As the Crow Flies (38 page)

“A
nice idea but the way the world is going at the moment,” said Daphne, “I wouldn’t
be surprised if mine ended up as your sales assistant.”

Despite
Daphne bombarding him with questions Charlie still couldn’t take his eyes off
the Holbein. Eventually Daphne bribed him away by saying, “Come on, Charlie,
let’s go and have something to eat. I always seem to be famished nowadays.”

Percy
and Becky stood up and followed Daphne and Charlie towards the dining room.

Daphne
led her guests down a long corridor and through into another room that was
exactly the same size and proportion as the one they had just left. The six
full-length canvases that hung from the walls were all by Reynolds. “And this
time only the ugly one is a relation,” Percy assured them as he took his place
at one end of the table and gestured to a long gray figure of a lady that hung
on the wall behind him. “And she would have found it exceedingly difficult to
land a Wiltshire had she not been accompanied by an extremely handsome dowry.”

They
took their places at a table that had been laid for four but would have
comfortably seated eight, and proceeded to eat a four-course dinner that could
have happily fed sixteen. Liveried footmen stood behind each chair to ensure
the slightest need was administered to. “Every good home should have one,”
whispered Charlie across the table to his wife.

The
conversation over dinner gave the four of them a chance to catch up with
everything that had taken place during the past year. By the time a second
coffee had been poured Daphne and Becky left the two men to enjoy a cigar and
Charlie couldn’t help thinking that it was as if the Wiltshires had never been
away in the first place.

“Glad
the girls have left us alone,” said Percy, “as I feel there is something less
pleasant we ought perhaps to touch on.”

Charlie
puffed away at his first cigar, wondering what it must be like to suffer in
this way every day.

“When
Daphne and I were in India,” Percy continued, “we came across that bounder
Trentham.” Charlie coughed as some smoke went down the wrong way and began to
pay closer attention as his host revealed the conversation that had taken place
between Trentham and himself. “His threat that he would ‘get you,’ come what
may, could have been no more than an idle boast, of course,” said Percy, “but
Daphne felt it best that you were put fully in the picture.”

“But
what can I possibly do about it?” Charlie knocked an extended column of ash
into a silver saucer that had been placed in front of him just in time.

“Not
a lot, I suspect,” said Percy. “Except to remember that forewarned is
forearmed. He’s expected back in England at any moment, and his mother is now
telling anyone who still cares to inquire that Guy was offered such an
irresistible appointment in the City that he was willing to sacrifice his
commission. I can’t imagine that anyone really believes her, and anyway most
decent-minded people think the City’s about the right place for the likes of
Trentham.”

“Do
you think I ought to tell Becky?”

“No,
I don’t,” said Percy. “In fact I never told Daphne about my second encounter
with Trentham at the Overseas Club. So why bother Becky with the details? From
what I’ve heard from her this evening she’s got quite enough on her plate to be
going on with.”

“Not
to mention the fact that she’s about to give birth,” added Charlie.

“Exactly,”
said Percy. “So let’s leave it at that for the time being. Now, shall we go and
join the ladies?”

Over
a large brandy in yet another room filled with ancestors including a small oil
of Bonny Prince Charlie, Becky listened to Daphne describe the Americans, whom
she adored, but felt the British should never have given the darlings away; the
Africans, whom she considered delightful but who ought to be given away as soon
as, was convenient; and the Indians, whom she understood couldn’t wait to be
given away, according to the little man who kept arriving at Government House
in a dishcloth.

“Are
you by any chance referring to Gandhi?” asked Charlie, as he puffed away more
confidently at his cigar. “I find him rather impressive.”

On
the way back to Gilston Road Becky chatted happily as she revealed all the
gossip she had picked up from Daphne. It became obvious to Charlie that the two
women had not touched on the subject of Trentham, or the threat he currently
posed.

Charlie
had a restless night, partly caused by having indulged in too much rich food
and alcohol, but mainly because his mind kept switching from why the colonel
should want to resign to the problem that had to be faced with Trentham’s
imminent return to England.

At
four o’clock in the morning he rose and donned his oldest clothes before
setting off to the market, something he still tried to do at least once a week,
convinced there was no one at Trumper’s who could work the Garden the way he
did, until, quite recently, when a trader at the market called Ned Denning had
managed to palm him off with a couple of boxes of overripe avocados and
followed it up the next day by pressing Charlie into buying a box of oranges he’d
never wanted in the first place. Charlie decided to get up very early on the
third day and see if he could have the man removed from his job once and for all.

The
following Monday Ned Denning joined Trumper’s as the grocery shop’s first
general manager.

Charlie
had a successful morning stocking up with provisions for both 131 and 147, and
Bob Makins arrived an hour later to drive him and Ned back to Chelsea Terrace
in their newly acquired van.

Once
they arrived at the fruit and vegetable shop, Charlie helped unload and lay out
the goods before resuming home for breakfast a few minutes after seven. He
still considered it was a little early to place a phone call through to the
colonel.

Cook
served him up eggs and bacon for breakfast, which he shared with Daniel and his
nanny. Becky didn’t join them, as she had not yet recovered from the
aftereffects of Daphne’s dinner party.

Charlie
happily spent most of breakfast trying to answer Daniel’s string of unrelated,
never ending questions until nanny picked up the protesting child and carried
him back upstairs to the playroom. Charlie flicked open the cover of his half
hunter to check the time. Although it was still only a few minutes before
eight, he felt he couldn’t wait any longer so he walked through to the hall,
picked up the stem phone, unhooked the earpiece and asked the operator to
connect him with Flaxman 172. A few moments later he was put through.

“Can
I have a word with the colonel?”

“I’ll
tell him you’re on the line, Mr. Trumper,” came back the reply. Charlie was
amused by the thought that he was never going to be able to disguise his accent
over the telephone.

