As the Crow Flies by Jeffrey Archer
“Then you’ll have to leave the problem of Trentham to me,” I told him. “Meanwhile you get on with running the shops. But be sure to let me know the moment it’s all out in the open so I don’t go around looking as if I haven’t a clue what’s going on.” I rose to leave.
“The whole world will know before much longer,” Charlie said.
I had said “leave the problem to me” without the slightest idea of what I was going to do about it, but when I had returned home that night I discussed the whole affair with Elizabeth. She advised me to have a chat with Daphne, who she felt confident would know considerably more about what was going on than Charlie did. I suspected she was right.
Elizabeth and I duly invited Daphne to tea at Tregunter Road a couple of days later. She confirmed everything Charlie had said and was also able to fill in one or two missing pieces of the jigsaw.
In Daphne’s opinion Trentham had been Becky’s first serious romance, and certainly to her knowledge Becky had never slept with any other man before they had met, and only once with Trentham. Captain Trentham, she assured us, was unable to boast the same blameless reputation.
The rest of her news did not augur well for a simple solution, as it turned out that Guy’s mother could not be relied on to insist that her son do the decent thing by Becky. On the contrary, Daphne knew the woman was already preparing the ground to ensure that no one could possibly believe that Trentham could be in any way responsible.
“But what about Trentham’s father?” I asked. “Do you think I should have a word with him? Although we were in the same regiment we were never in the same battalion, don’t you know.”
“He’s the only member of that family I really care for,” Daphne admitted. “He’s the MP for Berkshire West, a Liberal.”
“Then that has to be my approach route,” I replied. “I can’t abide the man’s politics, but that won’t stop him from knowing the difference between right and wrong.”
Yet another letter sent on club notepaper elicited an immediate reply from the major, inviting me to drinks at Chester Square the following Monday.
I arrived punctually at six, and was taken into the drawing room where I was greeted by a quite charming lady who introduced herself as Mrs. Trentham. She was not at all what I expected after Daphne’s description; in fact she was a rather handsome woman. She was profuse in her apologies: it seemed that her husband had been held up at the House of Commons by a running three-line whip, which even I knew meant he was unable to leave the Palace of Westminster on pain of death. I made an instant decision—wrongly I realize in retrospect—that this matter couldn’t wait a moment longer and I must relay my message to the major through his wife.
“I find this is all rather embarrassing actually,” I began.
“Do feel free to speak quite openly, Colonel. I can assure you that I am fully in my husband’s confidence. We have no secrets from each other.”
“Well, to be frank with you, Mrs. Trentham, the matter I wish to touch on concerns your son Guy.”
“I see” was all she said.
“And his fiancée, Miss Salmon.”
“She is not, and never has been, his fiancée,” said Mrs. Trentham, her voice revealing a sudden edge.
“But I was given to understand—”
“That promises were made to Miss Salmon by my son? I can assure you, Colonel, that nothing could be further from the truth.”
Slightly taken aback, I was unable to think of a diplomatic way of letting the lady know the real purpose behind my wanting to see her husband. So I simply said, “Whatever promises were or were not made, madam, I do feel that you and your husband should be aware that Miss Salmon is expecting a child.”
“And what has that to do with me?” Mrs. Trentham stared directly at me with no fear showing in her eyes.
“Simply that your son is undoubtedly the father.”
“We only have her word for that, Colonel.”
“That, madam, was unworthy of you,” I told her. “I know Miss Salmon to be a thoroughly decent and honest girl. And in any case, if it were not your son, who else could it have possibly been?”
“Heaven knows,” said Mrs. Trentham. “Any number of men, I would have thought, judging by her reputation. After all, her father was an immigrant.”
“So was the King’s father, madam,” I reminded her. “But he still would have known how to conduct himself had he been faced with the same predicament.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Colonel.”
“I mean, madam, that your son must either marry Miss Salmon or at least resign from the regiment and make suitable arrangements to see the child is properly provided for.”
“It seems I must make it clear to you once again, Colonel, that this sad state of affairs has nothing whatsoever to do with my son. I can assure you that Guy stopped seeing the girl some months before he sailed for India.”
“I know that is not the case, madam, because—”
“Do you, Colonel? Then I must ask what exactly this whole business has to do with you in the first place?”
“Simply that Miss Salmon and Mr. Trumper are both colleagues of mine,” I explained.
“I see,” she said. “Then I suspect you will not have to look much further to discover who is the real father.”
“Madam, that was also uncalled for. Charlie Trumper is not—”
“I cannot see any purpose in continuing this conversation, Colonel,” Mrs. Trentham said, rising from her chair. She began to walk towards the door, not even bothering to glance in my direction. “I must warn you, Colonel, that should I hear this slander repeated in any quarter I shall not hesitate to instruct solicitors to take the necessary action to defend my son’s good reputation.”
Although shaken, I followed her into the hall, determined to see that the matter was not allowed to rest there. I now felt Major Trentham was my only hope. As Mrs. Trentham opened the front door to show me out I said firmly, “May I presume, madam, that you will recount this conversation faithfully to your husband?”
