As the Crow Flies (44 page)

Mrs.
Trentham’s final task before her husband returned home that night was to phone
the local police. A Constable Wrigley dealt with the reported theft.

During
those weeks of waiting for her son’s letter to arrive, Mrs. Trentham did not
sit around idly. The day after Guy sailed to Australia she made one of her
periodic visits to the St. Agnes Hotel, a rewrapped parcel under one arm. She
handed over her prize to Mr. Harris before giving him a series of detailed
instructions.

Two
days later the detective informed her that the portrait of the Virgin Mary and
Child had been left with Bentley’s the pawnbroker, and could not be sold for at
least five years, when the date on the pawn ticket would have expired. He
handed over a photo of the picture and the receipt to prove it. Mrs. Trentham
placed the photo in her handbag but didn’t bother to ask Harris what had become
of the five pounds he had been paid for the picture.

“Good,”
she said, placing her handbag by the side of her chair. “In fact highly
satisfactory.”

“So
would you like me to point the right man at Scotland Yard in the direction of
Bentley’s?” asked Harris.

“Certainly
not,” said Mrs. Trentham. “I need you to carry out a little research on the
picture before anyone else will set eyes on it, and then if my information
proves correct the next occasion that painting will be seen by the public will
be when it comes under the hammer at Sotheby’s.”

“
Good morning,
madam. I do apologize for having to bother you in this way.”

“It’s
no bother,” said Mrs. Trentham to the police officer whom Gibson had announced
as Inspector Richards.

“It’s
not you I was hoping to see actually, Mrs. Trentham,” explained the inspector. “It’s
your son, Captain Guy Trentham.”

“Then
you’ll have a very long journey ahead of you, Inspector.”

“I’m
not sure I understand you, madam.”

“My
son,” said Mrs. Trentham, “is taking care of our family interests in Australia,
where he is a partner in a large firm of cattle brokers.”

Richards
was unable to hide his surprise. “And how long has he been out there, madam?”

“For
some considerable time, Inspector.”

“Could
you be more precise?”

“Captain
Trentham left England for India in February 1920, to complete his tour of duty
with the regiment. He won the MC at the second battle of the Marne, you know.”
She nodded towards the mantelpiece. The inspector looked suitably impressed. “Of
course,” Mrs. Trentham continued, “it was never his intention to remain in the
army, as we had always planned that he would have a spell in the colonies
before resuming to run our estates in Berkshire.”

“But
did he come back to England before taking up this position in Australia?”

“Sadly
not, Inspector,” said Mrs. Trentham. “Once he had resigned his commission he
traveled directly to Australia to take up his new responsibilities. My husband,
who as I am sure you know is the Member of Parliament for Berkshire West, would
be able to confirm the exact dates for you.”

“I
don’t feel it will be necessary to bother him on this occasion, madam.”

“And
why, may I ask, did you wish to see my son in the first place?”

“We
are following up inquiries concerning the theft of a painting in Chelsea.”

Mrs.
Trentham offered no comment, so the detective continued. “Someone who fits your
son’s description was seen in the vicinity wearing an old army greatcoat. We
hoped he might therefore be able to help us with our inquiries.”

“And
when was this crime committed?”

“Last
September, madam, and as the painting has not yet been recovered we are still
pursuing the matter... “ Mrs. Trentham kept her head slightly bowed as she
reamed this piece of information and continued to listen carefully. “But we are
now given to understand that the owner will not be preferring charges, so I
expect the file should be closed on this one fairly shortly. This your son?”
The inspector pointed to a photograph of Guy in full dress uniform that rested
on a side table.

“It
is indeed, Inspector.”

“Doesn’t
exactly fit the description we were given,” said the policeman, looking
slightly puzzled. “In any case, as you say, he must have been in Australia at
the time. A cast-iron alibi.” The inspector smiled ingratiatingly but Mrs.
Trentham’s expression didn’t alter.

“You’re
not suggesting that my son was in any way involved in this theft, are you?” she
asked coldly.

