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 Child.”
“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 returned 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.”
CHARLIE
1919–1926
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.
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