As the Crow Flies (61 page)

After
all, my father would not live forever.

We
sat alone almost unsighted in the darkest corner of the room. He began clicking
the knuckles of his right hand one by one.

“Where
is it at this moment?” I asked, looking across at a man to whom I had paid
thousands of pounds since we had first met almost twenty years ago. He still
turned up for our weekly meetings at the St. Agnes wearing what seemed to be
the same brown tweed jacket and shiny yellow tie, even if he did appear to have
acquired one or two more shirts lately. He put down his whisky, pulled out a
brown paper package from under his chair and handed it over to me.

“How
much did you have to pay to get it back?”

“Fifty
pounds.”

“I
told you not to offer him more than twenty pounds without consulting me.”

“I
know, but there was a West End dealer nosing around the shop at the time. I
just couldn’t risk it, could I?”

I
didn’t believe for one moment that it had cost Harris fifty pounds. However, I
did accept that he realized how important the picture was to my future plans.

“Would
you like me to hand the painting over to the police?” he asked. “I could then
drop a hint that perhaps...”

“Certainly
not,” I said without hesitation. “The police are far too discreet in these
matters. Besides, what I have in mind for Mr. Trumper will be a great deal more
humiliating than a private interview in the privacy of Scotland Yard.”

Mr.
Harris leaned back in the old leather chair and began clicking the knuckles of
his left hand.

“What
else do you have to report?”

“Daniel
Trumper has taken up his place at Trinity College. He’s to be found on New
Court, staircase B. Room 7.”

“That
was all in your last report.”

Both
of us stopped speaking while an elderly guest selected a magazine from a nearby
table.

“Also,
he’s started seeing quite a lot of a girl called Marjorie Carpenter. She’s a
third-year mathematician from Girton College.”

“Is
that so? Well, if it begins to look at all serious let me know at once and you
can start a file on her.” I glanced around to be sure no one could overhear our
conversation. The clicking began again and I looked back to find Harris staring
fixedly at me.

“Is
something worrying you?” I asked as I poured myself another cup of tea.

“Well,
to be honest with you there is one thing, Mrs. Trentham. I feel the time might
have come for me to ask for another small rise in my hourly rate. After all, I’m
expected to keep so many secrets” he hesitated for a moment “secrets that might...”

“That
might what?”

“Prove
to be invaluable to other equally interested parties.”

“Are
you threatening me, Mr. Harris?”

“Certainly
not, Mrs. Trentham, it’s just that ~”

“I’ll
say this once and once only, Mr. Harris. If you ever reveal to anyone anything
that has passed between us it won’t be an hourly rate that you’ll be worrying
about but the length of time you’ll be spending in prison. Because I also have
kept a file on you which I suspect some of your former colleagues might well be
interested to learn about. Not least the pawning of a stolen picture and the
disposal of an army greatcoat after a crime had been committed. Do I make
myself clear?”

Harris
didn’t reply, just clicked his fingers back into place, one by one.

Some
weeks after war was declared I learned that Daniel Trumper had avoided being
called up. It transpired that he was now to be found serving behind a desk in
Bletchley Park and was therefore unlikely to experience the wrath of the enemy
unless a bomb were to land directly on top of him.

As
it happened, the Germans did manage to drop a bomb, right in the middle of my
flats, destroying them completely. My initial anger at this disaster evaporated
when I saw the chaos it left behind in Chelsea Terrace. For several days I
gained considerable satisfaction from just standing on the opposite side of the
road admiring the Germans’ handiwork.

A
few weeks later it was the turn of the Musketeer and Trumper’s greengrocer shop
to feel the brunt of the Luftwaffe. The only perceptible outcome of this second
bombing was that Charlie Trumper signed up for the Fusiliers the following
week. However much I might have desired to see Daniel disposed of by a stray
bullet, I still required Charlie Trumper to remain very much alive: it was a
more public execution I had in mind for him.

It
didn’t require Harris to brief me on Charlie Trumper’s new appointment at the
Ministry of Food because it was fully reported in every national paper.
However, I made no attempt to take advantage of his prolonged absence as I
reasoned there could be little purpose in acquiring further property in the
Terrace while war was still being waged, and in any case Harris’ monthly
reports revealed that Trumper’s was steadily losing money.

Then,
when I was least prepared for it, my father died of a heart attack. I
immediately dropped everything and hurried off to Yorkshire in order to oversee
the arrangements for the burial.

Two
days later I led the mourners at the funeral, which was held in Wetherby parish
church. As titular head of the family, I was placed on the left-hand end of the
front pew with Gerald and Nigel on my right. The service was well attended by
family, friends and business associates alike, including the solemn Mr.
Baverstock, clutching onto his inevitable Gladstone bag that I noticed he never
let out of his sight. Amy, who sat in the row directly behind me, became so
distressed during the archdeacon’s address that I don’t believe she would have
got through the rest of the day had I not been there to comfort her.

After
the mourners had left I decided to stay on in Yorkshire for a few more days
while Gerald and Nigel returned to London. Amy spent most of the time in her
bedroom, which gave me the chance to look around the house and check if there
was anything of real value that could be rescued before I returned to Ashurst.
After all, the property would once the will had been administered at worst end
up being divided between us.

I
came across my mother’s jewelry, which had obviously never been touched since
her death, and the Stubbs that still hung in my father’s study. I removed the
jewelry from my father’s bedroom, and as for the Stubbs, Amy agreed over a
light supper in her room that for the time being I could hang the painting at
Ashurst. The only other item left of any real value, I concluded, was my father’s
magnificent library. However, I already had long-term plans for the collection
that did not involve the sale of a single book.

