As the Crow Flies

“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

d. However, having selected eight she thought might be possibilities, she quickly discovered that there is a considerable difference between offering yourself as a buyer and prostrating oneself as a borrower. Every time she presented her plans—to someone so junior as to be most unlikely to be able to make a decision—she received only a dismissive shake of the head. This included the bank that already held the Trumper account. “In fact,” as she recounted to Daphne later that evening, “one of the junior assistants at the Penny Bank even had the nerve to suggest that should I ever become a married woman then they’d be only too delighted to do business with my husband.”

“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.”