As the Crow Flies (39 page)

Becky’s
eyes lit up when she saw Charlie. “The baby’s coming,” was all she said.

“Pick
her up gently, cook,” said Charlie, “and help me get her to the car.”

Together
they carried Becky out of the house and down the path as nanny ran ahead of
them to open the car door so they could place her on the backseat. Charlie
stared down at his wife. Her face was drained of color and her eyes were
glazed. She appeared to lose consciousness as he closed the car door.

Charlie
jumped into the front of the car and shouted at cook, who was already turning
the handle to get the engine started.

“Ring
my sister at Guy’s Hospital and explain we’re on our way. And tell her to be
prepared for an emergency. “

The
motor spluttered into action and cook jumped to one side as Charlie drove the
car out into the middle of the road, trying to keep a steady pace as he avoided
pedestrians, bicycles, trams, horses and other cars as he crashed through the
gears on his journey south towards the Thames.

He
turnd his head every few seconds to stare at his wife, not even sure if she was
still alive. “Let them both live,” he shouted at the top of his voice. He
continued on down the Embankment as fast as he could manage, honking his horn
and several times screaming at people who were casually crossing the road
unaware of his plight. As he drove across Southwark Bridge he heard Becky groan
for the first time.

“We’ll
soon be there, my darling,” he promised. “Just hold on a little longer.”

Once
over the bridge he took the first left and maintained his speed until the great
iron gates of Guy’s came into view. As he swung into the courtyard and round
the circular flower bed he spotted Grace and two men in long white coats
standing waiting, a stretcher by their side. Charlie brought the car to a halt
almost on their toes.

The
two men lifted Becky gently out and placed her on the stretcher before rushing
her up the ramp and into the hospital. Charlie jumped out of the car and
marched by the stretcher holding Becky’s hand as they climbed a flight of
stairs, Grace running by his side explaining that Mr. Armitage, the hospital’s
senior obstetrician, was waiting for them in an operating theater on the first
floor.

By
the time Charlie reached the doors of the theater, Becky was already inside.
They left him outside in the corridor on his own. He began to pace up and down,
unaware of others bustling past him as they went about their work.

Grace
came out a few minutes later to reassure him that Mr. Armitage had everything
under control and that Becky could not be in better hands. The baby was
expected at any moment. She squeezed her brother’s hand, then disappeared back
into the theater. Charlie continued his pacing, thinking only of his wife and
their first child, the sight of Trentham already becoming a blur. He prayed for
a boy Tommy who would be a brother for Daniel and perhaps one day even take
over Trumper’s. Pray God that Becky was not going through too much pain as she
delivered their son. He paced up and down that long green-walled corridor
mumbling to himself, aware once again how much he loved her.

It
was to be another hour before a tall, thickset man emerged from behind the
closed doors, followed by Grace. Charlie turned to face them but as the surgeon
had a mask over his face, Charlie had no way of knowing how the operation had
gone. Mr. Armitage removed the mask: the expression on his face answered
Charlie’s silent prayer.

“I
managed to save your wife’s life,” he said, “but I am so very sorry, Mr.
Trumper, I could do nothing about your stillborn daughter.”

F
or several
days after the operation Becky never left her room in the hospital.

Charlie
later reamed from Grace that although Mr. Armitage had saved his wife’s life it
might still be weeks before she was fully recovered, especially since it had
been explained to Becky that she could never have another child without risking
her own life.

Charlie
visited her every morning and evening, but it was over a fortnight before she
was able to tell her husband how Guy Trentham had forced his way into the house
and then threatened to kill her unless she told him where the picture was.

“Why?
I simply can’t understand why,” said Charlie.

“Has
the picture turned up anywhere?”

“No
sign of it so far,” he said, just as Daphne came in bearing a huge basket of
provisions. She kissed Becky on the cheek before confining that the fruit had
been purchased at Trumper’s that morning. Becky managed a smile as she munched
her way through a peach. Daphne sat on the end of the bed and immediately
launched into all her latest news.

She
was able to let them know, following one of her periodic visits to the
Trenthams, that Guy had disappeared off to Australia and that his mother was
claiming he had never set foot in England in the first place, but traveled to
Sydney direct from India.

“Via
the Gilston Road,” said Charlie.

“That’s
not what the police think,” said Daphne. “They remain convinced that he left
England in 1920 and they can find no proof he ever returned.”

“Well,
we’re certainly not going to enlighten them,” said Charlie, taking his wife’s
hand.

“Why
not?” asked Daphne.

“Because
even I consider Australia far enough away for Trentham to be left to his own
devices: in any case nothing can be gained from pursuing him now. If she
Australians give him enough rope I’m sure he’ll hang himself.”

“But
why Australia?” asked Becky.

“Mrs.
Trentham’s telling everyone who cares to listen that Guy has been offered a
partnership in a cattle broker’s far too good a position to turn down, even if
it did mean having to resign his commission. The vicar is the only person I can
find who believes the story.” But even Daphne had no simple answer as to why
Trentham should have been so keen to get his hands on the little oil painting.

The
colonel and Elizabeth also visited Becky on several occasions and as he
continually talked of the company’s future and never once referred to his
resignation letter Charlie didn’t press him on the subject.

It
was to be Crowther who eventually enlightened Charlie as to who had purchased
the flats.

Six
weeks later Charlie drove his wife home to Gilston Road at a more stately pace
Mr. Armitage having suggested a quiet month resting before she considered
returning to work. Charlie promised the surgeon that he would not allow Becky
to do anything until he felt sure she had fully recovered.

