As the Crow Flies by Jeffrey Archer
“Good morning, Miss Salmon,” the older man said. “My name is Crowther. Perhaps you’d be good enough to join me.” He raised the counter lid and ushered her through. Becky duly followed in his wake.
“Good weather for this time of the year, wouldn’t you say, madam?”
Becky stared out of the window and watched the umbrellas bobbing up and down along the pavement, but decided not to comment on Mr. Crowther’s meteorological judgment.
Once they had reached a poky little room at the back of the building he announced with obvious pride, “This is my office. Won’t you please be seated, Miss Salmon?” He gestured towards an uncomfortably low chair placed opposite his desk. He then sat down in his own high-backed chair. “I’m a partner of the firm,” he explained, “but I must confess a very junior partner.” He laughed at his own joke. “Now, how can I help you?”
“My colleague and I want to acquire Numbers 131 and 135 Chelsea Terrace,” she said.
“Quite so,” said Mr. Crowther, looking down at his file. “And on this occasion will Miss Daphne Harcourt-Browne—”
“Miss Harcourt-Browne will not be involved in this transaction and if, because of that, you feel unable to deal with Mr. Trumper or myself, we shall be happy to approach the vendors direct.” Becky held her breath.
“Oh, please don’t misunderstand me, madam. I’m sure we will have no trouble in continuing to do business with you.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, let us start with Number 135,” said Mr. Crowther, pushing his spectacles back up his nose before he leafed through the file in front of him. “Ah, yes, dear Mr. Kendrick, a first-class butcher, you know. Sadly he is now considering an early retirement.”
Becky sighed, and Mr. Crowther looked up at her over his spectacles.
“His doctor has told him that he has no choice if he hopes to live more than a few more months,” she said.
“Quite so,” said Mr. Crowther, returning to his file. “Well, it seems that his asking price is one hundred and fifty pounds for the freehold, plus one hundred pounds for the goodwill of the business.”
“And how much will he take?”
“I’m not quite sure I catch your drift, madam.” The junior partner raised his eyebrows.
“Mr. Crowther, before we waste another minute of each other’s time I feel I should let you know in confidence that it is our intention to purchase, if the price is right, every shop that becomes available in Chelsea Terrace, with the long-term aim of owning the entire block, even if it takes us a lifetime to achieve. It is not my intention to visit your office regularly for the next twenty years for the sole purpose of shadowboxing with you. By then I suspect you will be a senior partner, and both of us will have better things to do. Do I make myself clear?”
“Abundantly,” said Mr. Crowther, glancing at the note Palmer had attached to the sale of 147: the lad hadn’t exaggerated in the forthright opinion of his client. He pushed his spectacles back up his nose.
“I think Mr. Kendrick might be willing to accept one hundred and twenty-five pounds if you would also agree to a pension of twenty-five pounds a year until his death.”
“But he might live forever.”
“I feel I should point out, madam, that it was you, not I, who referred to Mr. Kendrick’s present state of health.” For the first time the junior partner leaned back in his chair.
“I have no desire to rob Mr. Kendrick of his pension,” Becky replied. “Please offer him one hundred pounds for the freehold of the shop and twenty pounds a year for a period of eight years as a pension. I’m flexible on the latter part of the transaction but not on the former. Is that understood, Mr. Crowther?”
“It certainly is, madam.”
“And if I’m to pay Mr. Kendrick a pension I shall also expect him to be available to offer advice from time to time as and when we require it.”
“Quite so,” said Crowther, making a note of her request in the margin.
“So what can you tell me about 131?”
“Now that is a knotty problem,” said Crowther, opening a second file. “I don’t know if you are fully aware of the circumstances, madam, but…”
Becky decided not to help him on this occasion. She smiled sweetly.
“Um, well,” continued the junior partner, “Mr. Rutherford is off to New York with a friend to open an antiques gallery, in somewhere called the ‘Village.’” He hesitated.
“And their partnership is of a somewhat unusual nature?” assisted Becky after a prolonged silence. “And he might prefer to spend the rest of his days in an apartment in New York, rather than a cell in Brixton?”
“Quite so,” said Mr. Crowther, as a bead of perspiration appeared on his forehead. “And in this particular gentleman’s case, he wishes to remove everything from the premises, as he feels his merchandise might well fetch a better price in Manhattan. Therefore all that he would leave for your consideration would be the freehold.”
“Then can I presume in his case there will be no pension?”
“I think we may safely presume that.”
“And may we therefore expect his price to be a little more reasonable, remembering some of the pressures he is under?”
“I would have thought not,” replied Mr. Crowther, “as the shop in question is rather larger than most of the others in Chelsea—”
“One thousand, four hundred and twenty-two square feet, to be precise,” said Becky, “compared with one thousand square feet at Number 147, which we acquired for—”
“A very reasonable price at the time, if I may be so bold as to suggest, Miss Salmon.”
“However…”
“Quite so,” said Mr. Crowther. Another bead of sweat appeared on his forehead.
