“Agreed.”
Mrs. Trentham walked shakily towards the writing desk. She sat down, opened the center drawer, and took out two sheets of purple-headed paper. Painstakingly she wrote out separate agreements before passing them over for Daniel to consider. He read through the drafts slowly. She had covered all the points he had demanded and had left nothing out, including the one rather long-winded clause she had herself insisted upon. Daniel nodded his agreement and passed the two pieces of paper back to her.
She signed both copies, then handed Daniel her pen. He in turn added his signature below hers on both sheets of paper. She returned one of the agreements to Daniel before rising to pull the bell rope by the mantelpiece. The butler reappeared a moment later.
“Gibson, we need you to witness our signatures on two documents. Once you have done that the gentleman will be leaving,” she announced. The butler penned his signature on both sheets of paper without question or comment.
A few moments later Daniel found himself out on the street with an uneasy feeling everything hadn’t gone exactly as he had anticipated. Once he was seated in a taxi and on his way back to the Dorchester Hotel he reread the sheet of paper they had both signed. He could not reasonably have asked for more but remained puzzled by the clause Mrs. Trentham had insisted on inserting as it made no sense to him. He pushed any such disquiet to the back of his mind.
On arrival at the Dorchester Hotel, in the privacy of Room 309 he quickly changed out of the uniform and back into his civilian clothes. He felt clean for the first time that day. He then placed the uniform and cap in his suitcase before going back down to reception, where he handed in the key, paid the bill in cash and checked out.
Another taxi returned him to Kensington, where the hairdresser was disappointed to be told that his new customer now wished all signs of the bleach to be removed, the waves to be straightened out and the parting to be switched back.
Daniel’s final stop before returning home was to a deserted building site in Pimlico. He stood behind a large crane and when he was certain no one could see him he dropped the uniform and cap into a rubbish tip and set light to the photograph.
He stood shivering as he watched his father disappear in a purple flame.
MRS. TRENTHAM
1938–1948
CHAPTER
32
“My purpose in inviting you up to Yorkshire this weekend is to let you know exactly what I have planned for you in my will.”
My father was seated behind his desk while I sat in a leather chair facing him, the one my mother had always favored. He had named me “Margaret Ethel” after her but there the resemblance ended as he never stopped reminding me. I watched him as he carefully pressed some tobacco down into the well of his briar pipe, wondering what he could possibly be going to say. He took his time before looking up at me again and announcing, “I have made the decision to leave my entire estate to Daniel Trumper.”
I was so stunned by this revelation that it was several seconds before I could think of an acceptable response.
“But, Father, now that Guy has died surely Nigel must be the legitimate heir?”
“Daniel would have been the legitimate heir if your son had done the honorable thing. Guy should have returned from India and married Miss Salmon the moment he realized she was having his child.”
“But Trumper is Daniel’s father,” I protested. “Indeed, he has always admitted as much. The birth certificate—”
“He has never denied it, I grant you that. But don’t take me for a fool, Ethel. The birth certificate only proves that, unlike my late grandson, Charlie Trumper has some sense of responsibility. In any case, those of us who have watched Guy in his formative years and have also followed Daniel’s progress can be in little doubt about the relationship between the two men.”
I wasn’t certain I had heard my father correctly. “You’ve actually seen Daniel Trumper?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied matter-of-factly, picking up a box of matches from his desk. “I made a point of visiting St. Paul’s on two separate occasions. Once when the boy was performing in a concert I was able to sit and watch him at close quarters for over two hours—he was rather good, actually. And then a year later on Founders’ Day when he was awarded the Newton Mathematics Prize, I shadowed him while he accompanied his parents to afternoon tea in the headmaster’s garden. So I can assure you that not only does he look like Guy, but he’s also inherited some of his late father’s mannerisms.”
“But surely Nigel deserves to be treated as his equal?” I protested, racking my brains to think of some rational response that would make my father reconsider his position.
“Nigel is not his equal and never will be,” replied my father, as he struck a match before beginning that endless sucking that always preceded his attempt to light a pipe. “Don’t let’s fool ourselves, Ethel. We’ve both known for some time that the lad isn’t even worthy of a place on the board of Hardcastle’s, let alone to be considered as my successor.”
While my father puffed energetically at his pipe, I stared blindly at the painting of two horses in a paddock that hung on the wall behind him and tried to collect my thoughts.
“I’m sure you haven’t forgotten, my dear, that Nigel even failed to pass out of Sandhurst, which I’m told takes some doing nowadays. I have also recently been informed that he’s only holding down his present job with Kitcat and Aitken because you led the senior partner to believe that in time they will be administering the Hardcastle portfolio.” He punctuated each statement with a puff from his pipe. “And I can assure you that will not be the case.”
I found myself unable to look straight at him. Instead my eyes wandered from the Stubbs on the wall behind his desk to the row upon row of books he had spent a lifetime collecting. Dickens, every first edition; Henry James, a modern author he admired, and countless Blakes of every description from treasured handwritten letters to memorial editions. Then came the second blow.