“You may presume nothing, Colonel,” were her final words as the front door was slammed in my face. The last occasion I received such treatment from a lady had been in Rangoon, and I’m bound to say that the girl in question had considerably more reason to be aggrieved.
When I repeated the conversation to Elizabeth—as accurately as I could recall—my wife pointed out to me in that clear, concise way of hers that I had been left with only three choices. The first was to write to Captain Trentham directly and demand he do the decent thing, the second would be to inform his commanding officer of everything I knew.
“And the third?” I asked.
“Never to refer to the subject again.”
I considered her words carefully, and chose the middle course, dropping a note to Ralph Forbes, a first-class fellow who had succeeded me as colonel, acquainting him with the facts as I knew them. I chose my words most judiciously, aware that if Mrs. Trentham were to carry out her threat any legal action she took could only bring the regiment’s good name into disrepute, perhaps even ridicule. However, I did at the same time decide to keep a fatherly eye on Becky, as she now seemed to be burning the candle at both ends, not to mention in the middle. After all, the girl was trying to prepare for her exams, as well as act as an unpaid secretary and accountant to a thriving little business, while everyone who passed her in the street must have known that it could only be a matter of weeks before she was due to give birth.
As those weeks passed, it worried me that nothing seemed to be happening on the Trentham front despite the fact that I had received a reply from Forbes assuring me that he had set up a panel of inquiry. Certainly when I inquired further of Daphne or Charlie neither of them seemed to be any better informed than I was.
It was in mid-October that year that Daniel George was born, and I was touched that Becky invited me to be a godparent, along with Bob Makins and Daphne. I was even more delighted when I learned from Bec
Elizabeth and I, along with Daphne, Percy, Mrs. Salmon, Miss Roach and Bob Makins, attended the simple civil service at Chelsea Register Office, followed by a boisterous reception in Charlie’s flat above the shop.
I began to think that perhaps everything had worked out for the best until some months later Daphne telephoned, asking urgently to see me. I took her to lunch at the club, where she produced a letter that she had received from Captain Trentham that morning. As I read his words I became painfully aware that Mrs. Trentham must have learned of my own letter to Forbes warning him of the consequences of a breach-of-promise suit, and immediately taken matters into her own hands. I felt the time had come to let her son know that he had not got away with it.
I left my guest to have coffee while I retired to the writing room and with the help of a stiff brandy began to compose an even stiffer letter, I can tell you. I felt my final effort covered all the necessary points in as diplomatic and realistic a way as was possible given the circumstances. Daphne thanked me, and promised she would send the letter on to Trentham verbatim.
I didn’t have another conversation with her again until we met at her wedding a month later, and that was hardly an appropriate time to broach the subject of Captain Trentham.
After the service was over I strolled round to Vincent Square where the reception was being held. I kept a wary eye out for Mrs. Trentham who I assumed had also been invited. I had no desire to hold a second conversation with that particular lady.
I was, however, delighted to catch up with Charlie and Becky in the large marquee that had been erected especially for the occasion. I have never seen the girl looking more radiant, and Charlie could almost have been described as suave standing there in his morning coat, gray cravat and topper. The fine half hunter that hung from his waistcoat turned out to be a wedding gift from Becky, left to her by her father, she explained, although the rest of the outfit, Charlie reported, had to be returned to Moss Bros. first thing the following morning.
“Has the time not come, Charlie,” I suggested, “for you to purchase a morning coat of your own? After all, there are likely to be considerably more of these occasions in the future.”
“Certainly not,” he replied. “That would only be a waste of good money.”
“May I inquire why?” I asked. “Surely the cost of a—”
“Because it is my intention to purchase a tailor’s shop of my own,” he interjected. “I’ve had my eye on Number 143 for some considerable time, and I hear from Mr. Crowther that it might come on the market at any moment.”
I couldn’t argue with this piece of logic, although his next question baffled me completely.
“Have you ever heard of Marshall Field, Colonel?”
“Was he in the regiment?” I asked, racking my brain.
“No, he was not,” replied Charlie with a grin. “Marshall Field is a department store in Chicago, where you can purchase anything you could ever want for the rest of your life. What’s more they have two million square feet of selling space all under one roof.”
I couldn’t think of a more ghastly concept, but I didn’t attempt to stop the boy’s enthusiastic flow. “The building takes up an entire block,” he informed me. “Can you imagine a store that has twenty-eight entrances? According to the advertisements there’s nothing you can’t buy, from an automobile to an apple, and they have twenty-four varieties of both. They’ve revolutionized retailing in the States by being the first store to give full credit facilities. They also claim that if they don’t have it they’ll get it for you within a week. Field’s motto is: ‘Give the lady what she wants.’”
“Are you suggesting that we should purchase Marshall Field in exchange for 147 Chelsea Terrace?” I asked ingenuously.