“So how much is he hoping to raise for the freehold, now that we have established that he won’t be requiring a pension?”
“His asking price,” said Mr. Crowther, whose eyes had once again returned to the file, “is two hundred pounds. However, I suspect,” he added before Becky had the chance to challenge him, “that if you were able to close the negotiations quickly he might allow the property to go for as little as one hundred and seventy-five.” His eyebrows arched. “I am given to understand that he is anxious to join his friend as quickly as possible.”
“If he’s that anxious to join his friend I suspect he will be only too happy to lower his price to one hundred and fifty for a quick sale, and he might even accept one hundred and sixty, despite it taking a few days longer.”
“Quite so.” Mr. Crowther removed his handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped his brow. Becky couldn’t help noticing that it was still raining outside. “Will there be anything else, madam?” he asked, the handkerchief having been returned to the safety of his pocket.
“Yes, Mr. Crowther,” said Becky. “I should like you to keep a watching brief on all the properties in Chelsea Terrace and approach either Mr. Trumper or myself the moment you hear of anything likely to come on the market.”
“Perhaps it might be helpful if I were to prepare a full assessment of the properties on the block, then let you and Mr. Trumper have a comprehensive written report for your consideration?”
“That would be most useful,” said Becky, hiding her surprise at this sudden piece of initiative.
She rose from her chair to make it clear she considered the meeting to be over.
As they walked back to the front desk, Mr. Crowther ventured, “I am given to understand that Number 147 is proving most popular with the inhabitants of Chelsea.”
“And how would you know that?” asked Becky, surprised for a second time.
“My wife,” Mr. Crowther explained, “refuses to shop for her fruit and vegetables anywhere else, despite the fact that we live in Fulham.”
“A discerning lady, your wife,” said Becky.
“Quite so,” said Mr. Crowther.
Becky assumed that the banks would react to her approach with much the same enthusiasm as the estate agent ha
“Come up against the world of men for the first time, have we?” asked Daphne, dropping her magazine on the floor. “Their cliques, their clubs? A woman’s place is in the kitchen, and, if you’re half attractive, perhaps occasionally in the bedroom.”
Becky nodded glumly as she placed the magazine back on a side table.
“It’s an attitude of mind that’s never worried me, I must confess,” Daphne admitted as she pushed her feet into a pair of shoes with stylish pointed toes. “But then I wasn’t born overly ambitious like you, my darling. However, perhaps it’s time to throw you another lifeline.”
“Lifeline?”
“Yes. You see, what you need to solve your problem is an old school tie.”
“Wouldn’t it look a bit silly on me?”
“Probably look rather fetching actually, but that’s not the point. The dilemma you seem to be facing is your gender—not to mention Charlie’s accent, although I’ve nearly cured the dear boy of that problem. However, one thing’s for sure, they haven’t yet found a way to change people’s sex.”
“Where is all this leading?” asked Becky innocently.
“You’re so impatient, darling. Just like Charlie. You must allow us lesser mortals a little more time to explain what we’re about.”
Becky took a seat on the corner of the sofa and placed her hands in her lap.
“First you must realize that all bankers are frightful snobs,” continued Daphne. “Otherwise they’d be out there like you, running their own businesses. So what you require, to have them eating out of your hand, is a respectable front man.”
“Front man?”
“Yes. Someone who’ll accompany you on your trips to the bank whenever it should prove necessary.” Daphne rose and checked herself in the mirror before continuing. “Such a person may not be blessed with your brains, but then on the other hand he won’t be encumbered by your gender or by Charlie’s accent. What he will have, however, is an old school tie, and preferably a title of some kind to go with it. Bankers do like a ‘Bart’ but most important of all you must secure someone who has a definite need of cash. For services rendered, you understand.”
“Do such people exist?” asked Becky in disbelief.
“They most certainly do. In fact, there are far more of that type around than there are those who are willing to do a day’s work.” Daphne smiled reassuringly. “Give me a week or two and I feel confident I’ll be able to come up with a shortlist of three. You’ll see.”
“You’re a wonder,” said Becky.
“In return I shall expect a small favor from you.”
“Anything.”
“Never use that word when dealing with a praying mantis like myself, darling. However, my request on this occasion is quite simple, and well within your power to grant. If Charlie should ask you to accompany him to his regimental dinner and dance, you are to accept.”
“Why?”
“Because Reggie Arbuthnot has been stupid enough to invite me to the blithering occasion and I can’t refuse him if I’m to hope for a little stalking on his estate in Scotland come November.” Becky laughed as Daphne added, “I don’t mind being taken to the ball by Reggie, but I do object to having to leave with him. So, if we have reached an agreement, I’ll supply you with your necessary chinless Bart and all you have to do when Charlie asks you is say ‘yes.’”
“Yes.”
Charlie wasn’t surprised when Becky agreed without hesitation to be escorted to the regimental ball. After all, Daphne had already explained the details of their agreement to him. But it did come as a shock that, when Becky took her seat at the table, his fellow sergeants couldn’t take their eyes off her.
