As Becky put the phone down, she decided to give the green light and send the catalogues out, despite Charlie’s apprehension. They were posted the same day along with invitations to the press and selected customers.
A couple of journalists applied for tickets to the sale. An unusually sensitive Becky checked them out, only to find that both worked for national newspapers, and had covered Trumper’s sales several times in the past.
Simon Matthews considered that Becky was overreacting, while Cathy tended to agree with Sir Charles that the wise course would be to withdraw the tea set from the auction until they had been given the all-clear by Deakins.
“If we’re to withdraw a lot every time that man takes an interest in one of our sales we may as well close our front doors and take up stargazing,” Simon told them.
The Monday before the sale was to take place Inspector Deakins telephoned to ask if he could see Becky urgently. He arrived at the gallery thirty minutes later, again accompanied by his sergeant. This time the only item he removed from his briefcase was a copy of the Aberdeen Evening Express dated 15 October 1949.
Deakins asked to be allowed to inspect the Georgian tea set once more. Becky nodded her agreement and the policeman studied each piece carefully against a photograph that was on an inside page of the newspaper.
“That’s them all right,” he said, after double-checking. He showed Becky the photograph.
Cathy and Peter Fellowes also studied each item while looking carefully at the picture from the newspaper and had to agree with Deakins that the match was perfect.
“This little lot was stolen from the Aberdeen Museum of Silver some three months ago,” the inspector informed them. “The bloody local police didn’t even bother to let us know. No doubt they considered it was none of our business.”
“So what happens now?” asked Becky.
“The Nottingham constabulary have already visited Mrs. Dawson, where they found several other pieces of silver and jewelry hidden around the house. She’s been taken to her local station in order to, as the press would have it, help the police with their inquiries.” He placed the newspaper back in his briefcase. “After I’ve phoned them to confirm my piece of news, I expect that she’ll be charged later today. However, I’m afraid I shall have to take the tea set away with me for processing at Scotland Yard.”
“Of course,” said Becky.
“My sergeant will write out a receipt for you, Lady Trumper, and I’d like to thank you for your cooperation.” The inspector hesitated as he looked lovingly at the tea set. “A month’s salary,” he said with a sigh, “and stolen for all the wrong reasons.” He raised his hat and the two policemen left the gallery.
“So what do we do now?” said Cathy.
“Not much we can do.” Becky sighed. “Carry on with the auction as if nothing had taken place and when the lot comes up, simply announce that the piece has been withdrawn.”
“But then our man will leap up and say, ‘Isn’t this yet another example of advertising stolen goods and then having to withdraw them at the last moment?’ We won’t look so much like an auction house,” said Simon, his voice rising with anger. “More like a pawnbroker. So why don’t we just put three balls outside the front door, and a fence to give a clue as to the class of person we’re hoping to attract?”
Becky didn’t react.
“If you feel so strongly about it, Simon, why not try and turn the whole episode to our advantage?” suggested Cathy.
“What do you mean?” asked Becky as both she and Simon swung round to face the young Australian.
“We must get the press on our side for a change.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.”
“Phone that journalist from the Telegraph—what was his name? Barker—and give him the inside story.”
“What good would that do?” asked Becky.
“He’ll have our version of what happened this time, and he’ll be only too pleased to be the one journalist on the inside, especially after that fiasco with the Bronzino.”
“Do you think he’d be at all interested in a silver set worth seventy pounds?”
“With a Scottish museum involved and a professional fence arrested in Nottingham? He’ll be interested all right. Especially if we don’t tell anyone else.”
“Would you like to handle Mr. Barker yourself, Cathy?” Becky asked.
“Just give me the chance.”
The following morning, the Daily Telegraph had a small but prominent piece on page three reporting that Trumper’s, the fine art auctioneers, had called in the police after they had become suspicious about the ownership of a Georgian tea set that was later discovered to have been stolen from the Aberdeen Museum of Silver. The Nottingham police had since arrested a woman whom they later charged with handling stolen goods. The article went on to say that Inspector Deakins of Scotland Yard had told the Telegraph: “We only wish every auction house and gallery in London were as conscientious as Trumper’s.”
The sale that afternoon was well attended, and despite losing one of the centerpieces of the auction Trumper’s still managed to exceed several of the estimates. The man in the tweed coat and yellow tie didn’t make an appearance.
When Charlie read the Telegraph in bed that night he remarked, “So you didn’t take my advice?”
“Yes and no,” said Becky. “I admit I didn’t withdraw the tea set immediately, but I did promote Cathy.”
CHAPTER
37
On 9 November 1950 Trumper’s held their second annual general meeting.
The directors met at ten o’clock in the boardroom so that Arthur Selwyn could take them slowly through the procedure he intended to follow once they faced the shareholders.
At eleven o’clock sharp he guided the chairman and the eight directors out of the boardroom and into the main hall as if they were school children being led in a crocodile on their way to morning assembly.
