“May I come as well?”
“Yes, I’m sure that will be all right.”
Both women rose and followed the nurse farther down the same corridor until they reached a white door with a small brass plate almost worn away with rubbing which read “Fergus Gould, MD.” A gentle knock from the nurse elicited a “yes” and Daphne and Becky entered the room together.
“Good morning, good morning,” said the doctor cheerfully in a soft Scottish burr, shaking hands with the two of them in turn. “Won’t you please be seated? The tests have been completed and I have excellent news for you.” He returned to the seat behind his desk and opened a file in front of him. They both smiled, the taller of the two relaxing for the first time in days.
“I’m happy to say that you are physically in perfect health, but as this is your first child”—he watched both women turn white—“you will have to behave rather more cautiously over the coming months. But as long as you do, I can see no reason why this birth should have any complications. May I be the first to congratulate you?”
“Oh God, no,” she said, nearly fainting. “I thought you said the news was excellent.”
“Why, yes,” replied Dr. Gould. “I assumed you would be delighted.”
Her friend interjected. “You see, Doctor, there’s a problem. She’s not married.”
“Oh yes, I do see,” said the doctor, his voice immediately changing tone. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea. Perhaps if you had told me at our first meeting—”
“No, I’m entirely to blame, Dr. Gould. I had simply hoped—”
“No, it is I who am to blame. How extremely tactless of me.” Dr. Gould paused thoughtfully. “Although it remains illegal in this country, I am assured that there are excellent doctors in Sweden who—”
“That is not possible,” said the pregnant woman. “You see, it’s against everything my parents would have considered ‘acceptable behavior.’”
“Good morning, Hadlow,” said the colonel, as he marched into the bank, handing the manager his topcoat, hat and cane.
“Good morning, Sir Danvers,” replied the manager, passing the hat, coat and cane on to an assistant. “May I say how honored we are that you thought our humble establishment worthy of your consideration.”
Becky couldn’t help reflecting that it was not quite the same greeting she had received when visiting another bank of similar standing only a few weeks before.
“Would you be kind enough to come through to my office?” the manager continued, putting his arm out as if he were guiding wayward traffic.
“Certainly, but first may I introduce Mr. Trumper and Miss Salmon, both of whom are my associates in this venture.”
“Delighted, I’m sure,” the manager said as he pushed his glasses back up his nose before shaking hands with Charlie and Becky in turn.
Becky noticed that Charlie was unusually silent and kept pulling at his collar, which looked as though it might be half an inch too tight for comfort. However, after spending a morning in Savile Row the previous week being measured from head to foot for a new suit, he had refused to wait a moment longer when Daphne suggested he should be measured for a shirt, so in the end Daphne was left to guess his neck size.
“Coffee?” inquired the manager, once they had all settled in his office.
“No, thank you,” said the colonel.
Becky would have liked a cup of coffee but realized that the manager had assumed Sir Danvers had spoken for all three of them. She bit her lip.
“Now, how can I be of assistance, Sir Danvers?” The manager nervously touched the knot of his tie.
“My associates and I currently own a property in Chelsea Terrace—Number 147—which although a small venture at present is nevertheless progressing sat
isfactorily.” The manager’s smile remained in place. “We purchased the premises some eighteen months ago at a cost of one hundred pounds and that investment has shown a profit this year of a little over forty-three pounds.”
“Very satisfactory,” said the manager. “Of course, I have read your letter and the accounts you so kindly had sent over by messenger.”
Charlie was tempted to tell him who the messenger had been.
“However, we feel the time has come to expand,” continued the colonel. “And in order to do so we will require a bank that can show a little more initiative than the establishment with which we’re presently dealing—as well as one that has its eye on the future. Our current bankers, I sometimes feel, are still living in the nineteenth century. Frankly, they are little more than holders of deposits, while what we are looking for is the service of a real bank.”
“I understand.”
“It’s been worrying me—” said the colonel, suddenly breaking off and fixing his monocle to his left eye.