As the Crow Flies (40 page)

“Commonly
misquoted,” said Charlie.

“What’s
that?” asked the chairman.

“Congreve,
Colonel. The lines run, ‘Heaven has no rage like hove to hatred turned, Nor
hell a fury like a woman scomed.’” The colonel’s mouth remained open but he was
speechless. “However,” Charlie continued “more to the point, I need to know
what is the limit the board will allow me to bid for Number 1.”

“I
consider five thousand may well prove necessary given the circumstances,” said
Becky.

“But
no more,” said Hadlow, studying the balance sheet in front of him.

“Perhaps
one bid over?” suggested Becky.

“I’m
sorry, I don’t understand,” said Hadlow. “What does ‘one bid over’ mean?”

“Bids
never go to the exact figure you anticipate Mr. Hadlow. Most people who attend
an auction usually have a set figure in their minds which inevitably ends in
round numbers, so if you go one above that figure you often end up securing the
lot.”

Even
Charlie nodded, as Hadlow said in admiration, “Then I agree to one bid over.”

“May
I also suggest,” said the colonel, “that Mrs. Trumper should carry out the
bidding, because with her experience... “

“That’s
kind of you, colonel, but I shall nevertheless need the help of my husband,”
said Becky with a smile. “And, in fact, the whole board’s, come to that. You
see I have already formulated a plan.” She proceeded to brief her colleagues on
what she had in mind.

“What
fun,” said the colonel when she had finished. “But will I also be allowed to
attend the proceedings?”

“Oh,
yes,” said Becky. “All of you must be present, and, with the exception of
Charlie and myself, you ought to be seated silently in the row directly behind
Mrs. Trentham a few minutes before the auction is due to commence.”

“Bloody
woman,” said the colonel, before adding hastily, “I do apologize.”

“True.
But, more important, we must never forget that she is also an amateur,” Becky
added.

“What’s
the significance of that statement?” asked Hadlow.

“Sometimes
amateurs get carried away by the occasion, and when that happens the
professionals have no chance because the amateur often ends up going one bid
too far. We must remember that it may well be the first auction Mrs. Trentham
has ever placed a bid at, even attended, and as she wants the premises every bit
as much as we do, and has the advantage of superior resources, we will have to
secure the lot by sheer cunning.” No one seemed to disagree with this
assessment.

Once
the board meeting was over Becky took Charlie through her plan for the
forthcoming auction in greater detail, and even made him attend Sotheby’s one
morning with orders to bid for three pieces of Dutch silver. He carried out his
wife’s instructions but ended up with a Georgian mustard pot he had never
intended to buy in the first place.

“No
better way of reaming,” Becky assured him. “Just be thankful that it wasn’t a
Rembrandt you were bidding for.”

She
continued to explain to Charlie the subtleties of auctions over dinner that
night in far greater detail than she had with the board. Charlie reamed that
there were different signs you could give the auctioneer, so that rivals
remained unaware that you were still bidding, while at the same time you could
discover who was bidding against you.

“But
isn’t Mrs. Trentham bound to spot you?” said Charlie after he had cut his wife
a slice of bread. “After all, you’ll be the only two left bidding by that
stage.”

“Not
if you’ve already put her off balance before I enter the fray,” said Becky.

“But
the board agreed that you... “

“That
I should be allowed to go one bid over five thousand.”

“But...
“

“No
buts, Charlie,” said Becky as she served her husband up another portion of
Irish stew. “On the morning of the auction I want you on parade, dressed in
your best suit and sitting in the seventh row on the gangway looking very
pleased with yourself. You will then proceed to bid ostentatiously up to one
over three thousand pounds. When Mrs. Trentham goes to the next bid, as
undoubtedly she will, you must stand up and flounce out of the room, looking
defeated, while I continue the bidding in your absence.”

“Not
bad,” said Charlie as he put his fork into a couple of peas. “But surely Mrs.
Trentham will work out exactly what you’re up to?”

