As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  Although Gerald was not directly involved in the Great War he did nevertheless serve his country during those arduous years by allowing his name to be put forward as a parliamentary candidate for Berkshire West, a constituency that in the middle of the last century his grandfather had represented for the Liberals under Palmerston. He was returned unopposed in three elections and worked for his party diligently from the back benches, having made it clear to all concerned that he had no desire to hold office.

  After Guy had received the King’s commission, he was despatched to Aldershot as a second lieutenant, where he continued with his training in preparation for joining the regiment on the Western Front. On being awarded his second pip in less than a year he was transferred to Edinburgh and seconded to the fifth battalion a few weeks before they were ordered to sail for France.

  Nigel, meanwhile, had just entered Harrow and was attempting to follow in his brother’s footsteps—I fear, however, not with quite the same obvious flair. In fact during one of those interminable holidays they will give children nowadays he complained to me of being bullied. I told the boy to buckle down and remember that we were at war. I also pointed out that I could never recall Guy making a fuss on that particular score.

  I watched my two sons closely during that long summer of 1917 and cannot pretend that Guy found Nigel an amiable companion while he was at home on leave; in fact he barely tolerated his company. I kept telling Nigel that he had to strive to gain his elder brother’s respect, but this only resulted in Nigel running off to hide in the garden for hours on end.

  During his leave that summer I advised Guy to visit his grandfather in Yorkshire and even found a first edition of Songs of Innocence to present him with which I knew my father had long wanted to add to his collection. Guy returned a week later and confirmed that securing a William Blake the old man did not have had indeed put Grandpa “in good salts.”

  Naturally, like any mother, during that particular inspiring period in our history I became anxious that Guy should be seen to acquit himself well in the face of the enemy, and eventually, God willing, return home in one piece. As it turned out, I think I can safely say that no mother, however proud, could have asked for more of a son.

  Guy was promoted to the rank of captain at a very young age, and following the second battle of the Marne, was awarded the Military Cross. Others who read the citation felt he had been a touch unlucky not to have been put forward for the VC. I have resisted pointing out to them that any such recommendation would have had to be countersigned by his commanding officer in the field, and as he was a certain Danvers Hamilton the injustice was readily explicable.

  Soon after the Armistice was signed Guy returned home to serve a tour of duty at the regimental barracks in Hounslow. While he was on leave I asked Spinks to engrave both of his MCs, dress and miniature, with the initials G.F.T. Meanwhile, his brother Nigel was, after some influence being exercised by Gerald, finally accepted as a cadet at the Royal Military Academy.

  During the time Guy was back in London, I feel certain he sowed a few wild oats—what young man of that age doesn’t?—but he well understood that marriage before the age of thirty could only harm his chances of promotion.

  Although he brought several young ladies down to Ashurst on the weekends, I knew none of them was serious and anyway, I already had my eye on a particular girl from the next village who had been known to the family for some considerable time. Despite being without a title she could trace her family back to the Norman Conquest. More important, they could walk on their own land from Ashurst to Hastings.

  It thus came as a particularly unpleasant shock for me when Guy turned up one weekend accompanied by a girl called Rebecca Salmon, who, I found it hard to believe, was at that time sharing rooms with the Harcourt-Brownes’ daughter.

  As I have already made abundantly clear, I am not a snob. But Miss Salmon is, I fear, the type of girl who always manages to bring out the worst in me. Don’t misunderstand me. I have nothing against anyone simply because they wish to be educated. In fact I’m basically in favor of such goings-on—in sensible proportions—but at the same time that doesn’t allow one to assume one automatically has a right to a place in society. You see, I just can’t abide anyone who pretends to be something that they obviously are not, and I sensed even before meeting Miss Salmon that she was coming down to Ashurst with one purpose in mind.

  We all understood that Guy was having a fling while he was based in London—after all, Miss Salmon was that type of girl. Indeed, when the following weekend I had Guy to myself for a few moments I was able to warn him never to allow the likes of Miss Salmon to get her hooks into him; he must realize he would be a marvelous catch for someone from her background.

  Guy laughed at such a suggestion and assured me that he had no long-term plans for the baker’s daughter. In any case, he reminded me, he would be departing to serve with the colors in Poona before too long, so marriage was out of the question. He must have sensed, however, that my fears were still not fully assuaged, because after a further thought he added, “It may interest you to know, Mother, that Miss Salmon is presently walking out with a sergeant from the regiment with whom she has an understanding.”

  In fact two weeks later Guy appeared at Ashurst with a Miss Victoria Berkeley, a far more suitable choice whose mother I had known for years; indeed, if the girl hadn’t had four other sisters and an impoverished archdeacon for a father, she might in time have suited admirably.

  To be fair, after that single unfortunate occasion Guy never mentioned the name of Rebecca Salmon in my presence again, and as he sailed for India a few months later, I assumed I had heard the last of the wretched girl.

