Despite this setback she continued to invite the partners of Kitcat to dinner at Chester Square in regular rotation. Gerald left his wife in no doubt that he did not approve of such tactics, and remained unconvinced that they helped their son’s cause. He had been, however, aware that his opinion in such matters had made little impression on her for some time. In any case, the major had now reached an age when he had become too weary to put up more than token resistance.
After Mrs. Trentham had studied the finer details of the Trumper’s proposals in her husband’s copy of The Times, she instructed Nigel to apply for five percent of the company’s shares the moment the prospectus was launched.
However, it was a paragraph towards the end of an article in the Daily Mail, written by Vincent Mulcrone and headed “The Triumphant Trumpers,” that reminded her that she was still in possession of a picture that needed to fetch its proper price.
Whenever Mr. Baverstock requested a meeting with Mrs. Trentham it always seemed to her to be more of a summons than an invitation. Perhaps it was because he had acted for her father for over thirty years.
She was only too aware that, as her father’s executor, Mr. Baverstock still wielded considerable influence, even if she had managed to clip his wings recently over the sale of the estate.
Having offered her the seat on the other side of the partner’s desk Mr. Baverstock returned to his own chair, replaced his half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and opened the cover of one of his inevitable gray files.
He seemed to conduct all his correspondence, not to mention his meetings, in a manner that could only be described as distant. Mrs. Trentham often wondered if he had treated her father in the same way.
“Mrs. Trentham,” he began, placing the palms of his hands on the desk in front of him and pausing to stare down at the notes he had written the previous evening. “May I first thank you for taking the trouble to come and see me in my offices and add how sad I am that your sister felt she had to once again decline my invitation. However, she has made it clear to me in a short letter I received last week that she is happy for you to represent her on this and indeed on any future occasion.”
“Dear Amy,” said Mrs. Tremham. “The poor creature took the death of my father rather badly, even though I have done everything in my power to soften the blow.”
The solicitor’s eyes returned to the file which contained a note from a Mr. Althwaite of Bird, Collingwood and Althwaite in Harrogate, instructing them to see that in future Miss Amy’s monthly check should be sent direct to Coutts in the Strand for an account number that differed by only one digit from that to which Mr. Baverstock already sent the other half of the monthly revenue.
“Although your father left you and your sister the income derived from his Trust,” the solicitor continued, “the bulk of his capital will, as you know, in time be passed on to Dr. Daniel Trumper.”
Mrs. Trentham nodded, her face impassive.
“As you are also aware,” Mr. Baverstock continued, “the Trust is currently holding stocks, shares and gilts that are being administered for us by the merchant bankers Hambros and Company. Whenever they consider it prudent to make a sizable investment on behalf of the Trust, we feel it equally important to keep you informed of their intentions, despite the fact that Sir Raymond gave us a free hand in these matters.”
“That’s most considerate of you, Mr. Baverstock.”
The solicitor’s eyes returned to the file where he studied another note. This time it was from an estate agent in Bradford. The estate, house and contents of the late Sir Raymond Hardcastle had without his knowledge been sold for forty-one thousand pounds. After deducting commissions and legal fees, the agent had sent the balance of the monies direct to the same account at Coutts in the Strand as received Miss Amy’s monthly payment.
“Bearing this in mind,” continued the family lawyer, “I felt it nothing less than my duty to inform you that our advisers are recommending a considerable investment in a new company that is about to come onto the market.”
“And which company might that be?” inquired Mrs. Trentham.
“Trumper’s,” said Baverstock, watching carefully for his client’s reaction.
“And why Trumper’s in particular?” she asked, the expression on her face revealing no particular surprise.
“Principally because Hambros consider it a sound and prudent investment. But, perhaps more important, in time the bulk of the company’s stock will be owned by Daniel Trumper, whose father, as I feel sure you know, is currently chairman of the board.”
“I was aware of that,” said Mrs. Trentham, without further comment. She could see that it worried Mr. Baverstock that she took the news so calmly.
“Of course, if you and your sister were both to object strongly to such a large commitment being made by the Trust it is possible our advisers might reconsider their position.”
“And how much are they thinking of investing?”
“Around two hundred thousand pounds,” the solicitor informed her. “This would make it possible for the Trust to purchase approximately ten percent of the shares that are on offer.”
“Is that not a considerable stake for us to be holding in one company?”
“It certainly is,” said Mr. Baverstock. “But still well within the Trust’s budget.”
“Then I am happy to accept Hambros’ judgment,” said Mrs. Trentham. “And I feel sure I speak for my sister in this matter.”
Once again Mr. Baverstock looked down at the file where he studied an affidavit signed by Miss Amy Hardcastle, virtually giving her sister carte blanche when it came to decisions relating to the estate of the late Sir Raymond Hardcastle, including the transfer of twenty thousand pounds from her personal account. Mr. Baverstock only hoped that Miss Amy was happy at the Cliff Top Residential Hotel. He looked up at Sir Raymond’s other daughter.
