As the Crow Flies

“The war has been over for some weeks,” I reminded her. “And there doesn’t seem to be much sign of your Charlie.”

“He’s not my Charlie” was all she said.

Anyway, I kept a close eye on Becky during the next thirty days and it quickly became plain for anyone to see that she wasn’t going to raise the money. However, she was far too proud to admit as much to me. I therefore decided the time had come to pay another visit to Romford.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Harcourt-Browne,” Becky’s mother assured me, when I arrived unannounced at their little house in Belle Vue Road. I should point out, in my own defense, that I would have informed Mrs. Salmon of my imminent arrival if she had possessed a telephone. As I sought certain information that only she could supply before the thirty days were up—information that would save not only her daughter’s face but also her finances—I was unwilling to put my trust in the postal service.

“Becky isn’t in any trouble, I hope?” was Mrs. Salmon’s first reaction when she saw me standing on the doorstep.

“Certainly not,” I assured her. “Never seen the girl in perkier form.”

“It’s just that since her father’s death I do worry about her,” Mrs. Salmon explained. She limped just slightly as she guided me into a drawing room that was as spotless as the day I had first accepted their kind invitation to tea. A bowl of fruit rested on the table in the center of the room. I only prayed that Mrs. Salmon would never drop into Number 97 without giving me at least a year’s notice.

“How can I be of assistance?” Mrs. Salmon asked, moments after Miss Roach had been dispatched to the kitchen to prepare tea.

“I am considering making a small investment in a greengrocer’s shop in Chelsea,” I told her. “I am assured by john D. Wood that it is a sound proposition, despite the current food shortage and the growing problems with trade unions—that is, as long as I can install a first-class manager.”

Mrs. Salmon’s smile was replaced by a puzzled expression.

“Becky has sung the praises of someone called Charlie Trumper, and the purpose of my visit is to seek your opinion of the gentleman in question.”

“Gentleman he certainly is not,” said Mrs. Salmon without hesitation. “An uneducated ruffian might be nearer the mark.”

“Oh, what a disappointment,” I said. “Especially as Becky led me to believe that your late husband thought rather highly of him.”

“As a fruit and vegetable man he certainly did. In fact I’d go as far as to say that Mr. Salmon used to consider that young Charlie might end up being as good as his grandfather.”

“And how good was that?”

“Although I didn’t mix with those sort of people, you understand,” explained Mrs. Salmon, “I was told, second-hand of course, that he was the finest Whitechapel had ever seen.”

“Good,” I said. “But is he also honest?”

“I have never heard otherwise,” Mrs. Salmon admitted. “And Heaven knows, he’s willing to work all the hours God gave, but he’s hardly your type, I would have thought, Miss Harcourt-Browne.”

“I was considering employing the man as a shopkeeper, Mrs. Salmon, not inviting him to join me in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot.” At that moment Miss Roach reappeared with a tray of tea—jam tarts and eclairs smothered in cream. They turned out to be so delicious that I stayed far longer than I had planned.

The following morning I paid a visit to John D. Wood and handed over a check for the remaining ninety pounds. I then visited my solicitor and had a contract drawn up, which when it was completed I didn’t begin to understand.

Once Becky had found out what I had been up to I drove a hard bargain, because I knew the girl would resent my interference if I wasn’t able to prove that I was getting something worthwhile out of the deal.

As soon as she had been convinced of that, Becky immediately handed over a further thirty pounds to help reduce the debt. She certainly took her new enterprise most seriously, because within weeks she had stolen a young man from a shop in Kensington to take over Trumper’s until Charlie returned. She also continued to work hours I didn’t even know existed. I could never get her to explain to me the point of rising before the sun did.

After Becky had settled into her new routine I even invited her to make up a foursome for the opera one night—to see La Bohème. In the past she had shown no inclination to attend any of my outings, especially with her new responsibilities with the shop. But on this occasion I pleaded with her to join the group because a chum of mine had canceled at the last minute and I desperately needed a spare girl.

“But I’ve nothing to wear,” she said helplessly.

“Take your pick of anything of mine you fancy,” I told her, and ushered her through to my bedroom.

I could see that she found such an offer almost irresistible. An hour later she reemerged in a long turquoise dress that brought back memories of what it had originally looked like on the model.

“Who are your other guests?” Becky inquired.

“Algernon Fitzpatrick. He’s Percy Wiltshire’s best friend. You remember, the man who hasn’t yet been told I’m going to marry him.”

“And who makes up the party?”

“Guy Trentham. He’s a captain in the Royal Fusiliers, an acceptable regiment, just,” I added. “He’s recently returned from the Western Front where it’s said he had a rather good war. MC and all that. We come from the same village in Berkshire, and grew up together, although I confess we don’t really have a lot in common. Very good-looking, but has the reputation as a bit of a ladies’ man, so beware.”