  When Nigel eventually left Sandhurst he didn’t follow Guy into the regiment, as it had become abundantly clear during his two-year period at the academy that he was not cut out to be a soldier. However, Gerald was able to secure him a position with a firm of stockbrokers in the City where one of his cousins was the senior partner. I have to admit that the reports that filtered back to me from time to time were not encouraging, but once I had mentioned to Gerald’s cousin that I would eventually be needing someone to manage his grandfather’s portfolio, Nigel started to progress slowly up the firm’s ladder.

  It must have been about six months later that Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton dropped Gerald that note through the letter box at 19 Chester Square. The moment Gerald told me that Hamilton wanted a private word with him, I sensed trouble. Over the years I had come in contact with many of Gerald’s brother officers so I knew exactly how to handle them. Gerald, on the other hand, is quite naïve when it comes to matters of a personal nature, invariably giving the other fellow the benefit of the doubt. I immediately checked my husband’s whip commitments in the Commons for the following week and arranged for Sir Danvers to visit us on the Monday evening at six, knowing only too well that, because of his commitments in the House, Gerald would almost certainly have to cancel the meeting at the last moment.

  Gerald phoned soon after five on the day in question to say that he couldn’t possibly get away and suggested the colonel might come on over to the House of Commons. I said I would see what I could do. An hour later Sir Danvers arrived at Chester Square. After I had apologized and explained my husband’s absence I was able to convince him that he should convey his message to me. When the colonel informed me that Miss Salmon was going to have a child I naturally asked of what interest that could possibly be to Gerald or myself. He hesitated only for a moment before suggesting that Guy was the father. I realized immediately that if such a slander was allowed to spread abroad it might even reach the ears of his brother officers in Poona and that could only do immense harm to my son’s chances of further promotion. Any such suggestion I therefore dismissed as ridiculous, along with the colonel in the same breath.

  It was during a rubber of bridge at Celia Littlechild’s house a few weeks later that she let slip that she had employed a private detective called Ha
rris to spy on her first husband, once she was convinced he was being unfaithful. After learning this piece of information I found myself quite unable to concentrate on the game, much to my partner’s annoyance.

  On returning home I looked up the name in the London directory. There he was: “Max Harris, Private Detective—ex-Scotland Yard, all problems considered.” After some minutes staring at the phone, I finally picked up the headpiece and asked the operator to get me Paddington 3720. I waited for several moments before anyone spoke.

  “Harris,” said a gruff voice without further explanation.

  “Is that the detective agency?” I asked, nearly replacing the phone back on the hook before I had given the man a chance to reply.

  “Yes, madam, it is,” said the voice, sounding a little more enthusiastic.

  “I may be in need of your help—for a friend, you understand,” I said, feeling rather embarrassed.

  “A friend,” said the voice. “Yes, of course. Then perhaps we should meet.”

  “But not at your office,” I insisted.

  “I quite understand, madam. Would the St. Agnes Hotel, Bury Street, South Kensington, four o’clock tomorrow afternoon suit?”

  “Yes,” I said and put the phone down, suddenly aware that he didn’t know my name and I didn’t know what he looked like.

  When the following day I arrived at the St. Agnes, a dreadful little place just off the Brompton Road, I walked round the block several times before I finally felt able to enter the lobby. A man of about thirty, perhaps thirty-five was leaning on the reception desk. He straightened up the moment he saw me.

  “Are you looking for a Mr. Harris, by any chance?” he inquired.

  I nodded and he quickly led us through to the tea room and ushered me into a seat in the farthest corner. Once he had sat down in the chair opposite me I began to study him more carefully. He must have been about five foot ten, stocky, with dark brown hair and an even browner moustache. He wore a brown check Harris tweed jacket, cream shirt and thin yellow tie. As I began to explain why I might be in need of his services I became distracted as he started to click the knuckles of his fingers, one by one, first the left hand and then the right. I wanted to get up and leave, and would have done so had I believed for a moment that finding anyone less obnoxious to carry out the task would have proved easy.

  It also took me some considerable time to convince Harris that I was not looking for a divorce. At that first meeting I explained to him as much of my dilemma as I felt able. I was shocked when he demanded the extortionate fee of five shillings an hour just to open his investigation. However, I did not feel I had been left with a great deal of choice in the matter. I agreed that he should start the following day and that we would meet again a week later.

  Mr. Harris’s first report informed me that, in the view of those who spent most of their working hours at a pub in Chelsea called the Musketeer, Charlie Trumper was the father of Rebecca Salmon’s child, and indeed when the suggestion was put to him directly he made no attempt to deny it. As if to prove the point, within days of the child’s birth he and Miss Salmon were married—quietly in a register office.

  Mr. Harris had no trouble in obtaining a copy of the child’s birth certificate. It confirmed that the child, Daniel George Trumper, was the son of Rebecca Salmon and Charlie George Trumper of 147 Chelsea Terrace. I also noted that the child had been named after both his grandparents. In my next letter to Guy I enclosed a copy of the birth certificate along with one or two other little snippets that Harris had supplied, such as details of the wedding and Colonel Hamilton’s appointment as chairman of the Trumper board. I must confess that I assumed that was an end of the matter.

