As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  “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, whom 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 returning 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-horse-power 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 o
ff 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.”