As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  “That much is true,” he admitted, at last releasing the parcel he had been clutching and placing it on the table beside him. “But only because they conspired against me.”

  “They?”

  “Yes, Colonel Hamilton, Trumper and the girl.”

  “Colonel Forbes preferred the word of Miss Salmon even after I had written to him?” asked Mrs. Trentham icily.

  “Yes—yes, he did. After all, Colonel Hamilton still has a lot of friends in the regiment and some of them were only too happy to carry out his bidding if it meant a rival might be eliminated.”

  She watched him for a moment as he swayed nervously from foot to foot. “But I thought the matter had been finally settled. After all, the birth certificate—”

  “That might have been the case had it been signed by Charlie Trumper as well as the girl, but the certificate only bore the single signature—hers. What made matters worse, Colonel Hamilton advised Miss Salmon to threaten a breach-of-promise suit naming me as the father. Had she done so, of course, despite my being innocent of any charge they could lay at my door, the good name of the regiment would have suffered irredeemably. I therefore felt I’d been left with no choice but to take the honorable course and resign my commission.” His voice became even more bitter. “And all because Trumper feared that the truth might come out.”

  “What are you talking about, Guy?”

  He avoided his mother’s direct gaze as he moved from the fireplace to the drinks cabinet where he poured himself a large whisky. He left the soda syphon untouched and took a long swallow. His mother waited in silence for him to continue.

  “After the second battle of the Marne I was ordered by Colonel Hamilton to set up an inquiry into Trumper’s cowardice in the field,” said Guy as he moved back to the fireplace. “Many thought he should have been court-martialed, but the only other witness, a Private Prescott, was himself killed by a stray bullet when only yards from the safety of our own trenches. I had foolishly allowed myself to lead Prescott and Trumper back towards our lines, and when Prescott fell I looked round to see a smile on Trumper’s face. All he said was, ‘Bad luck, Captain, now you haven’t got your witness, have you?”

  “Did you tell anyone about this at the time?”

  Guy returned to the drinks cabinet to refill his glass. “Who could I tell without Prescott to back me up. The least I could do was to make sure that he was awarded a posthumous Military Medal. Even if it meant letting Trumper off the hook. Later, I discovered Trumper wouldn’t even confirm my version of what had happened on the battlefield, which nearly prevented my being awarded the MC.”

  “And now that he’s succeeded in forcing you to resign your commission, it can only be your word against his.”

  “That would have been the case if Trumper had not made one foolish mistake which could still cause his downfall.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well,” continued Guy, his manner slightly more composed, “while the battle was at its height I came to the rescue of the two men in question. I found them hiding in a bombed-out church. I made the decision to remain there until nightfall, when it was my intention to lead them back to the safety of our own trenches. While we were waiting on the roof for the sun to go down and Trumper was under the impression that I was asleep, I saw him slope off back to the chancery and remove a magnificent picture of the Virgin Mary from behind the altar. I continued to watch him as he placed the little oil in his haversack. I said nothing at the time because I realized that this was the proof I needed of his duplicity; after all, the picture could always be returned to the church at some later date. Once we were back behind our own lines I immediately had Trumper’s equipment searched so I could have him arrested for the theft. But to my surprise it was nowhere to be found.”

  “So how can that be of any use to you now?”

  “Because the picture has subsequently reappeared.”

  “Reappeared?”

  “Yes,” said Guy, his voice rising. “Daphne Harcourt-Browne told me that she had spotted the painting on the drawing room wall in Trumper’s house, and was even able to give me a detailed description of it. There was no doubt in my mind that it was the same portrait of the Virgin Mary and Child that he had earlier stolen from the church.”

  “But there’s little anyone can do about that while the painting is still hanging in his home.”

  “It isn’t any longer. Which is the reason I’m disguised like this.”

  “You must stop talking in riddles,” said his mother. “Explain yourself properly, Guy.”

  “This morning I visited Trumper’s home, and told the housekeeper that I had served alongside her master on the Western Front.”

