As the Crow Flies (42 page)

Nigel,
meanwhile, had just entered Harrow and was attempting to follow in his brother’s
footsteps I fear, however, not with quite the same obvious flair. In fact
during one of those interminable holidays they will give children nowadays he
complained to me of being bullied. I told the boy to buckle down and remember
that we were at war. I also pointed out that I could never recall Guy making a
fuss on that particular score.

I
watched my two sons closely during that long summer of 1917 and cannot pretend
that Guy found Nigel an amiable companion while he was at home on leave; in
fact he barely tolerated his company. I kept telling Nigel that he had to
strive to gain his elder brother’s respect, but this only resulted in Nigel
running off to hide in the garden for hours on end.

During
his leave that summer I advised Guy to visit his grandfather in Yorkshire and
even found a first edition of Songs of Innocence to present him with which I
knew my father had long wanted to add to his collection. Guy returned a week
later and confirmed that securing a William Blake the old man did not have had
indeed put Grandpa “in good salts.”

Naturally,
like any mother, during that particular inspiring period in our history I
became anxious that Guy should be seen to acquit himself well in the face of
the enemy, and eventually, God willing, return home in one piece. As it turned
out, I think I can safely say that no mother, however proud, could have asked
for more of a son.

Guy
was promoted to the rank of captain at a very young age, and following the
second battle of the Marne, was awarded the Military Cross. Others who read the
citation felt he had been a touch unlucky not to have been put forward for the
VC. I have resisted pointing out to them that any such recommendation would
have had to be countersigned by his commanding officer in the field, and as he
was a certain Danvers Hamilton the injustice was readily explicable.

Soon
after the Armistice was signed Guy returned home to serve a tour of duty at the
regimental barracks in Hounslow. While he was on leave I asked Spinks to
engrave both of his MCs, dress and miniature, with the initials G.F.T.
Meanwhile, his brother Nigel was, after some influence being exercised by
Gerald, finally accepted as a cadet at the Royal Military Academy.

During
the time Guy was back in London, I feel certain he sowed a few wild oats what
young man of that age doesn’t. But he well understood that marriage before the
age of thirty could only harm his chances of promotion.

Although
he brought several young ladies down to Ashurst on the weekends, I knew none of
them was serious and anyway, I already had my eye on a particular girl from the
next village who had been known to the family for some considerable time.
Despite being without a title she could trace her family back to the Norman
Conquest. More important, they could walk on their own land from Ashurst to
Hastings.

It
thus came as a particularly unpleasant shock for me when Guy turned up one weekend
accompanied by a girl called Rebecca Salmon, who, I found it hard to believe,
was at that time sharing rooms with the Harcourt-Brownes’ daughter.

As
I have already made abundantly clear, I am not a snob. But Miss Salmon is, I
fear, the type of girl who always manages to bring out the worst in me. Don’t
misunderstand me. I have nothing against anyone simply because they wish to be
educated. In fact I’m basically in favor of such goings-on in sensible
proportions but at the same time that doesn’t allow one to assume one
automatically has a right to a place in society. You see, I just can’t abide
anyone who pretends to be something that they obviously are not, and I sensed
even before meeting Miss Salmon that she was coming down to Ashurst with one
purpose in mind.

We
all understood that Guy was having a fling while he was based in London after
all, Miss Salmon was that type of girl. Indeed, when the following weekend I
had Guy to myself for a few moments I was able to warn him never to allow the
likes of Miss Salmon to get her hooks into him; he must realize he would be a
marvelous catch for someone from her background.

Guy
laughed at such a suggestion and assured me that he had no long-term plans for
the baker’s daughter. In any case, he reminded me, he would be departing to
serve with the colors in Poona before too long, so marriage was out of the
question. He must have sensed, however, that my fears were still not fully
assuaged, because after a further thought he added, “it may interest you to know,
Mother, that Miss Salmon is presently walking out with a sergeant from the
regiment with whom she has an understanding.”

In
fact two weeks later Guy appeared at Ashurst with a Miss Victoria Berkeley, a
far more suitable choice whose mother I had known for years; indeed, if the
girl hadn’t had four other sisters and an impoverished archdeacon for a father,
she might in time have suited admirably.

To
be fair, after that single unfortunate occasion Guy never mentioned the name of
Rebecca Salmon in my presence again, and as he sailed for India a few months
later, I assumed I had heard the last of the wretched girl.

When
Nigel eventually left Sandhurst he didn’t follow Guy into the regiment, as it
had become abundantly clear during his two-year period at the academy that he
was not cut out to be a soldier. However, Gerald was able to secure him a
position with a firm of stock-brokers in the City where one of his cousins was
the senior partner. I have to admit that the reports that filtered back to me
from time to time were not encouraging, but once I had mentioned to Gerald’s
cousin that I would eventually be needing someone to manage his grandfather’s
portfolio, Nigel started to progress slowly up the firm’s ladder.

It
must have been about six months later that Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Danvers
Hamilton dropped Gerald that note through the letter box at 19 Chester Square.
The moment Gerald told me that Hamilton wanted a private word with him, I
sensed trouble. Over the years I had come in contact with many of Gerald’s
brother officers so I knew exactly how to handle them. Gerald, on the other
hand, is quite naive when it comes to matters of a personal nature, invariably
giving the other fellow the benefit of the doubt. I immediately checked my
husband’s whip commitments in the Commons for the following week and arranged
for Sir Danvers to visit us on the Monday evening at six, knowing only too well
that, because of his commit meets in the House, Gerald would almost certainly
have to cancel the meeting at the last moment.

