As the Crow Flies

“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.”