As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  Becky looked around the boardroom table, wondering which way the vote would fall. The full board had been working together for three months since Trumper’s had opened its doors to the public, but this was the first major issue on which there had been any real disagreement.

  Charlie sat at the head of the table, looking unusually irritable at the thought of not getting his own way. On his right was the company secretary, Jessica Allen. Jessica did not have a vote but was there to see that whenever a vote occurred it would be faithfully recorded. Arthur Selwyn, who had worked with Charlie at the Ministry of Food during the war, had recently left the civil service to replace Tom Arnold on his retirement as managing director. Selwyn was proving to be an inspired choice, shrewd and thorough, while being the ideal foil to the chairman as he tended to avoid confrontation whenever possible.

  Tim Newman, the company’s young merchant banker, was sociable and friendly and almost always backed Charlie, though he was not averse to giving a contrary view if he felt the company finances might suffer. Paul Merrick, the finance director, was neither sociable nor friendly and continued to make it abundantly clear that his first loyalty would always be to Child’s Bank and its investment. As for Daphne, she rarely voted the way anyone might expect her to, and certainly was no placeman for Charlie—or anyone else, for that matter. Mr. Baverstock, a quiet, elderly solicitor who represented ten percent of the company stock on behalf of Hambros, spoke rarely, but when he did everyone listened, including Daphne.

  Ned Denning and Bob Makins, both of whom had now served Charlie for nearly thirty years, would rarely go against their chairman’s wishes, while Simon Matthews often showed flashes of independence that only confirmed Becky’s initial high opinion of him.

  “The last thing we need at the moment is a strike,” said Merrick. “Just at a time when it looks as if we’ve turned the corner.”

  “But the union’s demands are simply outrageous,” said Tim Newman. “A ten-shilling raise, a forty-four-hour week before overtime becomes automatic—I repeat, they’re outrageous.”

  “Most of the other major stores have already agreed to those terms,” interjected Merrick, consulting an article from the Financial Times that lay in front of him.

  “Chucked the towel in would be nearer the mark,” came back Newman. “I must warn the board that this would add to our wages bill by some twenty thousand pounds for the current year—and that’s even before we start to consider overtime. So there’s only one group of people who will suffer in the long run, and that’s our shareholders.”

  “Just how much does a counter assistant earn nowadays?” asked Mr. Baverstock quietly.

  “Two hundred and sixty pounds a year,” said Arthur Selwyn without having to check. “With incremental raises so that if they have completed fifteen years’ service with the company, the sum could be as high as four hundred and ten pounds a year.”

  “We’ve been over these figures on countless occasions,” said Charlie sharply. “The time has come to decide—do we stand firm or just give in to the union’s demands?”

  “Perhaps we’re all overreacting, Mr. Chairman,” said Daphne, who hadn’t spoken until then. “It may not prove to be quite as black or white as you imagine.”

  “You have an alternative solution?” Charlie made no attempt to hide his incredulity.

  “I might have, Mr. Chairman. First, let’s consider what’s at stake if we do give our staff the raise. An obvious drain on resources, not to mention what the Japanese would call ‘face.’ On the other hand, if we don’t agree to their demands, it’s possible that we might lose some of the better as well as the weaker brethren to one of our main rivals.”

  “So what are you suggesting, Lady Wiltshire?” asked Charlie, who always addressed Daphne by her title whenever he wished to show he didn’t agree with her.

  “Compromise, perhaps,” replied Daphne, refusing to rise. “If Mr. Selwyn considers that to be at all possible at this late stage. Would the trade unions, for example, be willing to contemplate an alternative proposal on wages and hours, drawn up in negotiation with our managing director?”

  “I could always have a word with Don Short, the leader of USDAW, if the board so wishes,” said Arthur Selwyn. “In the past I’ve always found him a decent, fair-minded man and he’s certainly shown a consistent loyalty to Trumper’s over the years.”

