As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Could be ex-directory,” the girl behind the counter explained. “Which means they won’t take your call in any case.”

  “Or there just isn’t a Trentham living in london,” I said, and accepted that the regimental museum was now my only hope.

  I thought I had worked hard at the University of Melbourne, but the hours they expected us to do at the Melrose would have brought a combat soldier to his knees. All the same, I was damned if I was going to admit as much, especially after Pam and Maureen gave up the struggle within a month, cabled their parents in Sydney for some money and returned to Australia on the first available boat. At least it meant I ended up with a room to myself until the next boatload arrived. To be honest I wish I could have packed up and gone home with them, but I hadn’t anyone in Australia to whom I could cable back for more than about ten pounds.

  The first full day I had off and wasn’t totally exhausted, I took a train to Hounslow. When I left the station the ticket collector directed me to the Royal Fusiliers’ Depot, where the museum was situated now. After walking about a mile I eventually reached the building I was looking for. It seemed to be uninhabited except for a single receptionist. He was dressed in khaki uniform, with three stripes on both arms. He sat dozing behind a counter. I walked noisily over and pretended not to wake him.

  “Can I ’elp you, young lady?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “I hope so.”

  “Australian?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “I fought alongside your chaps in North Africa,” he explained. “Damned great bunch of soldiers, I can tell you. So ’ow can I help you, miss?”

  “I wrote to you from Melbourne,” I said, producing a handwritten copy of the letter. “About the holder of this medal.” I slipped the piece of string over my head and handed my prize to him. “His name was Guy Francis Trentham.”

  “Miniature MC,” said the sergeant without hesitation as he held the medal in his hand. “Guy Francis Trentham, you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Good. So let’s look ’im up in the great book, 1914–1918, yes?”

  I nodded.

  He went over to a massive bookshelf weighed down by heavy volumes and removed a large leather-bound book. He placed it on the counter with a thud, sending dust in every direction. On the cover were the words, printed in gold, “Royal Fusiliers, Decorations, 1914–1918”.

  “Let’s have a butcher’s, then,” he said as he started to flick through the pages. I waited impatiently. “There’s our man,” he announced triumphantly. “Guy Francis Trentham, Captain.” He swung the book round so that I could study the entry more carefully. I was so excited it was several moments before I could take the words in.

  Captain Trentham’s citation went on for twenty-two lines and I asked if I might be allowed to copy out the details in full.

  “Of course, miss,” he said. “Be my guest.” He handed over a large sheet of ruled paper and a blunt army-issue pencil. I began to write:

  Having written out every word of the citation in my neatest hand, I closed the heavy cover and turned the book back round to face the sergeant.

  “Trentham,” he said. “If I remember correctly, miss, ’e still ’as ’is picture up on the wall.” The sergeant picked up some crutches, maneuvered himself from behind the counter and limped slowly to the far corner of the museum. I hadn’t realized until that moment that the poor man only had one leg. “Over ’ere, miss,” he said. “Follow me.”

  My palms began to sweat and I felt a little sick at the thought of discovering what my father looked like. I wondered if I might resemble him in any way.

  The sergeant hobbled straight past the VCs before we came to a row of MCs. They were all lined up, old sepia pictures, badly framed. His finger ran along them—Stevens, Thomas, Tubbs. “That’s strange. I could have sworn ’is photo was there. Well, I’ll be damned. Must ’ave got lost when we moved from the Tower.”

  “Could his picture be anywhere else?”

  “Not to my knowledge, miss,” he said. “I must ’ave imagined it all along, but I’d swear I’d seen ’is photo when the museum was at the Tower. Well, I’ll be damned,” he repeated.

  I asked him if he could supply me with any more details of Captain Trentham and what might have happened to him since 1918. He hobbled back to the counter and looked up his name in the regimental handbook. “Commissioned 1915, promoted to first lieutenant 1916, captain 1917, India 1920–1922, resigned ’is commission August 1922. Since then nothing known of ’im, miss.”

  “So he could still be alive?”

  “Certainly could, miss. ’E’d only be fifty, fifty-five, most.”

  I checked my watch, thanked him and ran quickly out of the building, suddenly aware of how much time I had spent at the museum and fearful that I might miss the train back to London and wouldn’t be in time to clock on for my five o’clock shift.

  After I had settled in a corner of a dingy third-class compartment I read over the citation again. It pleased me to think that my father had been a First World War hero; but I still couldn’t fathom out why Miss Benson had been so unwilling to tell me anything about him. Why had he gone to Australia? Had he changed his name to Ross? I felt I would have to return to Melbourne if I was ever going to find out exactly what had happened to Guy Francis Trentham. Had I possessed the money to pay for my return fare, I would have gone back that night, but as I had to work out my contract at the hotel for another nine months before they would advance me enough cash to cover the one-way ticket home I settled down to complete my sentence.