“As there isn’t a member of the family who can readily replace me as head of the firm,” he continued, “I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that with war daily becoming more likely I will have to reconsider the future of Hardcastle’s.” The pungent smell of tobacco hung in the air.
“You would never allow the business to fall into anyone else’s hands?” I said in disbelief. “Your father would—”
“My father would have done what was best for all concerned, and no doubt expectant relations would have been fairly low down on his list of priorities.” His pipe refused to stay alight so a second match was brought into play. He gave a few more sucks before a look of satisfaction appeared on his face and he began to speak again. “I’ve sat on the boards of Harrogate Haulage and the Yorkshire Bank for several years, and more recently John Brown Engineering where I think I’ve finally found my successor. Sir John’s son may not be an inspired chairman of the company but he’s capable, and more important, he’s a Yorkshireman. Anyway I have come to the conclusion that a merger with that company will be best for all concerned.”
I was still unable to look directly at my father as I tried to take in all that he was saying.
“They’ve made me a handsome offer for my shares,” he added, “which will in time yield an income for you and Amy that will more than take care of your needs once I’ve gone.”
“But, Father, we both hope you will live for many more years.”
“Don’t bother yourself, Ethel, with trying to flatter an old man who knows death can’t be far away. I may be ancient but I’m not yet senile.”
“Father,” I protested again but he simply returned to the sucking of his pipe, showing total lack of concern at my agitation. So I tried another ploy.
“Does that mean Nigel will receive nothing?”
“Nigel will receive what I consider right and proper in the circumstances.”
“I’m not sure I fully understand you, Father.”
“Then I shall explain. I’ve left him f
ive thousand pounds which after my death he may dispose of in any manner he wishes.” He paused as if considering whether he should add to this piece of information. “I have at least saved you one embarrassment,” he offered at last. “Although, following your death, Daniel Trumper will inherit my entire estate, he won’t learn of his good fortune until his thirtieth birthday, by which time you will be well over seventy and perhaps find it easier to live with my decision.”
Twelve more years, I thought, as a tear fell from my eye and began to run down my cheek.
“You needn’t bother with crying, Ethel, or hysterics, or even reasoned argument for that matter.” He exhaled a long plume of smoke. “I have made up my mind, and nothing you can say or do is going to budge me.”
His pipe was now puffing away like an express train. I removed a handkerchief from my handbag in the hope it would give me a little more time to think.
“And should it cross your mind to try and have the will revoked at some later date, on the grounds of my insanity”—I looked up aghast—“of which you are quite capable, I have had the document drawn up by Mr. Baverstock and witnessed by a retired judge, a Cabinet minister and, perhaps more relevant, a specialist from Sheffield whose chosen subject is mental disorders.”
I was about to protest further when there was a muffled knock on the door and Amy entered the room.
“I do apologize for interrupting you, Papa, but should I have tea served in the drawing room or would you prefer to take it in here?”
My father smiled at his elder daughter. “The drawing room is just fine, my dear,” he said in a far gentler tone than he ever adopted when addressing me. He rose unsteadily from behind his desk, emptied his pipe in the nearest ashtray and, without another word, followed my sister slowly out of the room.
I remained fairly uncommunicative during tea while I tried to think through the implications of all my father had just told me. Amy, on the other hand, prattled happily on about the effect the recent lack of rain was having on the petunias in the flower bed directly under my father’s room. “They don’t catch the sun at any hour of the day,” she confided to us in worried tones as her cat jumped up onto the sofa and settled in her lap. The old tortoise-shell whose name I could never remember had always got on my nerves but I never said as much because I knew Amy loved the creature second only to my father. She began to stroke the animal, obviously unaware of the unease caused by the conversation that had just taken place in the study.
I went to bed early that evening and spent a sleepless night trying to work out what course of action had been left open to me. I confess I hadn’t expected anything substantial from the will for Amy or myself, as we were both women in our sixties and without a great need of any extra income. However, I had always assumed that I would inherit the house and the estate while the company would be left to Guy and, following his death, Nigel.
By the morning I had come to the reluctant conclusion that there was little I could do about my father’s decision. If the will had been drawn up by Mr. Baverstock, his long-serving solicitor and friend, F. E. Smith himself would not have been able to find a loophole. I began to realize that my only hope of securing Nigel’s rightful inheritance would have to involve Daniel Trumper himself.
After all, my father would not live forever.
We sat alone almost unsighted in the darkest corner of the room. He began clicking the knuckles of his right hand one by one.
“Where is it at this moment?” I asked, looking across at a man to whom I had paid thousands of pounds since we had first met almost twenty years ago. He still turned up for our weekly meetings at the St. Agnes wearing what seemed to be the same brown tweed jacket and shiny yellow tie, even if he did appear to have acquired one or two more shirts lately. He put down his whisky, pulled out a brown paper package from under his chair and handed it over to me.
“How much did you have to pay to get it back?”
“Fifty pounds.”
“I told you not to offer him more than twenty pounds without consulting me.”
“I know, but there was a West End dealer nosing around the shop at the time. I just couldn’t risk it, could I?”