  “Was that wise, Guy?”

  “I told her my name was Fowler, Corporal Denis Fowler, and I had been trying to get in touch with Charlie for some time. I knew he wasn’t around because I’d seen him go into one of his shops on Chelsea Terrace only a few minutes before. The maid—who stared at me suspiciously—asked if I would wait in the hall while she went upstairs to tell Mrs. Trumper I was there. That gave me easily enough time to slip into the front room and remove the picture from where Daphne had told me it was hanging. I was out of the house even before they could possibly have worked out what I was up to.”

  “But surely they will report the theft to the police and you will be arrested.”

  “Not a chance,” said Guy as he picked up the brown paper parcel from the table and started to unwrap it. “The last thing Trumper will want the police to get their hands on is this.” He passed the picture over to his mother.

  Mrs. Trentham stared at the little oil. “From now on you can leave Mr. Trumper to me,” she said without explanation. Guy smiled for the first time since he had set foot in the house. “However,” she continued, “we must concentrate on the more immediate problem of what we are going to do about your future. I’m still confident I can get you a position in the City. I have already spoken to—”

  “That won’t work, Mother, and you know it. There’s no future for me in England for the time being. Or, at least, not until my name has been cleared. In any case, I don’t want to hang around London explaining to your bridge circle why I’m no longer with the regiment in India. No, I’ll have to go abroad until things have quieted down a little.”

  “Then I’ll need some more time to think,” Guy’s mother replied. “Meanwhile, go up and have a bath and shave, and while you’re at it find yourself some clean clothes and I’ll work out what has to be done.”

  As soon as Guy had left the room Mrs. Trentham returned to her writing desk and locked the little picture in the bottom left-hand drawer. She placed the key in her bag, then began to concentrate on the more immediate problem of what should be done to protect the Trentham name.

  As she stared out of the window a plan began to form in her mind which, although it would require using even more of her dwindling resources, might at least give her the breathing space she required to expose Trumper for the thief and liar he was, and at the same time to exonerate her son.

  Mrs. Trentham reckoned she only had about fifty pounds in cash in the safe deposit box in her bedroom, but she still possessed sixteen thousand of the twenty thousand that her father had settled on her the day she was married. “Always there in case of some unforeseen emergency,” he had told her prophetically.

  Mrs. Trentham took out a piece of writing paper from her drawer and began to make some notes. She was only too aware that once her son left Chester Square that night she might not see him again for some considerable time. Forty minutes later she studied her efforts:

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Guy, looking a little more like the son she remembered. A blazer and cavalry twills had replaced the crumpled suit and the skin although pale was at least clean shaven. Mrs. Trentham folded up the piece of paper, having finally decided on exactly what course of action needed to be taken.

  “Now, sit down and listen carefully,�
� she said.

  Guy Trentham left Chester Square a few minutes after nine o’clock, an hour before his father was due to return from the Commons. He had fifty-three pounds in cash along with a check for five thousand pounds lodged in an inside pocket. He had agreed that he would write to his father the moment he landed in Sydney, explaining why he had traveled direct to Australia. His mother had vowed that while he was away she would do everything in her power to clear her son’s name, so that he might eventually return to England vindicated, and take up his rightful place as head of the family.

  The only two servants who had seen Captain Trentham that evening were instructed by their mistress not to mention his visit to anyone, especially her husband, on pain of losing their positions in the household.

  Mrs. Trentham’s final task before her husband returned home that night was to phone the local police. A Constable Wrigley dealt with the reported theft.

  During those weeks of waiting for her son’s letter to arrive, Mrs. Trentham did not sit around idly. The day after Guy sailed to Australia she made one of her periodic visits to the St. Agnes Hotel, a rewrapped parcel under one arm. She handed over her prize to Mr. Harris before giving him a series of detailed instructions.

