As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  The four-two victory over West Germany, with three goals scored by Geoff Hurst of West Ham, not only brought Charlie to the edge of delirium but even made Becky briefly wonder if her husband had now put Trumper’s behind him and would allow Cathy a free hand as chairman.

  Yet within a week of returning home from Wembley Stadium Charlie seemed perfectly content just to potter around the house, but it was during the second week that Becky realized something had to be done if she wasn’t to be driven mad—as well as lose most of her domestic staff at Eaton Square. On the Monday of the third week, she dropped into Trumper’s to see the manager of the travel department and during the fourth week tickets were delivered from the offices of Cunard to Lady Trumper—for a trip to New York on the Queen Mary—followed by an extensive tour of the United States.

  “I do hope she can run the barrow without me,” said Charlie, as they were driven down to Southampton.

  “I expect she’ll just about scrape by,” said Becky, who had planned that they should be away for at least three months, to be sure that Cathy had a free hand to get on with the refurbishment program, which they both suspected Charlie would have done everything in his power to hold up.

  Becky became even more convinced this would have been the case the moment Charlie walked into Bloomingdale’s and started grumbling about the lack of proper space allocated to view the goods. She moved him on to Macy’s where he complained of the nonexistent service, and when they arrived in Chicago he told Joseph Field that he no longer cared for the window displays that had at one time been the hallmark of the great store. “Far too garish, even for America,” he assured the owner. Becky would have mentioned the words “tact” and “subtlety” had Joseph Field not agreed with his old friend’s every pronouncement, while placing the blame firmly on a new manager who believed in “flower power,” whatever that was.

  Dallas, San Francisco and Los Angeles were no better, and when three months later Becky and Charlie climbed back on board the great liner in New York, the name of “Trumper’s” was once again on Charlie’s lips. Becky began to dread what might happen when they set foot back on English soil.

  She only hoped that five days of calm seas and a warm Atlantic breeze might help them relax and allow Charlie to forget Trumper’s for a few moments. But he spent most of the voyage back explaining his new ideas for revolutionizing the company, ideas he felt should be put into operation the moment they reached London. It was then that Becky decided she had to make a stand on Cathy’s behalf.

  “But you’re not even a member of the board any longer,” Becky reminded him, as she lay on the deck sunbathing.

  “I’m the Life President,” he insisted, after he had finished telling her his latest idea for tagging garments to combat shoplifting.

  “But that’s a purely honorary position.”

  “Poppycock. I intend to make my views felt whenever—”

  “Charlie, that’s not fair to Cathy. She’s no longer the junior director of a family venture but chairman of a vast public company. The time has surely come for you to stay away from Trumper’s and allow Cathy to push the barrow along on her own.”

  “So what am I expected to do?”

  “I don’t know, Charlie, and I don’t care. But whatever you do it’s no longer going to take place anywhere near Chelsea Terrace. Do I make myself clear?”

  Charlie would have replied if a deck officer hadn’t come to a halt beside them.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, sir.”

  “You’re not interrupting anything,” said Charlie. “So what do you want me to do? Arrange a mutiny or organize the deck tennis draw?”

  “Both those are the purser’s responsibility, Sir Charles,” said the young man. “But the captain wonders if you would be kind enough to join him on the bridge. He’s received a cablegram from London which he feels you would want to know about immediately.”

  “I hope it’s not bad news,” said Becky, as she sat up quickly and placed the novel she had been trying to read on the deck beside her. “I told them not to contact us unless it was an emergency.”

  “Rubbish,” said Charlie. “You’re such an old pessimist. With you a bottle is always half empty.” He stood up and stretched himself before accompanying the young officer along the afterdeck towards the bridge, explaining how he would organize a mutiny. Becky followed a yard behind, offering no further comment.

  As the officer escorted them onto the bridge the captain turned to greet them.

  “A cablegram has just come over the wires from London, Sir Charles, which I thought you would want to see immediately.” He handed the message over.

  “Damn, I’ve left my glasses back on the deck,” Charlie mumbled. “Becky, you’d better read it to me.” He passed the slip of paper to his wife.

  Becky opened the cablegram, her fingers trembling slightly, and read the message to herself first as Charlie studied his wife’s face for a clue as to its contents.

  “Come on then, what is it? Half full or half empty?”

  “It’s a request from Buckingham Palace,” she replied.

  “What did I tell you,” said Charlie, “you can’t leave them to do anything for themselves. First day of the month, bath soap, she prefers lavender; toothpaste, he likes Colgate, and loo paper…I did warn Cathy—”

  “No, I don’t think it’s the loo paper Her Majesty is fussing about on this occasion,” said Becky.

  “So what’s the problem?” asked Charlie.

  “They want to know what title you’ll take.”

  “Title?” said Charlie.

  “Yes,” said Becky, turning to face her husband. “Lord Trumper of where?”

  Becky was surprised and Cathy somewhat relieved to discover how quickly Lord Trumper of Whitechapel appeared to become absorbed in the daily workings of the Upper House. Becky’s fears of his continually interfering with the day-to-day business of the company evaporated the moment Charlie had donned the red ermine. For his wife, the routine brought back memories of those days during the Second World War when Charlie had worked under Lord Woolton in the Ministry of Food and she could never be sure what time of night he’d arrive home.