I didn’t believe for one moment that it had cost Harris fifty pounds. However, I did accept that he realized how important the picture was to my future plans.
“Would you like me to hand the painting over to the police?” he asked. “I could then drop a hint that perhaps—”
“Certainly not,” I said without hesitation. “The police are far too discreet in these matters. Besides, what I have in mind for Mr. Trumper will be a great deal more humiliating than a private interview in the privacy of Scotland Yard.”
Mr. Harris leaned back in the old leather chair and began clicking the knuckles of his left hand.
“What else do you have to report?”
“Daniel Trumper has taken up his place at Trinity College. He’s to be found on New Court, staircase B, Room 7.”
“That was all in your last report.”
Both of us stopped speaking while an elderly guest selected a magazine from a nearby table.
“Also, he’s started seeing quite a lot of a girl called Marjorie Carpenter. She’s a third-year mathematician from Girton College.”
“Is that so? Well, if it begins to look at all serious let me know at once and you can start a file on her.” I glanced around to be sure no one could overhear our conversation. The clicking began again and I looked back to find Harris staring fixedly at me.
“Is something worrying you?” I asked as I poured myself another cup of tea.
“Well, to be honest with you there is one thing, Mrs. Trentham. I feel the time might have come for me to ask for another small rise in my hourly rate. After all, I’m expected to keep so many secrets”—he hesitated for a moment—“secrets that might…”
“That might what?”
“Prove to be invaluable to other equally interested parties.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Harris?”
“Certainly not, Mrs. Trentham, it’s just that—”
“I’ll say this once and once only, Mr. Harris. If you ever reveal to anyone anything that has passed between us it won’t be an hourly rate that you’ll be worrying about but the length of time you’ll be spending in prison. Because I also have kept a file on you which I suspect some of your former colleagues might well be interested to learn about. Not least the pawning of a stolen picture and the disposal of an army greatcoat after a crime had been committed. Do I make myself clear?”
Harris didn’t reply, just clicked his fingers back into place, one by one.
Some weeks after war was declared I learned that Daniel Trumper had avoided being called up. It transpired that he was now to be found serving behind a desk in Bletchley Park and was therefore unlikely to experience the wrath of the enemy unless a bomb were to land directly on top of him.
As it happened, the Germans did manage to drop a bomb, right in the middle of my flats, destroying them completely. My initial anger at this disaster evaporated when I saw the chaos it left behind in Chelsea Terrace. For several days I gained considerable satisfaction from just standing on the opposite side of the road admiring the Germans’ handiwork.
A few weeks later it was the turn of the Musketeer and Trumper’s greengrocer shop to feel the brunt of the Luftwaffe. The only perceptible outcome of this second bombing was that Charlie Trumper signed up for the Fusiliers the following week. However much I might have desired to see Daniel disposed of by a stray bullet, I still required Charlie Trumper to remain very much alive: it was a more public execution I had in mind for him.
It didn’t require Harris to brief me on Charlie Trumper’s new appointment at the Ministry of Food because it was fully reported in every national paper. However, I made no attempt to take advantage of his prolonged absence as I reasoned there could be little purpose in acquiring further property in the Terrace while war was still being waged, and in any case Harris’ monthl
y reports revealed that Trumper’s was steadily losing money.
Then, when I was least prepared for it, my father died of a heart attack. I immediately dropped everything and hurried off to Yorkshire in order to oversee the arrangements for the burial.
Two days later I led the mourners at the funeral, which was held in Wetherby parish church. As titular head of the family, I was placed on the left-hand end of the front pew with Gerald and Nigel on my right. The service was well attended by family, friends and business associates alike, including the solemn Mr. Baverstock, clutching onto his inevitable Gladstone bag that I noticed he never let out of his sight. Amy, who sat in the row directly behind me, became so distressed during the archdeacon’s address that I don’t believe she would have got through the rest of the day had I not been there to comfort her.
After the mourners had left I decided to stay on in Yorkshire for a few more days while Gerald and Nigel returned to London. Amy spent most of the time in her bedroom, which gave me the chance to look around the house and check if there was anything of real value that could be rescued before I returned to Ashurst. After all, the property would—once the will had been administered—at worst end up being divided between us.
I came across my mother’s jewelry, which had obviously never been touched since her death, and the Stubbs that still hung in my father’s study. I removed the jewelry from my father’s bedroom, and as for the Stubbs, Amy agreed—over a light supper in her room—that for the time being I could hang the painting at Ashurst. The only other item left of any real value, I concluded, was my father’s magnificent library. However, I already had long-term plans for the collection that did not involve the sale of a single book.
On the first of the month I traveled down to London to attend the offices of Baverstock, Dickens and Cobb to be informed officially of the contents of my father’s will.
Mr. Baverstock seemed disappointed that Amy had felt unable to make the journey but accepted the fact that my sister had not yet recovered sufficiently from the shock of my father’s death to contemplate such a trip. Several other relations, most of whom I saw only at christenings, weddings and funerals, sat around looking hopeful. I knew exactly what they could expect.
As the Crow Flies Page 43