  Two days later the detective informed her that the portrait of the Virgin Mary and Child had been left with Bentley’s the pawnbroker, and could not be sold for at least five years, when the date on the pawn ticket would have expired. He handed over a photo of the picture and the receipt to prove it. Mrs. Trentham placed the photo in her handbag but didn’t bother to ask Harris what had become of the five pounds he had been paid for the picture.

  “Good,” she said, placing her handbag by the side of her chair. “In fact highly satisfactory.”

  “So would you like me to point the right man at Scotland Yard in the direction of Bentley’s?” asked Harris.

  “Certainly not,” said Mrs. Trentham. “I need you to carry out a little research on the picture before anyone else will set eyes on it, and then if my information proves correct the next occasion that painting will be seen by the public will be when it comes under the hammer at Sotheby’s.”

  CHAPTER

  24

  “Good morning, madam. I do apologize for having to bother you in this way.”

  “It’s no bother,” said Mrs. Trentham to the police officer whom Gibson had announced as Inspector Richards.

  “It’s not you I was hoping to see actually, Mrs. Trentham,” explained the inspector. “It’s your son, Captain Guy Trentham.”

  “Then you’ll have a very long journey ahead of you, Inspector.”

  “I’m not sure I understand you, madam.”

  “My son,” said Mrs. Trentham, “is taking care of our family interests in Australia, where he is a partner in a large firm of cattle brokers.”

  Richards was unable to hide his surprise. “And how long has he been out there, madam?”

  “For some considerable time, Inspector.”

  “Could you be more precise?”

  “Captain Trentham left England for India in February 1920, to complete his tour of duty with the regiment. He won the MC at the second battle of the Marne, you know.” She nodded towards the mantelpiece. The inspector looked suitably impressed. “Of course,” Mrs. Trentham continued, “it was never his intention to remain in the army, as we had always planned that he would have a spell in the colonies before returning to run our estates in Berkshire.”

  “But did he come back to England before taking up this position in Australia?”

  “Sadly not, Inspector,” said Mrs. Trentham. “Once he had resigned his commission he traveled directly to Australia to take up his new responsibilities. My husband, who as I am sure you know is the Member of Parliament for Berkshire West, would be able to confirm the exact dates for you.”

  “I don’t feel it will be necessary to bother him on this occasion, madam.”

  “And why, may I ask, did you wish to see my son in the first place?”

  “We are following up inquiries concerning the theft of a painting in Chelsea.”

  Mrs. Trentham offered no comment, so the detective continued. “Someone who fits your son’s description was seen in the vicinity wearing an old army greatcoat. We hoped he might therefore be able to help us with our inquiries.”

  “And when was this crime committed?”

  “Last September, madam, and as the painting has not yet been recovered we are still pursuing the matter—” Mrs. Trentham kept her head slightly bowed as she learned this piece of information and continued to listen carefully. “But we are now given to understand that the owner will not be preferring charges, so I expect the file should be closed on this one fairly shortly. This your son?” The inspector pointed to a photograph of Guy in full dress uniform that rested on a side table.

  “It is indeed, Inspector.”

  “Doesn’t exactly fit the description we were given,” said the policeman, looking slightly puzzled. “In any case, as you say, he must have been in Australia at the time. A cast-iron alibi.” The inspector smiled ingratiatingly but Mrs. Trentham’s expression didn’t alter.

  “You’re not suggesting that my son was in any way involved in this theft, are you?” she asked coldly.

  “Certainly not, madam. It’s just that we’ve come across a greatcoat which Gieves, the Savile Row tailors, have confirmed they made for a Captain Trentham. We found an old soldier wearing it who—”

  “Then you must have also found your thief,” said Mrs. Trentham with disdain.

  “Hardly, madam. You see, the gentleman in question has only one leg.”

  Mrs. Trentham still showed no concern. “Then I suggest you ring Chelsea Police Station,” she said, “as I feel sure they will be able to enlighten you further on the matter.”

  “But I’m from Chelsea Police Station myself,” replied the inspector, looking even more puzzled.