The
morning Becky returned home Charlie left her propped up in bed with a book and
headed back to Chelsea Terrace where he went straight to the jewelry shop he
had acquired in his wife’s absence.

Charlie
took a considerable time selecting a string of cultured pearls, a gold bracelet
and a lady’s Victorian watch, which he then instructed to be sent to Grace, to
the staff nurse and to the nurse who had taken care of Becky during her
unscheduled stay at Guy’s. His next stop was the greengrocer’s shop where he
asked Bob to make up a basket of the finest fruit, while he personally selected
a bottle of vintage wine from Number 101 to accompany it. “Send them both round
to Mr. Armitage at 7 Cadogan Square, London SW1, with my compliments,” he
added.

“Right
away,” said Bob. “Anything else while I’m at it?”

“Yes,
I want you to repeat that order every Monday for the rest of his life.”

It
was about a month later, in November 1922, that Charlie reamed of the problems
Arnold was facing with the simple task of replacing a shop assistant. In fact,
selecting staff had become one of Arnold’s biggest headaches of late, because
for every job that became vacant fifty to a hundred people were applying to
fill it. Arnold would then put together a shortlist as Charlie still insisted
that he interview the final candidates before any position was confirmed.

On
that particular Monday, Arnold had already considered a number of girls for the
position as sales assistant at the flower shop, following the retirement of one
of the company’s longest-serving employees.

“Although
I’ve already shortlisted three for the job,” said Arnold, “I thought you would
be interested in one of the applicants I rejected. She didn’t seem to have the
appropriate qualifications for this particular position. However... “

Charlie
glanced at the sheet of paper Arnold passed to him. “Joan Moore. Why would I ?”
began Charlie, as his eyes ran swiftly down her application. “Ah, I see,” he
said. “How very observant of you, Tom.” He read a few more lines. “But I don’t
need a well, on the other hand perhaps I do.” He looked up. “Arrange for me to
see Miss Moore within the next week.”

The
following Thursday Charlie interviewed Joan Moore for over an hour at his home
in Gilston Road and his first impression was of a cheery, well-mannered if
somewhat immature girl. However, before he offered her the position as lady’s
maid to Mrs. Trumper he still had a couple of questions he felt needed
answering.

“Did
you apply for this job because you knew of the relationship between my wife and
your former employer?” Charlie asked.

The
girl looked him straight in the eyes. “Yes, sir, I did.”

“And
were you sacked by your previous employer?”

“Not
exactly, sir, but when I left she refused to supply me with a reference.”

“What
reason did she give for that?”

“I
was walkin’ out with the second footman, ‘aving failed to inform the butler,
who is in charge of the ‘ousehold.”

“And
are you still walking out with the second footman?”

The
girl hesitated. “Yes, sir,” she said. “You see, we’re ‘aping to be married as
soon as we’ve saved up enough.”

“Good,”
said Charlie. “Then you can report for duly next Monday morning. Mr. Arnold
will deal with all the necessary arrangements.”

When
Charlie told Becky he had employed a lady’s maid for her she laughed at first,
then asked, “and what would I want with one of those?” Charlie told her exactly
why she wanted “one of those.” When he had finished all Becky said was, “You’re
an evil man, Charlie Trumper, that’s for sure.”

It
was at the February board meeting in 1924 that Crowther warned his colleagues
that Number 1 Chelsea Terrace might well come on the market earlier than
anticipated.

“Why’s
that?” asked Charlie, a little anxiously.

“Your
estimate of another two years before Fothergill would have to cave in is
beginning to look prophetic.”

“So
how much does he want?”

“It’s
not quite as simple as that.”

“Why
not?”

“Because
he’s decided to auction the property himself.”

“Auction
it?” inquired Becky.

“Yes,”
said Crowther. “That way he avoids paying any fees to an outside agent.”

“I
see. So what are you expecting the property to fetch?” asked the colonel.

“Not
an easy one to answer, that,” replied Crowther. “It’s four times the size of
any other shop in the Terrace, it’s on five floors and it’s even bigger than
Syd Wrexall’s pub on the other corner. It also has the largest shop frontage in
Chelsea and a double entrance on the corner facing the Fulham Road. For all
those reasons it’s not that simple to estimate its value.”

“Even
so, could you try and put a figure on it?” asked the chairman.

“If
you were to press me I’d say somewhere in the region of two thousand, but it
could be as much as three, if anyone else were to show an interest.”

“What
about the stock?” asked Becky. “Do we know what’s happening to that?”

“Yes,
it’s being sold along with the building.”

“And
what’s it worth?” asked Charlie. “Roughly?”

“More
Mrs. Trumper’s department than mine, I feel,” said Crowther.

“It’s
no longer that impressive,” said Becky. “A lot of Fothergill’s best works have
already gone through Sotheby’s, and I suspect Christie’s have seen just as many
during the past year. However, I would still expect what’s left over to fetch
around a thousand pounds under the hammer.”

“So
the face value of the property and the stock together appears to be around the
three-thousand pound mark,” suggested Hadlow.

“But
Number 1 will go for a lot more than that,” said Charlie.

“Why?”
queried Hadlow.

“Because
Mrs. Trentham will be among the bidders.”

“How
can you be so sure?” asked the chairman.

“Because
our ladies’ maid is still walking tout with her second footman.”

The
rest of the board laughed, but all the chairman volunteered was, “Not again.
First the flats, now this. When will it end?”

“Not
until she’s dead and buried, I suspect,” said Charlie.

“Perhaps
not even then,” added Becky.

“If
you’re referring to the son,” said the colonel, “I doubt if he can cause too
much trouble from twelve thousand miles away. But as for the mother, hell bath
no fury “ he said testily.