“Not immediately, Colonel. But if in time I was able to get my hands on every shop in Chelsea Terrace we could then carry out the same operation in London, and perhaps even remove the first line from their current cheeky advertisement.”
I knew I was being set up so I duly asked what the line proclaimed.
“The biggest store in the world,” Charlie replied.
“And how do you feel about all this?” I asked, turning my attention to Becky.
“In Charlie’s case,” she replied, “it would have to be the biggest barrow in the world.”
CHAPTER
17
The first annual general meeting of Trumper’s was held above the fruit and vegetable shop in the front room of 147 Chelsea Terrace. The colonel, Charlie and Becky sat round a small trestle table, not quite sure how to get things started until the colonel opened the proceedings.
“I know there are only three of us, but I still consider all our future meetings should be conducted in a professional manner.” Charlie raised his eyebrows but made no attempt to stop the colonel’s flow. “I have therefore taken the liberty,” he began, “of setting out an agenda. Otherwise I find one can so easily forget to raise quite important issues.” The colonel proceeded to pass both his colleagues a sheet of paper with five items neatly written in his own hand. “To that end the first item to come under discussion is headed ‘financial report’ and I’ll begin by asking Becky to let us know how she sees the current fiscal position.”
Becky had carefully written out her report word for word, having the previous month purchased two large leather-bound books, one red, one blue, from the stationer’s at 137 and for the past fortnight having risen only minutes after Charlie had left for Covent Garden in order to be sure she could answer any questions that might arise at their first meeting. She opened up the cover of the red book and began to read slowly, occasionally referring to the blue book, which was just as large and authoritative-looking. This had the single word “Accounts” stamped in gold on the outside.
“In the year ending 31 December 1921 we showed a turnover on the seven shops of one thousand three hundred and twelve pounds and four shillings, on which we declared a profit of two hundred and nineteen pounds eleven shillings, showing seventeen percent profit on turnover. Our debt at the bank currently stands at seven hundred and seventy-one pounds, which includes our tax liability for the year, but the value of the seven shops remains in the books at one thousand two hundred and ninety pounds, which is the exact price we paid for them. This therefore does not reflect their current market value.
“I have made a breakdown of the figures on each of the shops for your consideration,” said Becky, handing copies of her efforts to Charlie and the colonel, both of whom studied them carefully for several minutes before either spoke.
“Grocery is still our number one earner, I see,” said the colonel, as he ran his monocle down the profit and loss column. “Hardware is only just breaking even, and the tailor’s is actually eating into our profits.”
“Yes,” said Charlie. “I met up with a right holy friar when I bought that one.”
“Holy friar?” said the colonel, perplexed.
“Liar,” said Becky, not looking up from her book.
“Afraid so,” said Charlie. “You see, I paid through the nose for the freehold, too much for the stock, then got myself landed with poor staff who weren’t properly trained. But things have taken a turn for the better since Major Arnold took over.”
The colonel smiled at the knowledge that the appointment of one of his former staff officers had been such an immediate success. Tom Arnold had returned to Savile Row soon after the war only to find that his old job as under-manager at Hawkes had been taken up by someone who had been demobbed a few months earlier than himself, and he was therefore expected to be satisfied with the status of senior assistant. He wasn’t. When the colonel told him there just might be an opening for him at Trumper’s, Arnold had jumped at the opportunity.
“I’m bound to say,” said Becky, studying the figures, “that people seem
“Agreed,” said Charlie. “And I fear we won’t be able to show a great deal of improvement on that until Major Arnold has managed to find replacements for at least three members of his present staff. I don’t expect him to declare a profit during the next six months, although I would hope they might be able to break even by the end of the third quarter.”
“Good,” said the colonel. “Now what about hardware? I see Number 129 declared a decent enough profit last year, so why should the figures have fallen back so badly this? They’re down over sixty pounds on 1920, declaring a loss for the first time.”
“I’m afraid there’s a simple enough explanation,” said Becky. “The money was stolen.”
“Stolen?”
“I fear so,” replied Charlie. “Becky began to notice as long ago as October of last year that the weekly receipts were falling, at first only by a little but then the amount grew as a pattern began to evolve.”
“Have we discovered who the culprit is?”
“Yes, that was simple enough. We switched Bob Makins from grocery when one of the staff at hardware was on holiday, and he spotted the tea leaf in no time.”
“Stop it, Charlie,” said Becky. “Sorry, Colonel. Thief.”
“It turned out the manager, Reg Larkins, has a gambling problem,” Charlie continued, “and was using our money to cover his debts. The bigger those debts became the more he needed to steal.”
“You sacked Larkins, of course,” said the colonel.
“The same day,” said Charlie. “He turned rather nasty at the time and tried to deny that he’d ever taken a penny. But we haven’t heard a word from him since and in the last three weeks we’ve even begun to show a small profit again. However, I’m still looking for a new manager to take over as soon as possible. I’ve got my eye on a young man who works at Cudson’s just off the Charing Cross Road.”