  Mrs. Trentham rose from the sofa and walked slowly over to her desk, pulled open a drawer and removed a single sheet of paper. She handed it to the inspector. His face reddened as he began to take in the contents. When he had finished reading the document he passed the piece of paper back.

  “I do apologize, madam. I had no idea that you had reported the loss of the greatcoat the same day. I shall have a word with young Constable Wrigley just as soon as I get back to the station.” Mrs. Trentham showed no reaction to the policeman’s embarrassment. “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time,” he said. “I’ll just show myself out.”

  Mrs. Trentham waited until she heard the door close behind him before picking up the phone and asking for a Paddington number.

  She made only one request of the detective before replacing the receiver.

  Mrs. Trentham knew that Guy must have arrived safely in Australia when her check was cleared by Coutts and Company through a bank in Sydney. The promised letter to his father arrived on the doormat a further six weeks after that. When Gerald imparted to her the contents of the letter, explaining that Guy had joined a firm of cattle brokers, she feigned surprise at her son’s uncharacteristic action, but her husband didn’t seem to show a great deal of interest either way.

  During the following months Harris’ reports continued to show that Trumper’s newly formed company was going from strength to strength, but it still brought a smile to Mrs. Trentham’s lips when she recalled how for a mere four thousand pounds she had stopped Charles Trumper right in his tracks.

  The same smile was not to return to Mrs. Trentham’s face again until she received a letter from Savill’s some time later, presenting her with an opportunity to repeat for Rebecca Trumper the same acute frustration as she had managed in the past for Charlie Trumper, even if this time the cost to herself might be a little higher. She checked her bank balance, satisfied that it would prove more than adequate for the purpose she had in mind.

  Over the years Savill’s had kept Mrs. Trentham well informed of any shops that came up for sale in Chelsea Terrace but she
made no attempt to stop Trumper from purchasing them, reasoning that her possession of the flats would be quite adequate to ruin any long-term plans he might have for the whole Terrace. However, when the details of Number 1 Chelsea Terrace were sent to her she realized that here the circumstances were entirely different. Not only was Number 1 the corner shop, facing as it did towards the Fulham Road, and the largest property on the block, it was also an established if somewhat run-down fine art dealer and auctioneer. It was the obvious outlet for all those years of preparation Mrs. Trumper had put in at Bedford College and more recently at Sotheby’s.

  A letter accompanying the bill of sale asked if Mrs. Trentham wished to be represented at the auction that Mr. Fothergill, the present owner, was proposing to conduct himself.

  She wrote back the same day, thanking Savill’s but explaining that she would prefer to carry out her own bidding and would be further obliged if they could furnish her with an estimate of how much the property might be expected to fetch.

  Savill’s reply contained several ifs and buts, as in their view the property was unique. They also pointed out that they were not qualified to offer an opinion as to the value of the stock. However, they settled on an upper estimate, in the region of four thousand pounds.

  During the following weeks Mrs. Trentham was to be found regularly seated in the back row of Christie’s, silently watching the various auctions as they were conducted. She never nodded or raised a hand herself. She wanted to be certain that when the time came for her to bid she would be thoroughly familiar with the protocol of such occasions.

  On the morning of the sale of Number 1 Chelsea Terrace Mrs. Trentham entered the auctioneer’s wearing a long dark red dress that swept along the ground. She selected a place in the third row and was seated some twenty minutes before the bidding was due to commence. Her eyes never remained still as she watched the different players enter the room and take their places. Mr. Wrexall arrived a few minutes after she had, taking a seat in the middle of the front row. He looked grim but determined. He was exactly as Mr. Harris had described him, mid-forties, heavily built and balding. Being so badly overweight he looked considerably older than his years, she considered. His flesh was swarthy and whenever he lowered his head several more chins appeared. It was then that Mrs. Trentham decided that should she fail to secure Number 1 Chelsea Terrace a meeting with Mr. Wrexall might prove advantageous.