“And where are those Fordian-like thoughts taking you at this particular moment?” she asked.
“To that row of shops opposite.”
“All of them?” Becky looked over at the block. “And what conclusion would Mr. Ford have come to had he been sitting on this bench, pray?”
“That they represent thirty-six different ways of making money.”
“I’ve never counted them, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“But what else do you see when you look across the road?”
Becky’s eyes returned to Chelsea Terrace. “Lots of people walking up and down the pavement, mainly ladies with parasols, nannies pushing prams, and the odd child with a skipping rope or hoop.” She paused. “Why, what do you see?”
“Two ‘For Sale’ signs.”
“I confess I hadn’t noticed them.” Once again she looked across the road.
“That’s because you’re looking with a different pair of eyes,” Charlie explained.
“First there’s Kendrick’s the butcher. Well, we all know about him, don’t we? Heart attack, been advised by his doctor to retire early or he can’t hope to live much longer.”
“And then there’s Mr. Rutherford,” said Becky, spotting the second “For Sale” sign.
“The antiques dealer. Oh, yes, dear Julian wants to sell up and join his friend in New York, where society is a little more sympathetic when it comes to his particular proclivities—like that word?”
“How did you find—?”
“Information,” said Charlie, touching his nose. “The life blood of any business.”
“Another Fordian principle?”
“No, much nearer home than that,” admitted Charlie. “Daphne Harcourt-Browne.”
Becky smiled. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to get hold of them both, aren’t I?”
“And how do you intend to do that?”
“With my cunning and your diligence.”
“Are you being serious, Charlie Trumper?”
“Never more.” Charlie turned to face her once again. “After all, why should Chelsea Terrace be any different from Whitechapel?”
“Just the odd decimal point, perhaps,” suggested Becky.
“Then let’s move that decimal point, Miss Salmon. Because the time has come for you to stop being a sleeping partner and start fulfilling your end of the bargain.”
“But what about at my exams?”
“Use the extra time you’ll have now that your boyfriend has departed for India.”
“He goes tomorrow, actually.”
“Then I’ll grant you a further day’s leave. Isn’t that how officers describe a day off? Because tomorrow I want you to return to John D. Wood and make an appointment to see that pimply young assistant—what was his name?”
“Palmer,” said Becky.