  Six months after being told by Becky he was not to go anywhere near Trumper’s, Charlie announced that he had been invited to become a member of the Agricultural Committee, where he felt he could once again use his expertise to the benefit of his fellow members. He even returned to his old routine of rising at four-thirty each morning so that he could catch up with those parliamentary papers that always needed to be read before important meetings.

  Whenever Charlie returned home for dinner in the evening he was always full of news about some clause he had proposed in committee that day, or how an old duffer had taken up the House’s time during the afternoon with countless amendments to the hare coursing bill.

  When in 1970 Britain applied to join the Common Market Charlie told his wife that he had been approached by the chief whip to chair a subcommittee on food distribution in Europe and felt it was his duty to accept. From that day on, whenever Becky came down for breakfast she would discover countless order papers or copies of the Lords’ daily Hansard strewn untidily all the way from Charlie’s study to the kitchen, where the inevitable note had been left to explain that he had to attend yet another early subcommittee meeting or briefing from some continental supporter of Britain’s entry into Europe who happened to be in London. Until then Becky had no idea how hard members of the Upper House were expected to work.

  Becky continued to keep in touch with Trumper’s by regular Monday morning visits. She would always go in at a time when business was fairly quiet, and to her surprise had become Charlie’s main source of information as to what was happening at the store.

  She always enjoyed spending a couple of hours strolling through the different departments. She couldn’t help noticing how quickly fashions changed, and how Cathy always managed to keep a step ahead of her rivals, while never giving regular customers cause to gr
umble about unnecessary change.

  Becky’s final call was inevitably at the auction house to see whose paintings were due to come under the hammer. It had been some time since she had handed over her responsibility to Richard Cartwright, the former chief auctioneer, but he always made himself available to show her round the latest preview of pictures to be auctioned. “Minor Impressionists on this occasion,” he assured her.

  “Now at major prices,” Becky replied as she studied works by Pissarro, Bonnard and Vuillard. “But we’ll still have to make sure Charlie doesn’t find out about this lot.”

  “He already has,” Richard warned her. “Dropped in last Thursday on his way to the Lords, put a reserve on three lots and even found time to complain about our estimates. Claimed he had bought a large Renoir oil from you called L’homme à la pêche only a few years ago for the price I was now expecting him to pay for a small pastel by Pissarro that was nothing more than a study for a major work.”

  “I suspect he might be right about that,” said Becky as she flicked through the catalogue to check the different estimates. “And heaven help your balance sheet if he finds out that you failed to reach the reserve price on any picture he’s interested in. When I ran this department he was always known as ‘our loss leader.’”

  As they were chatting an assistant walked over to join them, nodded politely to Lady Trumper and handed Richard a note. He studied the message before turning to Becky. “The chairman wonders if you would be kind enough to drop in and see her before you leave. Something she needs to discuss with you fairly urgently.”

  Richard accompanied her to the lift on the ground floor, where Becky thanked him once again for indulging an old lady.

  As the lift traveled grudgingly upwards—something else that Cathy wanted to change as part of the refurbishment plan—Becky pondered on why the chairman could possibly want to see her and only hoped that she wasn’t going to have to cancel dinner with them that night, as their guests were to be Joseph and Barbara Field.

  Although Cathy had moved out of Eaton Square some eighteen months before into a spacious flat in Chelsea Cloisters they still managed dinner together at least once a month, and Cathy was always invited back to the house whenever the Fields or the Bloomingdales were in town. Becky knew that Joseph Field, who still sat on the board of the great Chicago store, would be disappointed if Cathy was unable to keep her appointment that night, especially as the American couple was due to return home the following day.

  Jessica ushered Becky straight through to the chairman’s office, where she found Cathy on the phone, her brow unusually furrowed. While she waited for the chairman to finish her call, Becky stared out of the bay window at the empty wooden bench on the far side of the road and thought of Charlie, who had happily swapped it for the red leather benches of the House of Lords.

  Once Cathy had replaced the receiver, she immediately asked, “How’s Charlie?”

  “You tell me,” said Becky. “I see him for the occasional dinner during the week and he has even been known to attend breakfast on a Sunday. But that’s about it. Has he been seen in Trumper’s lately?”

  “Not that often. To be honest, I still feel guilty about banning him from the store.”

  “No need to feel any guilt,” Becky told her. “I’ve never seen the man happier.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” said Cathy. “But right now I need Charlie’s advice on a more urgent matter.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Cigars,” said Cathy. “I had David Field on the phone earlier to say that his father would like a dozen boxes of his usual brand and not to bother to send them round to the Connaught because he’ll be only too happy to pick them up when he comes to dinner tonight.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Neither David Field nor the tobacco department has the slightest idea what his father’s usual brand is. It seems Charlie always dealt with the order personally.”

  “You could check the old invoices.”

  “First thing I did,” said Cathy. “But there’s no record of any transaction ever taking place. Which surprised me, because if I remember correctly old Mr. Field regularly had a dozen boxes sent over to the Connaught whenever he came to London.” Cathy’s brow furrowed again. “That was something I always considered curious. After all, when you think about it, he must have had a large tobacco department in his own store.”