On
the first of the month I traveled down to London to attend the offices of
Baverstock, Dickens and Cobb to be informed officially of the contents of my
father’s will.

Mr.
Baverstock seemed disappointed that Amy had felt unable to make the journey but
accepted the fact that my sister had not yet recovered sufficiently from the
shock of my father’s death to contemplate such a trip. Several other relations,
most of whom I saw only at christenings, weddings and funerals, sat around
looking hopeful. I knew exactly what they could expect.

Mr.
Baverstock took over an hour performing what seemed to me a simple enough
responsibility, though to be fair he managed with some considerable dexterity
not to reveal the name of Daniel Trumper when it came to explaining what would
eventually happen to the estate. My mind began to wander as minor relations
were informed of the thousand-pound windfalls they would inherit and was only
brought sharply back to the droning voice of Mr. Baverstock when he uttered my
own name.

“Mrs.
Gerald Trentham and Miss Amy Hardcastle will both receive during their
lifetimes in equal part any income derived from the Trust.” The solicitor
stopped to turn a page before placing the palms of his hands on the desk. “And
finally, the house, the estate in Yorkshire and all its contents plus the sum
of twenty thousand pounds,” he continued, “I bequeath to my elder daughter, Miss
Amy Hardcastle.”

“G
od morning,
Mr. Sneddles.”

The
old bibliophile was so surprised the lady knew his name that for a moment he
just stood and stared at her.

Eventually
he shuffled across to greet the lady, giving her a low bow. She was, after all,
the first customer he had seen for over a week that is if he did not count Dr.
Halcombe, the retired headmaster, who would happily browse around the shop for
hours on end but who had not actually purchased a book since 1937.

“Good
morning, madam,” he said in turn. “Was there a particular volume that you were
hoping to find?” He looked at the lady, who wore a long face dress and a large
wide-brimmed hat with a veil that made it impossible to see her face.

“No,
Mr. Sneddles,” said Mrs. Trentham. “I have not come to purchase a book, but to
seek your services.” She stared at the stooping old man in his mittens,
cardigan and overcoat, which she assumed he was wearing because he could no
longer afford to keep the shop heated. Although his back seemed to be
permanently semicircular and his head stuck out like a tortoise’s from its
overcoat shell, his eyes were clear and his mind appeared sharp and alert.

“My
services, madam?” the old man repeated.

“Yes.
I have inherited an extensive library that I require to be catalogued and
valued. You come highly recommended.”

“It’s
kind of you to say so, madam.”

Mrs.
Trentham was relieved that Mr. Sneddles did not inquire as to who had made the
particular recommendation.

“And
where is this library, might I be permitted to ask?”

“A
few miles east of Harrogate. You will find that it is quite an extraordinary
collection. My late father, Sir Raymond Hardcastle you may have heard of
him.... devoted a considerable part of his life to putting it together.”

“Harrogate?”
said Sneddles as if it was a few miles east of Bangkok.

“Of
course I would cover all your expenses, however long the enterprise might take.”

“But
it would mean having to close the shop,” he murmured as if talking to himself.

“I
would naturally also compensate you for any loss of earnings.”

Mr.
Sneddles removed a book from the counter and checked its spine. “I fear it’s
out of the question, madam, quite impossible, you see... “

“My
father specialized in William Blake, you know. You will find that he managed to
get hold of every first edition, some still in mint condition. He even secured
a handwritten manuscript of...”

*
* *

Amy
Hardcastle had gone to bed even before her sister arrived back in Yorkshire
that evening.

“She
gets so tired nowadays,” the housekeeper explained.

Mrs.
Trentham was left with little choice but to have a light supper on her own
before retiring to her old room a few minutes after ten. As far as she could
tell nothing had changed: the view over the Yorkshire dales, the black clouds,
even the picture of York Minster that hung above the walnut-framed bed. She
slept soundly enough and resumed downstairs at eight the following morning. The
cook explained to her that Miss Amy had not yet risen so she ate breakfast
alone.

Once
all the covered dishes had been cleared away Mrs. Trentham sat in the drawing
room reading the Yorkshire Post while she waited for her sister to make an
appearance. When over an hour later the old cat wandered in, Mrs. Trentham
shooed the animal away with a vicious wave of the folded newspaper. The
grandfather clock in the hall had already struck eleven when Amy finally
entered the room. She walked slowly towards her sister with the aid of a stick.

“I’m
so sorry, Ethel, that I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived last night,”
she began. “I fear my arthritis has been playing me up again.”

Mrs.
Trentham didn’t bother to reply, but watched her sister as she hobbled towards
her, unable to believe the deterioration in her condition in less than three
months.

Although
Amy had in the past appeared slight she was now frail. And even if she had
always been quiet she was now almost inaudible. If she had been perhaps a
little pale, she was now gray and the lines on her face were so deeply etched
she looked far older than her sixy-nine years.

Amy
lowered herself onto the chair next to her sister and for some seconds
continued to breathe deeply, leaving her visitor in no doubt that the walk from
the bedroom to the drawing room had been something of an ordeal.

“It’s
so kind of you to leave your family and come up to be with me in Yorkshire,”
Amy said as the tortoiseshell cat climbed onto her lap. “I must confess that
since dear Papa died I don’t know where to turn.”

“That’s
quite understandable, my dear.” Mrs. Trentham smiled thinly. “But I felt it was
nothing more than my duty to be with you as well as being a pleasure, of
course. In any case, Father warned me this might happen once he had passed
away. He gave me specific instructions, you know, as to exactly what should be
done in the circumstances.”