“Certainly
not, madam. It’s just that we’ve come across a greatcoat which Gieves, the
Savile Row tailors, have confirmed they made for a Captain Trentham. We found
an old soldier wearing it who... “

“Then
you must have also found your thief,” said Mrs. Trentham with disdain.

“Hardly,
madam. You see, the gentleman in question has only one leg.”

Mrs.
Trentham still showed no concern. “Then I suggest you ring Chelsea Police
Station,” she said, “as I feel sure they will be able to enlighten you further
on the matter.”

“But
I’m from Chelsea Police Station myself,” replied the inspector, looking even
more puzzled.

Mrs.
Trentham rose from the sofa and walked slowly over to her desk, pulled open a
drawer and removed a single sheet of paper. She handed it to the inspector. His
face reddened as he began to take in the contents. When he had finished reading
the document he passed the piece of parer back.

“I
do apologize, madam. I had no idea that you had reported the loss of the
greatcoat the same day. I shall have a word with young Constable Wrigley just
as soon as I get back to the station.” Mrs. Trentham showed no reaction to the
policeman’s embarrassment. “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time,” he
said. “I’ll just show myself out.”

Mrs.
Trentham waited until she heard the door close behind him before picking up the
phone and asking for a Paddington number.

She
made only one request of the detective before replacing the receiver.

Mrs.
Trentham knew that Guy must have arrived safely in Australia when her check was
cleared by Coutts and Company through a bank in Sydney. The promised letter to
his father arrived on the doormat a further six weeks after that. When Gerald
imparted to her the contents of the letter, explaining that Guy had joined a
firm of cattle brokers, she feigned surprise at her son’s uncharacteristic
action, but her husband didn’t seem to show a great deal of interest either
way.

During
the following months Harris’ reports continued to show that Trumper’s newly
formed company was going from strength to strength, but it still brought a
smile to Mrs. Trentham’s lips when she recalled how for a mere four thousand
pounds she had stopped Charles Trumper right in his tracks.

The
same smile was not to return to Mrs. Trentham’s face again until she received a
letter from Savill’s some time later, presenting her with an opportunity to
repeat for Rebecca Trumper the same acute frustration as she had managed in the
past for Charlie Trumper, even if this time the cost to herself might be a
little higher. She checked her bank balance, satisfied that it would prove more
than adequate for the purpose she had in mind.

Over
the years Savill’s had kept Mrs. Trentham well informed of any shops that came
up for sale in Chelsea Terrace but she made no attempt to stop Trumper from
purchasing them, reasoning that her possession of the flats would be quite adequate
to ruin any long-term plans he might have for the whole Terrace. However when
the details of Number 1 Chelsea Terrace were sent to her she realized that here
the circumstances were entirely different. Not only was Number 1 the corner
shop, facing as it did towards the Fulham Road, and the largest property on the
block, it was also an established if somewhat run-down fine art dealer and
auctioneer. It was the obvious outlet for all those years of preparation Mrs.
Trumper had put in at Bedford College and more recently at Sotheby’s.

A
letter accompanying the bill of sale asked if Mrs. Trentham wished to be
represented at the auction that Mr. Fothergill, the present owner, was
proposing to conduct himself She wrote back the same day, thanking Savill’s but
explaining that she would prefer to carry out her own bidding and would be
further obliged if they could furnish her with an estimate of how much the
property might be expected to fetch.

Savill’s
reply contained several ifs and buts, as in their view the property was unique.
They also pointed out that they were not qualified to offer an opinion as to
the value of the stock. However, they settled on an upper estimate, in the
region of four thousand pounds.

During
the following weeks Mrs. Trentham was to be found regularly seated in the back
row of Christie’s, silently watching the various auctions as they were
conducted. She never nodded or raised a hand herself. She wanted to be certain
that when the time came for her to bid she would be thoroughly familiar with
the protocol of such occasions.