  London in 1947 was an exciting city for a twenty-three-year-old so despite the dreary work there were many compensations. Whenever I had any time off I would visit an art gallery, a museum or go to a cinema with one of the girls from the hotel. On a couple of occasions I even accompanied a group of friends to a dance at the Mecca ballroom just off the Strand. One particular night I remember a rather good-looking bloke from the RAF asked me for a dance and, just moments after we had started going round the hall, he tried to kiss me. When I pushed him away he became even more determined and only a firm kick on his ankle followed by a short dash across the dance floor made it possible for me to escape. A few minutes later I found myself out on the pavement and heading back to the hotel on my own.

  As I strolled through Chelsea in the general direction of Earl’s Court I stopped from time to time to admire the unattainable goods on display in every shop window. I particularly craved a long blue silk shawl draped over the shoulders of an elegant slim mannequin. I stopped window-shopping for a moment and glanced up at the name over the door: “Trumper’s.” There was something familiar about the name but I couldn’t think what. I walked slowly back to the hotel but the only Trumper I could recall was the legendary Australian cricketer who had died before I was born. Then in the middle of the night it came back to me. Trumper, C. was the corporal mentioned in the citation written about my father. I jumped out of bed, opened the bottom drawer of my little desk and checked the words I had copied out during my visit to the Royal Fusiliers Museum.

  The name was not one I’d come across since arriving in England, so I wondered if the shopkeeper might be related in some way to the corporal and therefore might help me find him. I decided to return to the museum in Hounslow on my next day off and see if my one-legged friend could be of any further assistance.

  “Nice to see you again, miss,” he said as I walked up to the counter. I was touched that he remembered me.

  “More information you’re after?”

  “You’re right,” I told him. “Corporal Trumper, he’s not the…?

  “Charlie Trumper the ’onest trader. Certainly is, miss; but now ’e’s Sir Charles and owns that large group of shops in Chelsea Terrace.”

  “I thought so.”

  “I was about to tell you all about ’im when you ran off last time, miss.” He grinned. “Could ’ave saved you a train journey and about six months of your
time.”

  The following evening, instead of going to see Greta Garbo at the Gate Cinema in Notting Hill, I sat on an old bench on the far side of Chelsea Terrace and just stared at a row of windows. Sir Charles seemed to own almost every shop on the street. I could only wonder why he had allowed such a large empty space to remain right in the middle of the block.

  My next problem was how I could possibly get to see him. The only idea that occurred to me was that I might take my medal into Number 1 for a valuation—and then pray.

  During the next week I was on the day shift at the hotel so I was unable to return to Number 1 Chelsea Terrace before the following Monday afternoon, when I presented the girl on the front counter with my MC and asked if the medal could be valued. She considered my tiny offering, then called for someone else to examine it more carefully. A tall, studious-looking man spent some time checking the piece before he offered an opinion. “A miniature MC,” he declared, “sometimes known as a dress MC because it would be worn on a mess or dinner jacket for regimental nights, value approximately ten pounds.” He hesitated for a moment. “But of course Spinks at 5 King Street SW1 would be able to give you a more accurate assessment should you require it.”

  “Thank you,” I said, having learned nothing new and finding myself quite unable to think of any way I might phrase a question about Sir Charles Trumper’s war record.

  “Anything else I can help you with?” he asked as I remained rooted to the spot.

  “How do you get a job here?” I bleated out, feeling rather stupid.

  “Just write in, giving us all the details of your qualifications and past experience and we’ll be back in touch with you within a few days.”

  “Thank you,” I said and left without another word.

  I sat down that evening and drafted a long handwritten letter, setting out my qualifications as an art historian. They appeared a bit slender to me when I looked at them on paper.

  The next morning I rewrote the letter on the hotel’s finest stationery before addressing the envelope to “Job Inquiries”—as I had no name as a contact other than Trumper’s—Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, London SW7.

  The following afternoon I hand-delivered the missive to a girl on the front desk of the auction house, never really expecting to receive a reply. In any case, I wasn’t actually sure what I would do if they did offer me a job, as I planned on returning to Melbourne in a few months and I still couldn’t imagine how working at Trumper’s would ever lead to my meeting Sir Charles.

  Ten days later I received a letter from the personnel officer, saying they would like to interview me. I spent four pounds fifteen shillings of my hard-earned wages on a new dress that I could ill afford and arrived over an hour early for the interview. I ended up having to walk round the block several times. During that hour I discovered that Sir Charles really did seem to sell everything any human being could desire, as long as you had enough money to pay for it.

  At last the hour was up and I marched in and presented myself at the front counter. I was taken up some stairs to an office on the top floor. The lady who interviewed me said she couldn’t understand what I was doing stuck in a hotel as a chambermaid with my qualifications, until I explained to her that hotel work was the only job available to those who couldn’t afford to pay their passage over to England.

  She smiled before warning me that if I wanted to work at Number 1 everyone started on the front desk. If they proved to be any good they were promoted fairly quickly.

  “I started on the front desk at Sotheby’s,” my interviewer went on to explain. I wanted to ask her how long she’d lasted.

  “I’d love to come and work at Trumper’s,” I told her, “but I’m afraid I still have two months of my contract to complete before I can leave the Melrose Hotel.”