“Good
morning, Charlie,” came back another accent that was also immediately
recognizable.

“I
wonder if I might come round and see you, sir?” Charlie asked.

“Of
course,” said the colonel. “But could you leave it until ten, old fellow? By
then Elizabeth will have gone off to visit her sister in Camden Hill.”

“I’ll
be there at ten on the dot,” promised Charlie. After he had put the phone back
on the hook, he decided to occupy the two hours by completing a full round of
the shops. For a second time that morning and still before Becky had stirred,
he left for Chelsea Terrace.

Charlie
dug Major Arnold out of hardware before beginning a spot check on all nine
establishments. As he passed the block of flats he began to explain in detail
to his deputy the plans he had to replace the building with six new shops.

After
they had left Number 129, Charlie confided in Arnold that he was worried about
wines and spirits, which he considered was still not pulling its weight. This
was despite their now being able to take advantage of the new delivery service
that had originally been introduced only for fruit and vegetables. Charlie was
proud that his was one of the first shops in London to take orders by
telephone, then drop off the goods on the same day for account customers. It
was another idea he had stolen from the Americans, and the more he read about
what his opposite numbers were up to in the States the more he wanted to visit
that country and see how they went about it firsthand.

He
could still recall his first delivery service when he used his granpa’s barrow
for transport and Kitty as the delivery girl. Now he ran a smart blue
three-horsepower van with the words, “Trumper, the honest trader, founded in
1823,” emblazoned in gold letters down both sides.

He
stopped on the corner of Chelsea Terrace and stared at the one shop that would
always dominate Chelsea with its massive bow window and great double door. He
knew the time must almost be ripe for him to walk in and offer Mr. Fothergill a
large check to cover the auctioneer’s debts; a former employee of Number 1 had
recently assured Charlie that his bank balance was overdrawn by more than two
thousand pounds.

Charlie
marched into Number 1 to pay a far smaller bill and asked the girl behind the
counter if they had finished reframing the Virgin Mary and Child, which was
already three weeks overdue.

He
didn’t complain about the delay as it gave him another excuse to nose around.
The paper was still peeling off the wall behind the reception area, and there
was only one girl assistant left at the desk, which suggested to Charlie that
the weekly wages were not always being met.

Mr.
Fothergill eventually appeared with the picture in its new gilt frame and
handed the little oil over to Charlie.

“Thank
you,” said Charlie as he once again studied the bold brushwork of reds and
blues that made up the portrait and realized just how much he had missed it.

“Wonder
what it’s worth?” he asked Fothergill casually as he passed over a ten-shilling
note.

“A
few pounds at the most,” the expert declared as he touched his bow tie. “After
all, you can find countless examples of the subject by unknown artists right
across the continent of Europe.”

“I
wonder,” said Charlie as he checked his watch and stuffed the receipt into his
pocket. He had allowed himself sufficient time for a relaxed walk across
Princess Gardens and on to the colonel’s residence, expecting to arrive a
couple of minutes before ten. He bade Mr. Fothergill “Good morning,” and left.

Although
it was still quite early, the pavements in Chelsea were already bustling with
people and Charlie raised his hat to several customers he recognized.

“Good
morning, Mr. Trumper.”

“Good
morning, Mrs. Symonds,” said Charlie as he crossed the road to take a shortcut
through the garden.

He
began to try and compose in his mind what he would say to the colonel once he’d
discovered why the chairman felt it had been necessary to offer his
resignation. Whatever the reason, Charlie was determined not to lose the old
soldier. He closed the park gate behind him and started to walk along the
man-made path.

He
stood aside to allow a lady pushing a pram to pass him and Rave a mock salute
to an old soldier sitting on a park bench rolling a Woodbine. Once he had
crossed the tiny patch of grass, he stepped into the Gilston Road, closing the
gate behind him.

Charlie
continued his walk towards Tregunter Road and began to quicken his pace. He
smiled as he passed his little home, quite forgetting he still had the picture
under his arm, his mind still preoccupied with the reason for the colonel’s
resignation.

Charlie
turned immediately when he heard the scream and a door slam somewhere behind
him, more as a reflex than from any genuine desire to see what was going on. He
stopped in his tracks as he watched a disheveled figure dash out onto the road
and then start running towards him.

Charlie
stood mesmerized as the tramplike figure drew closer and closer until the man
came to a sudden halt only a few feet in front of him. For a matter of seconds
the two men stood and stared at each other without uttering a word. Neither
ruffian nor gentleman showed on a face half obscured by rough stubble. And then
recognition was quickly followed by disbelief.

Charlie
couldn’t accept that the unshaven, slovenly figure who stood before him wearing
an old army greatcoat and a battered felt hat was the same man he had first
seen on a station in Edinburgh almost five years before.

Charlie’s
abiding memory of that moment was to be the three clean circles on both
epaulettes of Trentham’s greatcoat, from which the three pips of a captain must
recently have been removed.

Trentham’s
eyes dropped as he stared at the painting for a second and then suddenly,
without warning, he lunged at Charlie, taking him by surprise, and wrested the
picture from his grasp. He turned and started running back down the road in the
direction he had come. Charlie immediately set off in pursuit and quickly began
to make up ground on his assailant, who was impeded by his heavy greatcoat,
while having also to cling to the picture.

Charlie
was within a yard of his quarry and about to make a dive for Trentham’s waist
when he heard the second scream. He hesitated for a moment as he realized the
desperate cry must be coming from his own home. He knew he had been left with
no choice but to allow Trentham to escape with the picture as he changed
direction and dashed up the steps of Number 17. He charged on into the drawing
room to find the cook and nanny standing over Becky. She was lying flat out on
the sofa screaming with pain.