The dinner had been laid out in a massive gymnasium, which prompted Charlie’s mates to tell story after story of their early days of training in Edinburgh. However, there the comparison ended, because the food was of a far higher standard than Charlie remembered being offered in Scotland.
“Where’s Daphne?” asked Becky, as a portion of apple pie liberally covered in custard was placed in front of her.
“Up there on the top table with all the nobs,” said Charlie, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. “Can’t afford to be seen with the likes of us, can she?” he added with a grin.
Once the dinner was over there followed a series of toasts—to everyone, it seemed to Becky, except the King. Charlie explained that the regiment had been granted dispensation from the loyal toast by King William IV in 1835 as their allegiance to the crown was without question. However, they did raise their glasses to the armed forces, each battalion in turn, and finally to the regiment, coupled with the name of their former colonel, each toast ending in rousing cheers. Becky watched the reactions of the men seated around her at the table and came to realize for the first time how many of that generation considered themselves lucky simply to be alive.
The former Colonel of the Regiment, Sir Danvers Hamilton, Bt., DSO, CBE, monocle in place, made a moving speech about all their fellow comrades who were for different reasons unable to be present that night. Becky saw Charlie visibly stiffen at the mention of his friend Tommy Prescott. Finally they all rose and toasted absent friends. Becky found herself unexpectedly moved.
Once the colonel had sat down the tables were cleared to one side so that dancing could begin. No sooner had the first note struck up from the regimental band than Daphne appeared from the other end of the room.
“Come on, Charlie. I haven’t the time to wait for you to find your way up to the top table.”
“Delighted, I’m sure, madam,” said Charlie, when he rose from his seat, “but what has happened to Reggie what’s-his-name?”
“Arbuthnot,” she said. “I have left the silly man clinging on to a deb from Chelmsford. And quite dreadful she was, I can tell you.”
“What was so ‘dreadful’ about her?” mimicked Charlie.
“I never thought the day would come,” said Daphne, “when His Majesty would allow anyone from Essex to be presented at court. But worse than that was her age.”
“Why? How old is she?” asked Charlie, as he waltzed Daphne confidently round the floor.
“I can’t altogether be certain, but she had the nerve to introduce me to her widowed father.”
Charlie burst out laughing.
“You’re not supposed to find it funny, Charles Trumper, you’re meant to show some sympathy. There’s still so much you have to learn.”
Becky watched Charlie as he danced smoothly round the floor. “That Daphne’s a bit of all right,” said the man sitting next to her, who had introduced himself as Sergeant Mike Parker and turned out to be a butcher from Camberwell who had served alongside Charlie on the Marne. Becky accepted his judgment without comment, and when he later bowed and asked Becky for the pleasure of the next dance she reluctantly accepted. He proceeded to march her around the ballroom floor as if she were a leg of mutton on the way to the refrigeration room. The only thing he managed to do in time with the music was to tread on her toes. At last he returned Becky to the comparative safety of their beer-stained table. Becky sat in silence while she watched everyone enjoying themselves, hoping that no one else would ask her for the pleasure. Her thoughts returned to Guy, and the meeting that she could no longer avoid if in another two weeks…
“May I have the honor, miss?”
Every man round the tab
She found Colonel Hamilton an accomplished dancer and an amusing companion, without showing any of those tendencies to patronize her that the string of bank managers had recently displayed. After the dance was over he invited Becky to the top table and introduced her to his wife.
“I must warn you,” Daphne told Charlie, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the colonel and Lady Hamilton. “It’s going to be quite a challenge for you to keep pace with the ambitious Miss Salmon. But as long as you stick with me and pay attention we’ll give her a damned good run for her money.”
After a couple more dances Daphne informed Becky that she had more than done her duty and the time had come for them all to leave. Becky, for her part, was only too pleased to escape the attention of so many young officers who had seen her dance with the colonel.
“I’ve some good news for you,” Daphne told the two of them as the hansom trundled down the King’s Road in the direction of Chelsea Terrace, with Charlie still clinging to his half-empty bottle of champagne.
“What’s that, my girl?” he asked, after a burp.
“I’m not your girl,” Daphne remonstrated. “I may be willing to invest in the lower classes, Charlie Trumper, but never forget I’m not without breeding.”
“So what’s your news?” asked Becky, laughing.
“You’ve kept your part of the bargain, so I must keep to mine.”
“What do you mean?” asked Charlie, half asleep.
“I can now produce my shortlist of three to be considered as your front man, and thus, I hope, solve your banking problem.”
Charlie immediately sobered up.
“My first offer is the second son of an earl,” began Daphne. “Penniless but presentable. My second is a Bart, who will take the exercise on for a professional fee, but my pièce de résistance is a viscount whose luck has run out at the tables in Deauville and now finds it necessary to involve himself in the odd piece of vulgar commercial work.”