“Not
a chance,” said Becky. “Because I will have an agreed code with the auctioneer
that she could never hope to spot, let alone to decipher.”

“But
will I understand what you are up to?”

“Oh,
yes,” said Becky, “because you’ll know exactly what I’m doing when I use the
glasses ploy.”

“The
glasses ploy? But you don’t even wear glasses.”

“I
will be on the day of the auction, and when I’m wearing them you’ll know I’m
still bidding. If I take them off, I’ve finished bidding. So when you leave the
room all the auctioneer will see when he looks in my direction is that I still
have my glasses on. Mrs. Trentham will think you’ve gone, and will, I suspect,
be quite happy to let someone else continue with the bidding so long as she’s
confident they don’t represent you.”

“You’re
a gem, Mrs. Trumper,” said Charlie as he rose to clear away the plates. “But
what if she sees you chatting to the auctioneer or, worse, finds out your code
even before Mr. Fothergill calls for the first bid?”

“She
can’t,” said Becky. “I’ll agree on the code with Fothergill only minutes before
the auction begins. In any case, it will be at that moment that you will make a
grand entrance, and then only seconds after the other members of the board have
taken their seats directly behind Mrs. Trentham, so with a bit of luck she’ll
be so distracted by everything that’s going on around her that she won’t even
notice me.”

“I
married a very clever girl,” said Charlie.

“You
never admitted as much when we were at Jubilee Street Elementary.”

On
the morning of the auction, Charlie confessed over breakfast that he was very
nervous, despite Becky’s appearing to be remarkably calm, especially after Joan
had informed her mistress that the second footman had heard from the cook that
Mrs. Trentham had placed a limit of four thousand pounds on her bidding.

“I
just wonder...” said Charlie.

“Whether
she planted the sum in the cook’s mind?” said Becky. “It’s possible. After all,
she’s every bit as cunning as you are. But as long as we stick to our agreed
plan and remember everyone, even Mrs. Trentham, has a limit we can still beat
her.”

The
auction was advertised to begin at ten A.M. A full twenty minutes before the
bidding was due to commence Mrs. Trentham entered the room and swept regally
down the aisle. She took her place in the center of the third row, and placed
her handbag on one seat and a catalogue on the other to be certain that no one
sat next to her. The colonel and his two colleagues entered the half-filled
room at nine-fifty A.M. and, as instructed, filed into the seats immediately
behind their adversary. Mrs. Trentham appeared to show no interest in their
presence. Five minutes later Charlie made his entrance. He strolled down the
center aisle, raised his hat to a lady he recognized, shook hands with one of
his regular customers and finally took his place on the gangway at the end of
the seventh row. He continued to chat noisily with his next-door neighbor about
England’s cricket tour of Australia explaining once again that he was not
related to the great Australian batsman whose name he bore. The minute hand on
the grandfather clock behind the auctioneer’s box moved slowly towards the
appointed hour.

Although
the room was not much larger than Daphne’s hall in Eaton Square, they had still
somehow managed to pack in over a hundred chairs of different shapes and sizes.
The walls were covered in a faded green baize that displayed several hook marks
where pictures must have hung in the past and the carpet had become so
threadbare that Charlie could see the floorboards in places. He began to feel
that the cost of bringing Number 1 up to the standard he expected for all
Trumper’s shops was going to be greater than he had originally anticipated.

Glancing
around, he estimated that over seventy people were now seated in the auction
house, and wondered just how many had no interest in bidding themselves but had
simply come to see the showdown between the Trumpers and Mrs. Trentham.

Syd
Wrexall, as the representative of the Shops Committee, was already in the front
row, arms folded, trying to look composed, his vast bulk almost taking up two
seats. Charlie suspected that he wouldn’t go much beyond the second or third
bid. He soon spotted Mrs. Trentham seated in the third row, her gaze fixed
directly on the grandfather clock.