  “The managing director dealing direct with the trade union’s representative?” barked Charlie. “Next you’ll want to put him on the board.”

  “Then perhaps Mr. Selwyn should make an informal approach,” said Daphne. “I’m confident he can handle Mr. Short with consummate skill.”

  “I agree with Lady Wiltshire,” said Mr. Baverstock.

  “Then I propose that we allow Mr. Selwyn to negotiate on our behalf,” continued Daphne. “And let’s hope he can find a way of avoiding an all-out strike without actually giving in to everything the unions are demanding.”

  “I’d certainly be willing to have a try,” said Selwyn. “I could report back to the board at our next meeting.”

  Once again Becky admired the way Daphne and Arthur Selwyn between them had defused a time bomb the chairman would have been only too happy to let explode on the boardroom table.

  “Thank you, Arthur,” Charlie said a little begrudgingly. “So be it. Any other business?”

  “Yes,” said Becky. “I would like to bring to the board’s attention a sale of Georgian silver that will be taking place next month. Catalogues will be sent out during the coming week and I do hope any directors who are free on that particular day will try to attend.”

  “How did the last antiques sale work out?” asked Mr. Baverstock.

  Becky checked her file. “The auction raised twenty-four thousand, seven hundred pounds, of which Trumper’s kept seven and a half percent of everything that came under the hammer. Only three items failed to reach their reserve prices, and they were called back in.”

  “I’m only curious about the success of the sale,” said Mr. Baverstock, “because my dear wife purchased a Charles II court cupboard.”

  “One of the finest items in the sale,” said Becky.

  “My wife certainly thought so because she bid far more for the piece than she had intended. I’d be obliged if you didn’t send her a catalogue for the silver sale.”

  The other members of the board laughed.

  “I’ve read somewhere,” said Tim Newman, “that Sotheby’s is considering raising their commision to ten percent.”

  “I know,” said Becky. “That’s exactly why I can’t contemplate the same move for at least another year. If I’m to go on stealing their best customers I must stay competitive in the short term.”

  Newman nodded his understanding.

  “However,” Becky continued, “by remaining at seven and a half percent, my profits for 1950 won’t be as high as I might have hoped. But until the leading sellers are willing to come to us, that’s a problem I’ll continue to face.”

  “What about the buyers?” queried Paul Merrick.

  “They aren’t the problem. If you have the product to sell, the buyers will always beat a path to your door. You see, it’s the sellers that are the life blood of an auction house, and they’re every bit as important as the buyers.”

  “Funny old outfit you’re running,” said Charlie with a grin. “Any other business?”

  As no one spoke, Charlie thanked all the members of the board for their attendance and rose from his place, a signal he always gave to indicate that the meeting was finally over.

  Becky collected her papers and started walking back to the gallery with Simon.

  “Have you completed the estimates on the silver sale yet?” she asked as they jumped into the lift just before the doors closed. She touched the “G” and the lift began its slow journey to the ground floor.

  “Yes. Finished them last night. One hundred and thirty-two items in all. I reckon they might raise somewhere in the region of seven thousand po
unds.”

  “I saw the catalogue for the first time this morning,” said Becky. “It looks to me as if Cathy has done another first-class job. I was only able to pick up one or two minor errors but I’d still like to check over the final proofs before they go back to the printer.”

  “Of course,” said Simon. “I’ll ask her to bring all the loose sheets up to your office this afternoon.” They stepped out of the lift.

  “That girl has turned out to be a real find,” said Becky. “Heaven knows what she was doing working in a hotel before she came to us. I shall certainly miss her when she goes back to Australia.”

  “Rumor has it that she’s thinking of staying.”

  “That’s good news,” said Becky. “I thought she was only hoping to spend a couple of years in London before she returned to Melbourne?”

  “That’s what she had originally planned. However, I may have been able to convince her that she should stay on a little longer.”