“Then all that is left for me to do,” he concluded, “is to advise Hambros of your views in this matter and brief you more fully when Trumper’s eventually allocates their shares.”
The solicitor closed the file, rose from behind his desk and began to walk towards the door. Mrs. Trentham followed in his wake, happy in the knowledge that both the Hardcastle Trust and her own advisers were now working in tandem to help her fulfill her long-term purpose without either side being aware of what she was up to. It pleased her even more to think that the day Trumper’s went public she would have control of fifteen percent of the company.
When they reached the door Mr. Baverstock turned to shake Mrs. Trentham’s hand.
“Good day, Mrs. Trentham.”
“Good day, Mr. Baverstock. You have been most punctilious, as always.”
She made her way back to the car where a chauffeur held open the back door for her. As she was driven away she turned to look out of the rear window. The lawyer was standing by the door of his offices, the worried expression remaining on his face.
“Where to, madam?” asked the chauffeur as they joined the afternoon traffic.
She checked her watch: the meeting with Baverstock had not taken as long as she had anticipated and she now found herself with some spare time before her next appointment. Nevertheless she still gave the instruction. “The St. Agnes Hotel,” as she placed a hand on the brown paper parcel that lay on the seat beside her.
She had told Harris to book a private room in the hotel and slip Kitty Bennett up in the lift at a time when he felt confident that no one was watching them.
When she arrived at the St. Agnes clutching the parcel under one arm, she was annoyed to find that Harris was not waiting for her in his usual place by the bar. She intensely disliked standing alone in the corridor and reluctantly went over to the hall porter to ask the number of the room Harris had booked.
“Fourteen,” said a man in a shiny blue uniform with buttons that did not shine. “But you can’t—”
Mrs. Trentham was not in the habit of being told “You can’t” by anyone. She turned and slow
ly climbed the stairs that led up to the bedrooms on the first floor. The hall porter quickly picked up the phone on the counter beside him.
It took Mrs. Trentham a few minutes to locate Room 14 and Harris almost as long to respond to her sharp knock. When Mrs. Trentham was eventually allowed to enter the room she was surprised to discover how small it was: only just large enough to accommodate one bed, one chair and a washbasin. Her eyes settled on the woman who was sprawled across the bed. She was wearing a red silk blouse and a black leather skirt—far too short in Mrs. Trentham’s opinion, not to mention the fact that two of the top buttons of the blouse were undone.
As Kitty made no attempt to remove an old raincoat that had been thrown across the chair, Mrs. Trentham was left with little choice but to remain standing.
She turned to Harris, who was checking his tie in the only mirror. He had obviously decided that any introduction was superfluous.
Mrs. Trentham’s only reaction was to get on with the business she had come to transact so that she could return to civilization as quickly as possible. She didn’t wait for Harris to start the proceedings.
“Have you explained to Mrs. Bennett what is expected of her?”
“I most certainly have,” said the detective, as he put on his jacket. “And Kitty is more than ready to carry out her part of the bargain.”
“Can she be trusted?” Mrs. Trentham glanced doubtfully down at the woman on the bed.
“’Course I can, long as the money’s right,” were Kitty’s first words. “All I want to know is, ’ow much do I get?”
“Whatever it sells for, plus fifty pounds,” said Mrs. Trentham.
“Then I expect twenty quid up front.”
Mrs. Trentham hesitated for a moment, then nodded her agreement.
“So what’s the catch?”
“Only that your brother will try to talk you out of the whole idea,” said Mrs. Trentham. “He may even attempt to bribe you in exchange for—”
“Not an ’ope,” said Kitty. “’E can talk ’is ’ead off as far as I’m concerned but it won’t make a blind bit of difference. You see, I ’ate Charlie almost as much as you do.”
Mrs. Trentham smiled for the first time. She then placed the brown paper parcel on the end of the bed.
Harris smirked. “I knew you two would find you had something in common.”
BECKY
1947–1950
CHAPTER
35
Night after night I would lie awake worrying that Daniel must eventually work out that Charlie wasn’t his father.
Whenever they stood next to each other, Daniel tall and slim, with fair wavy hair and deep blue eyes, Charlie at least three inches shorter, stocky, with dark wiry hair and brown eyes, I assumed Daniel must in time comment on the disparity. It didn’t help that my complexion is also dark. The dissimilarities might have been comic had the implications not been so serious. Yet Daniel has never once mentioned the differences in physical makeup or character between himself and Charlie.
Charlie wanted to tell Daniel the truth about Guy right from the start, but I convinced him that we should wait until the boy was old enough to understand all the implications. But when Guy died of tuberculosis there no longer seemed any point in burdening Daniel with the past.
Later, after years of anguish and Charlie’s continued remonstrations, I finally agreed to tell Daniel everything. I phoned him at Trinity the week before he was due to sail for America and asked if I could drive him down to Southampton; that way at least I knew we would be uninterrupted for several hours. I mentioned that there was something important I needed to discuss with him.