Then,
with two minutes to spare, Becky slipped into the auction house. Charlie was
sitting on the edge of his seat waiting to carry out his instructions to the
letter. He rose from his place and walked purposefully towards the exit. This
time Mrs. Trentham did glance round to see what Charlie was up to. Innocently
he collected another bill of sale from the back of the room, then returned to
his seat at a leisurely pace, stopping to talk to another shop owner who had
obviously taken an hour off co watch the proceedings.

When
Charlie resumed to his place he didn’t look in the direction of his wife, who
he knew must now be hidden somewhere towards the back of the room. Nor did he
once look at Mrs. Trentham, although he could feel her eyes fixed on him.

As
the clock chimed ten, Mr. Fothergill a tall thin man with a flower in his
buttonhole and not a hair of his silver locks out of place climbed the four
steps of the circular wooden box. Charlie thought he looked an impressive
figure as he towered over them. As soon as he had composed himself he rested a
hand on the rim of the box and beamed at the packed audience, picked up his
gavel and said, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” A silence fell over the
room.

“This
is a sale of the property known as Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, its fixtures,
fittings and contents, which have been on view to the general public for the
past two weeks. The highest bidder will be required to make a deposit of ten
percent immediately following the auction, then complete the final transaction
within ninety days. Those are the terms as stated on your bill of sale, and I
repeat them only so that there can be no misunderstanding. “

Mr.
Fothergill cleared his throat and Charlie could feel his heart beat faster and
faster. He watched the colonel clench a fist as Becky removed a pair of glasses
out of her bag and placed them in her lap.

“I
have an opening bid of one thousand pounds,” Fothergill told the silent
audience, many of whom were standing at the side of the room or leaning against
the wall as there were now few seats vacant. Charlie kept his eyes fixed on the
auctioneer. Mr. Fothergill smiled in the direction of Mr. Wrexall, whose arms
remained folded in an attitude of determined resolution. “Do I see any advance
on one thousand?”

“One
thousand, five hundred,” said Charlie, just a little too loudly. Those not
involved in the intrigue looked around to see who it was who had made the bid.
Several turnd to their neighbors and began talking in noisy whispers.

“One
thousand, five hundred,” said the auctioneer. “Do I see two thousand?” Mr.
Wrexall unfolded his arms and raised a hand like a child in school determined
to prove he knows the answer to one of teacher’s questions.

“Two
thousand, five hundred,” said Charlie, even before Wrexall had lowered his
hand.

“Two
thousand, five hundred in the center of the room. Do I see three thousand?”

Mr.
Wrexall’s hand rose an inch from his knee then fell back. A deep frown fommed
on his face. “Do I see three thousand?” Mr. Fothergill asked for a second time.
Charlie couldn’t believe his luck. He was going to get Number 1 for two
thousand, five hundred. Each second felt like a minute as he waited for the
hammer to come down.

“Do
I hear three thousand bid anywhere in the room?” said Mr. Fothergill, sounding
a little disappointed. “Then I am offering Number 1 Chelsea Terrace at two
thousand, five hundred pounds for the first time...” Charlie held his breath. “For
the second time.” The auctioneer started to raise his gavel “. . . Three
thousand pounds,” Mr. Fothergill announced with an audible sigh of relief, as
Mrs. Trentham’s gloved hand settled back in her lap.

“Three
thousand, five hundred,” said Charlie as Mr. Fothergill smiled in his
direction, but as soon as he looked back towards Mrs. Trentham she nodded to
the auctioneer’s inquiry of four thousand pounds.

Charlie
allowed a second or two to pass before he stood up, straightened his tie and,
looking grim, walked slowly down the center of the aisle and out onto the street.
He didn’t see Becky put her glasses on, or the look of triumph that came over
Mrs. Trentham’s face.

“Do
I see four thousand, five hundred pounds?” asked the auctioneer, and with only
a glance towards where Becky was seated he said, “I do.”