  Becky would have asked Simon to explain in greater detail but once they had set foot in the gallery she was quickly surrounded by staff anxious to gain her attention.

  After Becky had dealt with several queries, she asked one of the girls who worked on the counter if she could locate Cathy.

  “She’s not actually around at the moment, Lady Trumper,” the assistant told her. “I saw her go out about an hour ago.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “No idea, I’m sorry.”

  “Well, ask her to come to my office the moment she returns. Meanwhile, could you send up those catalogue proofs for the silver sale?”

  Becky stopped several times on the way back to her room to discuss other gallery problems that had arisen in her absence, so that by the time she sat down at her desk, the proofs for the silver sale were already awaiting her. She began to turn the pages slowly, checking each entry against its photograph and then the detailed description. She had to agree with Becky—Cathy Ross had done a first-class job. She was studying the photograph of the Georgian mustard pot that Charlie had overbid for at Christie’s some years before when there was a knock on the door and a young woman popped her head in.

  “You asked to see me?”

  “Yes. Do come in, Cathy.” Becky looked up at a tall, slim girl with a mass of curly fair hair and a face that hadn’t quite lost all its freckles. She liked to think that her own figure had once been as good as Cathy’s but the bathroom mirror unflatteringly reminded her that she was fast approaching her fiftieth birthday. “I only wanted to check over the final catalogue proofs for the silver sale before they went back to the printer.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t around when you returned from the board meeting,” Cathy said. “It’s just that something came up that worried me. I may be overreacting, but I felt you ought to know about it in any case.”

  Becky took off her glasses, placed them on the desk and looked up intently. “I’m listening.”

  “Do you remember that man who stood up during the Italian auction and caused all that trouble over the Bronzino?”

  “Will I ever forget him?”

  “Well, he was in the gallery again this morning.”

  “Can you be sure?”

  “I’m fairly confident. Well-built, graying hair, a brownish moustache and sallow complexion. He even had the nerve to wear that awful tweed jacket and yellow tie again.”

  “What did he want this time?”

  “I can’t be certain of that, although I kept a close eye on him. He didn’t speak to any member of the staff, but took a great deal of interest in some of the items that were coming up in the silver sale—in particular Lot 19.”

  Becky replaced her glasses and turned the catalogue pages over quickly until she came to the item in question: “A Georgian silver tea set made up of four pieces, teapot, sugar bowl, tea strainer and sugar tongs, hallmarked with an anchor. Becky looked down at the letters “AH” printed in the margin. “Estimated value seventy pounds. One of our better items.”

  “And he obviously agrees with you,” Cathy replied, “because he spent a considerable time studying each individual piece, then made copious notes before he left. He even checked the teapot against a photograph he had brought with him.”

  “Our photograph?”

  “No, he seemed to have one of his own.”

  “Did he now?” said Becky as she rechecked the catalogue photo.

  “And I wasn’t around when you came back from the board meeting because when he left the gallery I decided to follow him.”

  “Quick thinking,” said Becky, smiling. “And where did our mystery man disappear to?”

  “Ended up in Chester Square,” said Cathy. “A large house halfway down on the right-hand side. He dropped a package through the letter box but didn’t go in.”

  “Number 19?”

  “That’s right,” said Cathy, looking surprised. “Do you know the house?”

  “Only from the outside,” said Becky without explanation.

  “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

  “Yes, there is. To start with, can you remember anything about the customer who brought that particular lot in for sale?”

  “Certainly can,” replied Cathy, “because I was called to the front desk to deal with the lady.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Can’t remember her name but she was elderly and rather—genteel is the way I think you would describe her.” Cathy hesitated then continued. “As I remember, she had taken a day trip down from Nottingham. She told me that she’d been left the tea set by her mother. She didn’t want to sell a family heirloom but ‘needs must.’ I remember that expression, because I’d never heard it before.”

  “And what was Mr. Fellowes’ opinion when you showed him the set?”