Charlie introduced each member of the board to the assembled gathering, who numbered around one hundred and twenty—a respectable turnout for such an occasion, Tim Newman whispered in Becky’s ear. Charlie went through the agenda without a prompt from his managing director and was only asked one awkward question. “Why have your costs gone so much over budget in the first full year of trading?”
Arthur Selwyn rose to explain that the expense of the building had exceeded their original estimate and that the launching had incurred certain one-off costs which would not arise again. He also pointed out that, strictly on a trading basis, Trumper’s had managed to break even in the first quarter of their second year. He added that he remained confident about the year ahead, especially with the anticipated rise in the number of tourists who would be attracted to London by the Festival of Britain. However, he warned shareholders it might be necessary for the company to raise even more capital, if they hoped to increase their facilities.
When Charlie declared the AGM closed he remained seated because the board received a small ovation, which quite took the chairman by surprise.
Becky was about to return to Number 1 and continue with her work on an Impressionist sale she had planned for the spring when Mr. Baverstock came over and touched her gently on the elbow.
“May I have a word with you in private, Lady Trumper?”
“Of course, Mr. Baverstock.” Becky looked around for a quiet spot where they could talk.
“I feel that perhaps my office in High Holborn would be more appropriate,” he suggested. “You see, it’s a rather delicate matter. Would tomorrow, three o’clock suit you?”
Daniel had phoned from Cambridge that morning and Becky couldn’t remember when she had heard him sounding so chatty and full of news. She, on the other hand, was not chatty or full of news: she still hadn’t been able to fathom why the senior partner of Baverstock, Dickens and Cobb should want to see her on “a rather delicate matter.”
She couldn’t believe that Mr. Baverstock’s wife wanted to retur
n the Charles II court cupboard or required more details on the forthcoming Impressionist sale, but as in her case anxiety always ruled over optimism, Becky spent the next twenty-six hours fearing the worst.
She didn’t burden Charlie with her troubles, because the little she did know of Mr. Baverstock made her certain that if her husband were involved the lawyer would have asked to see them both. In any case, Charlie had quite enough problems of his own to deal with without being weighed down with hers.
Becky couldn’t manage any lunch and arrived at the solicitor’s office a few minutes before the appointed hour. She was ushered straight through to Mr. Baverstock’s rooms.
She was greeted with a warm smile by her fellow director, as if she were some minor relation of his large family. He offered her the seat opposite his on the other side of a large mahogany desk.
Mr. Baverstock, Becky decided, must have been about fifty-five, perhaps sixty, with a round, friendly face and the few strands of gray hair that were left were parted neatly down the center. His dark jacket, waistcoat, gray striped trousers and black tie could have been worn by any solicitor who practiced within five square miles of the building in which they now sat. Having returned to his own chair he began to study the pile of documents that lay in front of him before removing his half-moon spectacles.
“Lady Trumper,” he began. “It’s most kind of you to come and see me.” In the two years they had known each other he had never once addressed her by her Christian name.
“I shall,” he continued, “come straight to the point. One of my clients was the late Sir Raymond Hardcastle.” Becky wondered why he had never mentioned this fact before and was about to protest when Mr. Baverstock quickly added, “But I hasten to say that Mrs. Gerald Trentham is not and never has been a client of this firm.”
Becky made no effort to disguise her relief.
“I must also let you know that I had the privilege of serving Sir Raymond for over thirty years and indeed considered myself not only to be his legal adviser but towards the end of his life a close friend. I tell you this as background information, Lady Trumper, for you may feel such facts are relevant when you’ve heard all that I have to say.”
Becky nodded, still waiting for Mr. Baverstock to get to the point.
“Some years before he died,” continued the solicitor, “Sir Raymond drew up a will. In it he divided the income from his estate between his two daughters—an income, I might add, that has grown considerably since his death, thanks to some prudent investment on his behalf. The elder of his daughters was Miss Amy Hardcastle, and the younger, as I feel sure you know, Mrs. Gerald Trentham. The income from the estate has been sufficient to give both these ladies a standard of living equal to, if not considerably higher than, the one to which they had grown accustomed before his death. However—”
Will dear Mr. Baverstock ever get to the point? Becky was beginning to wonder.
“—Sir Raymond decided, in his wisdom, that the share capital should remain intact, after he allowed the firm that his father had founded and he had built up so successfully to merge with one of his greatest rivals. You see, Lady Trumper, Sir Raymond felt there was no member of the family who could obviously fill his shoes as the next chairman of Hardcastle’s. Neither of his two daughters, or his grandsons for that matter—of whom I shall have more to say in a moment—did he consider competent to run a public company.”
The solicitor removed his glasses, cleaned them with a handkerchief which he took out of his top pocket and peered through the lenses critically before returning to the task at hand.
“Sir Raymond, you see, had no illusions about his immediate kith and kin. His elder daughter, Amy, was a gentle, shy lady who nursed her father valiantly through his final years. When Sir Raymond died she moved out of the family house into a small seaside hotel where she resided until her death last year.