  “I’m sure he did,” said Becky, “but it wouldn’t have stocked any brands from Havana.”

  “Havana? I’m not with you.”

  “Some time in the fifties U.S. Customs banned the import of all Cuban cigars into America and David’s father, who had been smoking a particular brand of Havanas long before anyone had heard of Fidel Castro, saw no reason why he shouldn’t be allowed to continue to indulge himself with what he considered was no more than his ‘goddamned right.’”

  “So how did Charlie get round the problem?”

  “Charlie used to go down to the tobacco department, pick up a dozen boxes of the old man’s favorite brand, return to his office, remove the bands around each cigar, then replace them with an innocuous Dutch label before putting them back in an unidentifiable Trumper’s box. He always made sure that there was a ready supply on hand for Mr. Field in case he ever ran out. Charlie felt it was the least we could do to repay all the hospitality the Fields had lavished on us over the years.”

  Cathy nodded her understanding. “But I still need to know which brand of Cuban cigar is nothing more than Mr. Field’s ‘goddamned right.’”

  “I’ve no idea,” admitted Becky. “As you say, Charlie never allowed anyone else to handle the order.”

  “Then someone’s going to have to ask Charlie, either to come in and complete the order himself or at least tell us which brand Mr. Field is addicted to. So where can I expect to find the Life President at eleven-thirty on a Monday morning?”

  “Hidden away in some committee room at the House of Lords would be my bet.”

  “No, he’s not,” said Cathy. “I’ve already phoned the Lords and they assured me he hadn’t been seen this morning—and what’s more they weren’t expecting him again this week.”

  “But that’s not possible,” said Becky. “He virtually lives in the place.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Cathy. “Which is why I called down to Number 1 to ask for your help.”

  “I’ll sort this out in a trice,” said Becky. “If Jessica can put me through to the Lords, I know exactly the right person to speak to.”

  Jessica returned to her office, looked up the number and, as soon as she had been connected, put the call through to the chairman’s desk, where Becky picked up the receiver.

  “House of Lords?” said Becky. “Message board please…Is Mr. Anson there? No, well, I’d still like to leave an urgent message for Lord Trumper…of Whitechapel…Yes, I think he’s in an agricultural subcommittee this morning…Are you sure?…That can’t be possible…You do know my husband?…Well, that’s a relief…Does he…? How interesting…No, thank you…No, I won’t leave a message and please don’t trouble Mr. Anson. Goodbye.”

  Becky replaced the phone and looked up to find Cathy and Jessica staring at her like two children at bedtime waiting to hear the end of a story.

  “Charlie hasn’t been seen in the Lords this morning. There isn’t an agricultural subcommittee. He’s not even a member of the full committee, and what’s more they haven’t set eyes on him for the past three months.”

  “But I don’t understand,” said Cathy. “How have you been getting through to him in the past?”

  “With a special number supplied by Charlie that I keep by the hall phone in Eaton Square. It connects me to a Lords messenger called Mr. Anson, who always seems to know exactly where Charlie can be found at any time of the day or night.”

  “And does this Mr. Anson exist?” asked Cathy.

  “Oh, yes,” said Becky. “But it seems he works on another floor of the Lord
s and on this occasion I was put through to general inquiries.”

  “So what happens whenever you do get through to Mr. Anson?”

  “Charlie usually rings back within the hour.”

  “So there’s nothing to stop you phoning Mr. Anson now?”

  “I’d rather not for the moment,” said Becky. “I think I’d prefer to find out what Charlie’s been up to for the past two years. Because one thing’s for certain, Mr. Anson isn’t going to tell me.”

  “But Mr. Anson can’t be the only person who knows,” said Cathy. “After all, Charlie doesn’t live in a vacuum.” They both swung round to face Jessica.

  “Don’t look at me,” said Jessica. “He hasn’t had any contact with this office since the day you banned him from Chelsea Terrace. If Stan didn’t come into the canteen for lunch from time to time I wouldn’t even know Charlie was still alive.”

  “Of course,” said Becky, snapping her fingers. “Stan’s the one person who must know what’s going on. He still picks up Charlie first thing in the morning and brings him home last thing at night. Charlie couldn’t away with anything unless his driver was fully in his confidence.”

  “Right, Jessica,” said Cathy as she checked her diary. “Start by canceling my lunch with the managing director of Moss Bros., then tell my secretary I’ll take no calls and no interruptions until we find out exactly what our Life President has been up to. When you’ve done that, go down and see if Stan’s in the canteen, and if he is phone me back immediately.”

  Jessica almost ran out of the room as Cathy turned her attention back to Becky.

  “Do you think he might have a mistress?” said Becky quietly.

  “Night and day for nearly two years at the age of seventy? If he has, we ought to enter him as the Bull of the Year at the Royal Agricultural Show.”

  “Then what can he be up to?”

  “My bet is that he’s taking his master’s degree at London University,” said Cathy. “It’s always riled Charlie whenever you tease him about never properly completing his education.”