  “As fine an example of the period as he’d seen come under the hammer—each piece is still in almost mint condition. Peter’s convinced the lot will fetch a good price, as you can see from his estimate.”

  “Then we’d better call in the police straight away,” said Becky. “We don’t need our mystery man standing up again announcing that this particular item has been stolen too.”

  She picked up the telephone on her desk and asked to be put through to Scotland Yard. A few moments later an Inspector Deakins of the CID came on the line and, having listened to the details of what had taken place that morning, agreed to come round to the gallery during the afternoon.

  The inspector arrived a little after three, accompanied by a sergeant. Becky took them both straight through to meet the head of the department. Peter Fellowes pointed to a minute scratch he had come across on a silver salver. Becky frowned. He stopped what he was doing and walked over to the center table where the four-piece tea set was already out on display.

  “Beautiful,” said the inspector as he bent over and checked the hallmark. “Birmingham around 1820 would be my guess.”

  Becky raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s my hobby,” the inspector explained. “That’s probably why I always end up getting these jobs.” He removed a file from the briefcase he was carrying and checked through several photographs along with detailed written descriptions of recently missing pieces of silverware from the London area. An hour later he had to agree with Fellowes: none of them fitted the description of the Georgian tea set.

  “Well, we’ve had nothing else reported as stolen that matches up with this particular lot,” he admitted. “And you’ve polished them so superbly,” he said, turning to Cathy, “that there’s no hope of our identifying any prints.”

  “Sorry,” said Cathy, blushing slightly.

  “No, miss, it’s not your fault, you’ve done a fine job. I only wish my little pieces looked so good. Still, I’d better check with the Nottingham police in case they have something on their files. If they haven’t, I’ll issue a description to all forces throughout the United Kingdom, just in case. And I’ll also ask them to check on Mrs…?”

  “Dawson,” said Cathy.

 
; “Yes, Mrs. Dawson. That may take a little time, of course, but I’ll come back to you the moment I hear anything.”

  “Meanwhile our sale takes place three weeks next Tuesday,” Becky reminded the inspector.

  “Right, I’ll try and give you the all-clear by then,” he promised.

  “Should we leave that page in the catalogue, or would you prefer the pieces to be withdrawn?” asked Cathy.

  “Oh, no, don’t withdraw anything. Please leave the catalogue exactly as it is. You see, someone might recognize the set and then get in touch with us.”

  Someone has already recognized the set, thought Becky.

  “While you’re at it,” continued the inspector, “I’d be obliged if you could give me a copy of the catalogue picture, as well as use of one of the negatives for a day or two.”

  When Charlie was told about the Georgian tea set over dinner that night, his advice was simple: withdraw the pieces from the sale—and promote Cathy.

  “Your first suggestion isn’t quite that easy,” said Becky. “The catalogue is due to be sent out to the general public later this week. What explanation could we possibly give to Mrs. Dawson for removing her dear old mother’s family heirloom?”

  “That it wasn’t her dear old mother’s in the first place and you withdrew it because you’ve every reason to believe that it’s stolen property.”

  “If we did that, we could find ourselves being sued for breach of contract,” said Becky, “when we later discover that Mrs. Dawson’s totally innocent of any such charge. If she then took us to court we wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.”

  “If this Dawson lady is as totally innocent as you think, then why is Mrs. Trentham showing such an interest in her tea set? Because I can’t help feeling she already has one of her own.”

  Becky laughed. “She certainly has. I know, because I’ve even seen it, though I never did get the promised cup of tea.”

  Three days later Inspector Deakins telephoned Becky to let her know that the Nottingham police had no record of anything that had been stolen in their patch fitting the tea set’s description and they were also able to confirm that Mrs. Dawson was not previously known to them. He had therefore sent the details out to every other constabulary in the land. “But,” he added, “outside forces aren’t always that cooperative with the Met when it comes to trading information.”