Gerald
phoned soon after five on the day in question to say that he couldn’t possibly
get away and suggested the colonel might come on over to the House of Commons.
I said I would see what I could do. An hour later Sir Danvers arrived at
Chester Square. After I had apologized and explained my husband’s absence I was
able to convince him that he should convey his message to me. When the colonel
informed me that Miss Salmon was going to have a child I naturally asked of
what interest that could possibly be to Gerald or myself. He hesitated only for
a moment before suggesting that Guy was the father. I realized immediately that
if such a slander was allowed to spread abroad it might even reach the ears of
his brother officers in Poona and that could only do immense harm to my son’s
chances of further promotion. Any such suggestion I therefore dismissed as
ridiculous, along with the colonel in the same breath.

It
was during a rubber of bridge at Celia Littlechild’s house a few weeks later
that she let slip that she had employed a private detective called Harris to
spy on her first husband, once she was convinced he was being unfaithful. After
learning this piece of information I found myself quite unable to concentrate
on the game, much to my partner’s annoyance.

On
returning home I looked up the name in the London directory. There he was: “Max
Harris, Private Detective ax-Scotland Yard, all problems considered.” After
some minutes staring at the phone, I finally picked up the headpiece and asked
the operator to get me Paddington 3720. I waited for several moments before
anyone spoke.

“Harris,”
said a gruff voice without further explanation.

“Is
that the detective agency?” I asked, nearly replacing the phone back on the
hook before I had given the man a chance to reply.

“Yes,
madam, it is,” said the voice, sounding a little more enthusiastic.

“I
may be in need of your help for a friend, you understand,” I said, feeling
rather embarrassed.

“A
friend,” said the voice. “Yes, of course. Then perhaps we should meet.”

“But
not at your office,” I insisted.

“I
quite understand, madam. Would the St. Agnes Hotel, Bury Street, South
Kensington, four o’clock tomorrow afternoon suit?”

“Yes,”
I said and put the phone down, suddenly aware that he didn’t know my name and I
didn’t know what he looked like.

When
the following day I arrived at the St. Agnes, a dreadful little place just off
the Brompton Road, I walked round the block several times before I finally felt
able to enter the lobby. A man of about thirty, perhaps thirty-five was leaning
on the reception desk. He straightened up the moment he saw me.

“Are
you looking for a Mr. Harris, by any chance?” he inquired.

I
nodded and he quickly led us through to the tea room and ushered me into a seat
in the farthest corner. Once he had sat down in the chair opposite me I began
to study him more carefully. He must have been about five foot ten, stocky,
with dark brown hair and an even browner moustache. He wore a brown check Harris
tweed jacket, cream shirt and thin yellow tie. As I began to explain why I
might be in need of his services I became distracted as he started to click the
knuckles of his fingers, one by one, first the left hand and then the right. I
wanted to get up and leave, and would have done so had I believed for a moment
that finding anyone less obnoxious to carry out the task would have proved
easy.

It
also took me some considerable time to convince Harris that I was not looking
for a divorce. At that first meeting I explained to him as much of my dilemma
as I felt able. I was shocked when he demanded the extortionate fee of five
shillings an hour just to open his investigation. However, I did not feel I had
been left with a great deal of choice in the matter. I agreed that he should
start the following day and that we would meet again a week later.

Mr.
Harris’s first report informed me that, in the view of those who spent most of
their working hours at a pub in Chelsea called the Musketeer, Charlie Trumper
was the father of Rebecca Salmon’s child, and indeed when the suggestion was
put to him directly he made no attempt to deny it. As if to prove the point,
within days of the child’s birth he and Miss Salmon were married quietly in a
register office.

Mr.
Harris had no trouble in obtaining a copy of the child’s birth certificate. It
confirmed that the child, Daniel George Trumper, was the son of Rebecca Salmon
and Charlie George Trumper of 147 Chelsea Terrace. I also noted that the child
had been named after both his grandparents. In my next letter to Guy I enclosed
a copy of the birth certificate along with one or two other little snippets
that Harris had supplied, such as details of the wedding and Colonel Hamilton’s
appointment as chairman of the Trumper board. I must confess that I assumed
that was an end of the matter.

However,
two weeks later I received a letter from Guy: I presume it must have crossed
with mine in the post. He explained that Sir Danvers had been in communication
with his commanding officer, Colonel Forbes, and because of Forbes’ insistence
that there might be a breach-of-promise suit pending Guy had been made to
appear in front of a group of his fellow officers to explain the relationship
between himself and Miss Salmon.

I
immediately sat down and wrote a long letter to Colonel Forbes Guy was
obviously not in a position to present the full evidence I had managed to
secure. I included a further copy of the birth certificate so that he would be
left in no doubt that my son could not have possibly been involved with the
Salmon girl in any way. I added without prejudice that Colonel Hamilton was now
employed as chairman of the board of Trumper’s, a position from which he
certainly derived some remuneration. The long information sheets now sent to me
on a weekly basis by Mr. Harris were, I had to admit, proving of considerable
value.

For
some little time matters returned to normal. Gerald busied himself with his
parliamentary duties while I concentrated on nothing more demanding than the
appointment of the new vicar’s warden and my bridge circle.

The
problem, however, went deeper than I had imagined, for quite by chance I
discovered that we were no longer to be included on the guest list for Daphne
Harcourt-Browne’s marriage to the Marquess of Wiltshire. Of course, Percy would
never have become the twelfth marquess had it not been for his father and
brother sacrificing their lives on the Western Front. However, I learned from
others who were present at the ceremony that Colonel Hamilton as well as the
Trumpers were to be seen at St. Margaret’s, and at the reception afterwards.

During
this period, Mr. Harris continued to supply me with memoranda about the comings
and goings of the Trumpers and their growing business empire. I must confess
that I had no interest whatsoever in any of their commercial transactions: it
was a world that remained totally alien to me but I didn’t stop him going
beyond his brief as it gave me a useful insight into Guy’s adversaries.