  However, two weeks later I received a letter from Guy: I presume it must have crossed with mine in the post. He explained that Sir Danvers had been in communication with his commanding officer, Colonel Forbes, and because of Forbes’ insistence that there might be a breach-of-promise suit pending Guy had been made to appear in front of a group of his fellow officers to explain the relationship between himself and Miss Salmon.

  I immediately sat down and wrote a long letter to Colonel Forbes—Guy was obviously not in a position to present the full evidence I had managed to secure. I included a further copy of the birth certificate so that he would be left in no doubt that my son could not have possibly been involved with the Salmon girl in any way. I added—without prejudice—that Colonel Hamilton was now employed as chairman of the board of Trumper’s, a position from which he certainly derived some remuneration. The long information sheets now sent to me on a weekly basis by Mr. Harris were, I had to admit, proving of considerable value.

  For some little time matters returned to normal. Gerald busied himself with his parliamentary duties while I concentrated on nothing more demanding than the appointment of the new vicar’s warden and my bridge circle.

  The problem, however, went deeper than I had imagined, for quite by chance I discovered that we were no longer to be included on the guest list for Daphne Harcourt-Browne’s marriage to the Marquess of Wiltshire. Of course, Percy would never have become the twelfth marquess had it not been for his father and brother sacrificing their lives on the Western Front. However, I learned from others who were present at the ceremony that Colonel Hamilton as well as the Trumpers were to be seen at St. Margaret’s, and at the reception afterwards.

  During this period, Mr. Harris continued to supply me with memoranda about the comings and goings of the Trumpers and their growing business empire. I must confess that I had no interest whatsoever in any of their commercial transactions: it was a world that remained totally alien to me but I didn’t stop him going beyond his brief as it gave me a useful insight into Guy’s adversaries.

  A few months later I received a note from Colonel Forbes acknowledging my letter, but otherwise I heard nothing further concerning Guy’s unfortunate misrepresentation. I therefore assumed everything must be back on an even keel and that Colonel Hamilton’s fabrication had been treated with the disdain it merited.

  Then one morning in June the following year, Gerald was called away to the War Office on what he thought at the time must be another routine parliamentary briefing.

  When my husband returned to Chester Square unexpectedly that afternoon he made me sit down and drink a large whisky before he explained that he had some unpleasant news to impart. I had rarely seen him looking so grim as I sat there silently wondering what could possibly be important enough to cause him to return home during the day.

  “Guy has resigned his commission,” announced Gerald tersely. “He will be returning to England just as soon as the necessary paperwork has been completed.”

  “Why?” I asked, quite stunned.

  “No reason was given,” Gerald replied. “I was called to the War Office this morning, and tipped off by Billy Cuthbert, a brother Fusilier. He informed me privately that if Guy hadn’t resigned he would undoubtedly have been cashiered.”

  During the time I waited for Guy’s return to England I went over every snippet of information on the rapidly growing Trumper empire that Mr. Harris was able to supply me with, however minute or seemingly insignificant it seemed at the time. Among the many pages of material that the detective sent, no doubt in order to justify his outrageous fees, I came across one item which I suspected might have been almost as important to the Trumpers as my son’s reputation was to me.

  I carried out all the necessary inquiries myself, and having checked over the property one Sunday morning I phoned Savill’s on the Monday and made a bid of two thousand, five hundred pounds for the property in question. The agent rang back later in the week to say someone else—who I realized had to be Trumper’s—had offered three thousand. “Then bid four thousand,” I told him, before replacing the phone.

  The estate agents were able to confirm later that afternoon that I was in possession of the freehold on 25 to 99 Chelsea Terrace, a block of thirty-eight flats. Trumper’s representative, I was assured, would b
e informed immediately who their next-door neighbor was to be.

  CHAPTER

  23

  Guy Trentham arrived back on the doorstep of 19 Chester Square on a chilly afternoon in September 1922, just after Gibson had cleared away afternoon tea. His mother would never forget the occasion, because when Guy was shown into the drawing room she hardly recognized him. Mrs. Trentham had been writing a letter at her desk when Gibson announced, “Captain Guy.”

  She turned to see her son enter the room and walk straight over to the fireplace where he stood, legs astride, with his back to the coals. His glazed eyes stared in front of him but he didn’t speak.

  Mrs. Trentham was only thankful that her husband was taking part in a debate at the Commons that afternoon and was not expected back until after the ten o’clock vote that night.

  Guy obviously hadn’t shaved for several days. He could also have made excellent use of a scrubbing brush, while the suit he wore was barely recognizable as the one that only three years before had been tailored by Gieves. The disheveled figure stood with his back to the blazing coal fire, his body visibly shivering, as he turned to face his mother. For the first time Mrs. Trentham noticed that her son was holding a brown paper parcel under one arm.

  Although she was not cold, Mrs. Trentham also shuddered. She remained at her desk, feeling no desire to embrace her first born, or be the one who broke the silence between them.

  “What have you been told, Mother?” Guy uttered at last, his voice shaky and uncertain.

  “Nothing of any real substance.” She looked up at him quizzically. “Other than that you have resigned your commission, and that had you not done so you would have been cashiered.”