On
the morning of the sale of Number 1 Chelsea Terrace Mrs. Trentham entered the
auctioneer’s wearing a long dark red dress that swept along the ground. She
selected a place in the third row and was seated some twenty minutes before the
bidding was due to commence. Her eyes never remained still as she watched the
different players enter the room and take their places. Mr. Wrexall arrived a
few minutes after she had, taking a seat in the middle of the front row. He
looked grim but determined. He was exactly as Mr. Harris had described him,
mid-forties, heavily built and balding. Being so badly overweight he looked
considerably older than his years, she considered. His flesh was swarthy and
whenever he lowered his head several more chins appeared. It was then that Mrs.
Trentham decided that should she fail to secure Number 1 Chelsea Terrace a
meeting with Mr. Wrexall might prove advantageous.

At
nine-fifty precisely Colonel Hamilton led his two colleagues down the aisle and
filed into the vacant seats immediately behind Mrs. Trentham. Although she
glanced at the colonel he made no effort to acknowledge her presence. At
nine-fifty there was still no sign of either Mr. or Mrs. Trumper.

Savill’s
had warned Mrs. Trentham that Trumper might be represented by an outside agent,
but from all she had gathered about the man over the years she couldn’t believe
he would allow anyone else to carry out the bidding for him. She was not to be
disappointed for when the clock behind the auctioneer’s box showed five minutes
before the hour, in he strode. Although he was a few years older than he’d been
at the time of the photograph she held in her hand, she was in no doubt that it
was Charlie Trumper. He wore a smart, well-tailored suit that helped disguise
the fact that he was beginning to have a weight problem. A smile rarely left
his lips though she had plans to remove it. He seemed to want everyone to know
he had arrived, as he shook hands and chatted with several people before taking
a reserved seat on the aisle about four rows behind her. Mrs. Trentham half
turned her chair so she could observe both Trumper and the auctioneer without
having continually to look round.

Suddenly
Mr. Trumper rose and made his way towards the back of the room, only to pick up
a bill of sale from the table at the entrance before returning to his reserved
place on the aisle. Mrs. Trentham suspected that this performance had been
carried out for some specific reason. Her eyes raked each row and although she
could see nothing untoward she nevertheless felt uneasy.

By
the time Mr. Fothergill had climbed the steps of the auctioneer’s box, the room
was already full. Yet despite almost every place having been taken Mrs.
Trentham was still unable to see if Mrs. Trumper was seated among the large
gathering.

From
the moment Mr. Fothergill called for the first bid the auction did not proceed
as Mrs. Trentham had imagined, or indeed planned. Nothing she had experienced
at Christie’s during the previous month could have prepared her for the final
outcome Mr. Fothergill announcing a mere six minutes later, “Sold for twelve
thousand pounds to Mrs. Gerald Trentham.”

She
was angry at having made such a public spectacle of herself, even if she had
secured the fine art shop and dealt a satisfying blow to Rebecca Trumper. It
had certainly been done at a considerable cost, and now she wasn’t even certain
she had enough money in her special account to cover the full amount she had
committed herself to.

After
eighty days of soul-searching, in which she considered approaching her husband
and even her father to make up the shortfall, Mrs. Trentham finally decided to
sacrifice the one thousand and two hundred pounds deposit, retreat and lick her
wounds. The alternative was to admit to her husband exactly what had taken
place at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace that day.

There
was one compensation, however. She would no longer need to use Sotheby’s when
the time came to dispose of the stolen painting.

As
the months passed, Mrs. Trentham received regular letters from her son, first
from Sydney, then later from Melbourne, informing her of his progress. They
often requested her to send more money. The larger the partnership grew, Guy
explained, the more he needed extra capital to secure his share of the equity.
Overall some six thousand pounds found its way across the Pacific Ocean to a
bank in Sydney during a period of over four years, none of which Mrs. Trentham
resented giving since Guy appeared to be making such a success of his new
profession. She also felt confident that once she could expose Charles Trumper
for the thief and liar he was, her son could return to England with his
reputation vindicated, even in the eyes of his father.