“His younger daughter, Ethel Trentham—” he continued. “Let me put this as delicately as I can—Sir Raymond considered she had perhaps lost touch with reality and certainly no longer acknowledged any attachment to her past. Anyway, I know it particularly saddened the old man not to have produced a son of his own, so when Guy was born his hopes for the future became focused on the young grandson. From that day he lavished everything on him. Later he was to blame himself for the boy’s eventual downfall. He did not make the same mistake when Nigel was born, a child for whom he had neither affection nor respect.
“However, this firm was instructed to keep Sir Raymond briefed at all times with any information that came into our hands concerning members of his immediate family. Thus when Captain Trentham resigned his commission in 1922, somewhat abruptly, we were asked to try to find out the real cause behind his leaving the colors. Sir Raymond certainly did not accept his daughter’s story about an appointment as a partner with an Australian cattle broker, and indeed at one stage was sufficiently concerned that he even contemplated sending me to that continent to find out the real story. Then Guy died.”
Becky sat in her chair wanting to wind Mr. Baverstock up like a gramophone and set him going well above 78 rpm, but she had already come to the conclusion that nothing she said was going to accelerate him along the track he had set himself.
“The result of our investigations,” continued Baverstock, “led us to believe—and at this point, Lady Trumper, I must apologize for any indelicacy, for I do not intend to offend—that Guy Trentham and not Charles Trumper was the father of your child.”
Becky bowed her head and Mr. Baverstock apologized once again before he continued.
“Sir Raymond, however, needed to be convinced that Daniel was his great-grandson, and to that end he made two separate visits to St. Paul’s after the boy had won a scholarship to that school.”
Becky stared at the old lawyer.
“On the first occasion he watched the boy perform in a school concert—Brahms, if I remember correctly—and on a second saw Daniel receive the Newton Prize for Mathematics from the High Master on Founders’ Day. I believe you were also present on that occasion. On both visits Sir Raymond went out of his way to be sure that the boy was unaware of his presence. After the second visit, Sir Raymond was totally convinced that Daniel was his great-grandchild. I’m afraid all the men in that family are stuck with that Hardcastle jaw, not to mention a tendency to sway from foot to foot when agitated. Sir Raymond accordingly altered his will the following day.”
The solicitor picked up a document bound in a pink ribbon which lay on his desk. He untied the ribbon slowly. “I was instructed, madam, to read the relevant clauses of his will to you at a time I considered appropriate but not until shortly before the boy celebrates his thirtieth birthday. Daniel will be thirty next month, if I am not mistaken.”
Becky nodded.
Baverstock acknowledged the nod and slowly unfolded the stiff sheets of parchment.
“I have already explained to you the arrangements concerning the disposal of Sir Raymond’s estate. However, since Miss Amy’s death Mrs. Trentham has had the full benefit of any interest earned from the Trust, now amounting to some forty thousand pounds a year. At no time to my knowledge did Sir Raymond make any provision for his elder grandson, Mr. Guy Trentham, but since he is now deceased that has become irrelevant. Subsequently he made a small settlement on his other grandson, Mr. Nigel Trentham.” He paused. “And now I must quote Sir Raymond’s exact words,” he said, looking down at the will. He cleared his throat before continuing.
“‘After all other commitments have been honored and bills paid, I leave the residue of my messuage and estate to Mr. Daniel Trumper of Trinity College, Cambridge, the full benefit of which will come into his possession on the death of his grandmother, Mrs. Gerald Trentham.’”
Now that the lawyer had at last come to the point Becky was stunned into silence. Mr. Baverstock paused for a moment in case Becky wished to say something, but as she suspected that there was still more to be revealed she remained silent. The lawyer’s eyes returned to t
he papers in front of him.
“I feel I should add at this point that I am aware—as indeed Sir Raymond was—of the treatment you have suffered at the hands both of his grandson and his daughter, so I must also let you know that although this bequest to your son will be considerable, it does not include the farm at Ashurst in Berkshire or the house in Chester Square. Both properties, since the death of her husband, are now owned by Mrs. Gerald Trentham. Nor does it include—and I suspect this is of more importance to you—the vacant land in the center of Chelsea Terrace, which forms no part of Sir Raymond’s estate. However, everything else he controlled will eventually be inherited by Daniel, although, as I explained, not until Mrs. Trentham has herself passed away.”
“Is she aware of all this?”
“Indeed, Mrs. Trentham was made fully conversant with the provisions in her father’s will sometime before his death. She even took advice as to whether the new clauses inserted after Sir Raymond’s visits to St. Paul’s could be contested.”
“Did that result in any legal action?”
“No. On the contrary, she quite suddenly, and I must confess inexplicably, instructed her lawyers to withdraw any objections. But whatever the outcome, Sir Raymond stipulated most clearly that the capital could never be used or controlled by either of his daughters. That was to be the privilege of his next of kin.”
Mr. Baverstock paused and placed both palms down on the blotting paper in front of him.
“Now I will finally have to tell him,” murmured Becky under her breath.
“I feel that may well be the case, Lady Trumper. Indeed, the purpose of this meeting was to brief you fully. Sir Raymond was never quite sure if you had informed Daniel who his father was.”
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