  “Then we’ll have to wait for you,” she replied without hesitation. “You can start at the front desk on first of September, Miss Ross. I will confirm all the arrangements in writing by the end of the week.”

  I was so excited by her offer that I quite forgot why I’d applied for the job in the first place: until my interviewer sent her promised letter and I was able to decipher her signature scribbled across the foot of the page.

  CHAPTER

  40

  Cathy had worked on the front desk of Trumper’s Auction House for just eleven days when Simon Matthews asked her to help him prepare the catalogue for the Italian sale. He was the first to spot how, as the auction house’s premier line of defense, she handled the myriad inquiries that were thrown at her without constantly having to seek a second opinion. She worked just as hard for Trumper’s as she had done at the Melrose Hotel, but with a difference: she now enjoyed what she was doing.

  For the first time in her life Cathy felt she was part of a family, because Rebecca Trumper was invariably relaxed and friendly with her staff, treating them all as equals. Her salary was far more generous than the bare minimum she had received from her previous employer, and the room they gave her above the butcher’s shop at Number 135 was palatial in comparison with her hideaway at the back of the hotel.

  Trying to find out more about her father began to seem less important to Cathy as she set about proving she was worth her place at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace. Her primary task in preparing the catalogue for the Italian sale was to check the history of every one of the fifty-nine pictures that were to come under the hammer. To this end she traveled right across London from library to library and telephoned gallery after gallery in her quest to track down every attribution. In the end only one picture completely baffled her, that of the Virgin Mary and Child, which bore no signature and had no history attached except that it had originally come from the private collection of Sir Charles Trumper and was now owned by a Mrs. Kitty Bennett.

  Cathy asked Simon Matthews if he could give any lead on the picture and was told by her head of department that he felt it might have come from the school of Bronzino.

  Simon, who was in charge of the auction, went on to suggest that she should check through the press cuttings books.

  “Almost everything you need to know about the Trumpers is in there somewhere.”

  “And where will I find them?”

  “On the fourth floor in that funny little room at the end of the passage.”

  When she eventually found the cubicle that housed the files she had to brush off a layer of dust and even remove the odd cobweb as she browsed through the annual offerings. She sat on the floor, her legs tucked beneath her, as she continued to turn the pages, becoming more and more engrossed in the rise of Charles Trumper from his days when he owned his first barrow in Whitechapel to the proposed plans for Trumper’s of Chelsea. Although the press references were sketchy in those early years, it was a small article in the Evening Standard that stopped Cathy in her tracks. The page had yellowed with age and on the top right-hand corner, barely discernible, was printed the date: 8 September 1922.

  A tall man in his late twenties, unshaven and dressed in an old army greatcoat, broke into the home of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Trumper of 11 Gilston Road, Chelsea, yesterday morning. Though the intruder escaped with a small oil painting thought to be of little value, Mrs. Trumper, seven months pregnant with her second child, was in the house at the time and collapsed from the shock. She was later rushed to Guy’s Hospital by her husband.

  On arrival an emergency operation was carried out by the senior surgeon Mr. Armitage, but their little girl was stillborn. Mrs. Trumper is expected to remain at Guy’s Hospital under observation for several days.

  The police would like to interview anyone who may have been in the vicinity at the time.

  Cathy’s eyes moved on to a second piece, dated some three weeks later.

  Police have come into possession of an abandoned army greatcoat that may have been worn by the man who broke into 11 Gilston Road, Chelsea, the home of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Trumper, on the morning of 7 September. The ownership of the coat has been traced to a Captain Guy Trentham,
formerly of the Royal Fusiliers, who until recently was serving with his regiment in India.

  Cathy read the two pieces over and again. Could she really be the daughter of a man who had tried to rob Sir Charles and had been responsible for the death of his second child? And where did the painting fit in? Just how had Mrs. Bennett come into possession of it? More important, why had Lady Trumper taken such an interest in a seemingly unimportant oil by an unknown artist? Unable to answer any of these questions, Cathy closed the cuttings book and pushed it back to the bottom of the pile. After she had washed her hands she wanted to return downstairs and ask Lady Trumper all her questions one by one, but knew that wasn’t possible.

  When the catalogue had been completed and on sale for over a week Lady Trumper asked to see Cathy in her office. Cathy only hoped that some frightful mistake hadn’t been unearthed, or someone hadn’t come across an attribution for the painting of the Virgin Mary and Child that she should have discovered in time to be credited in the catalogue.

  As Cathy stepped into the office Becky said, “My congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” said Cathy, not quite sure what she was being praised for.

  “Your catalogue has been a sell-out and we’re having to rush through a reprint.”

  “I’m only sorry that I couldn’t discover any worthwhile attribution for your husband’s painting,” said Cathy, feeling relieved that was not the reason Rebecca had wanted to see her. She also hoped her boss might confide in her how Sir Charles had come into possession of the little oil in the first place, and perhaps even throw some light on the connection between the Trumpers and Captain Trentham.

  “I’m not that surprised,” Becky replied, without offering any further explanation.

  You see, I came across an article in the files that mentioned a certain Captain Guy Trentham and I wondered… Cathy wanted to say, but she remained silent.