I set out for Cambridge a little earlier than was necessary and arrived well in time to help Daniel with his packing. By eleven we were heading down the A30. For the first hour he chatted away happily enough about his work at Cambridge—too many students, not enough time for research—but the moment the conversation switched to the problems we were facing with the flats, I knew he had presented me with the ideal opportunity to tell him the truth about his parentage. Then quite suddenly he changed the subject and I lost my nerve. I swear I would have broached the topic right there and then, but the moment had passed.
Because of all the unhappiness we subsequently experienced with the death of my mother and with the life of Mrs. Trentham while Daniel was away in America, I decided my best chance of ever being frank with my son had been squandered. I begged Charlie to allow the matter to drop once and for all. I have a fine husband. He told me I was wrong; that Daniel was mature enough to handle the truth, but he accepted that it had to be my decision. He never once referred to the matter again.
When Daniel returned from America I traveled back down to Southampton to pick him up. I don’t know what it was about him but he seemed to have changed. For a start he looked different—more at ease—and the moment he saw me gave me a big hug, which quite took me by surprise. On the way back to London he discussed his visit to the States, which he had obviously enjoyed, and without going into great detail I brought him up to date on what was happening to our planning application for Chelsea Terrace. He didn’t seem all that interested in my news, but to be fair Charlie never involved Daniel in the day-to-day working of Trumper’s once we both realized he was destined for an academic career.
Daniel spent the next two weeks with us before returning to Cambridge, and even Charlie, not always the most observant of people, commented on how much he had changed. He was just as serious and quiet, even as secretive, but he was so much warmer towards us both that I began to wonder if he had met a girl while he had been away. I hoped so, but despite the odd hint clumsily dropped, Daniel made no mention of anyone in particular. I rather liked the idea of him marrying an American. He had rarely brought girls home in the past and always seemed so shy when we introduced him to the daughters of any of our friends. In fact he was never to be found if Clarissa Wiltshire put in an appearance—which was quite often nowadays, as during their vacations from Bristol University both the twins were to be found working behind the counter at Number 1.
It must have been about a month after Daniel returned from America that Charlie told me Mrs. Trentham had withdrawn all her objections to our proposed scheme for joining the two tower blocks together. I leaped with joy. When he added that she was not going ahead with her own plans to rebuild the flats I refused to believe him and immediately assumed that there had to be some catch. Even Charlie admitted, “I’ve no idea what she’s up to this time.” Certainly neither of us accepted Daphne’s theory that she might be mellowing in her old age.
Two weeks later the LCC confirmed that all objections to our scheme had been withdrawn and we could begin on our building program. That was the signal Charlie had been waiting for to inform the outside world that we intended to go public.
Charlie called a board meeting so that all the necessary resolutions could be passed.
Mr. Merrick, whom Charlie had never forgiven for causing him to sell the van Gogh, advised us to appoint Robert Fleming to be our merchant bankers in the runup to the flotation. The banker also added that he hoped the newly formed company would continue to use Child and Company as their clearing bank. Charlie would have liked to have told him to get lost but knew only too well that if he changed banks a few weeks before going public, eyebrows would be raised in the City. The board accepted both pieces of advice, and Tim Newman of Robert Fleming’s was duly invited to join the board. Tim brought a breath of fresh air to the company, representing a new breed of bankers. However, although I, like Charlie, immediately took to Mr. Newman I never really got on the same wavelength as Paul Merrick.
As the day for issuing the tender documents drew nearer, Charlie spent more and more of his time with the merchant banker. Meanwhile Tom Arnold took overall control of the running of the shops, as well as overseeing the building program—with the exception of Number 1, which still remained my domain.
I had decided several months before the final announcement tha
t I wanted to mount a major sale at the auction house just before Charlie’s declaration of going public, and I was confident that the Italian collection to which I had been devoting a great deal of my time would prove to be the ideal opportunity to place Number 1 Chelsea Terrace on the map.
It had taken my chief researcher Francis Lawson nearly two years to gather some fifty-nine canvases together, all painted between 1519 and 1768. Our biggest coup was a Canaletto—The Basilica of St. Mark’s—a painting that had been left to Daphne by an old aunt of hers from Cumberland. “It isn’t,” she characteristically told us, “as good as the two Percy already has in Lanarkshire. However, I still expect the painting to fetch a fair price, my darling. Failure will only result in offering any future custom to Sotheby’s,” she added with a smile.
We placed a reserve on the painting of thirty thousand pounds. I had suggested to Daphne that this was a sensible figure, remembering that the record for a Canaletto was thirty-eight thousand pounds, bid at Christie’s the previous year.
While I was in the final throes of preparation for the sale Charlie and Tim Newman spent most of their time visiting institutions, banks, finance companies and major investors, to brief them on why they should take a stake in the “biggest barrow in the world.”
Tim was optimistic about the outcome and felt that when the stock applications came to be counted we would be heavily oversubscribed. Even so, he thought that he and Charlie should travel to New York and drum up some interest among American investors. Charlie timed his trip to the States so that he would be back in London a couple of days before my auction was to take place and a clear three weeks before our tender document was to be offered to the public.
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