat 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.