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, thickset 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 confirming 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 duty 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?”
&
nbsp; “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.
As the Crow Flies Page 28
