As the Crow Flies

“Because I knew you’d only say we couldn’t afford it, as you did with the second, third, fourth, fifth and every subsequent shop.”

He walked towards the front door with Becky still a yard behind him.

“But—”

“I’ll leave you two to sort things out,” said the colonel. “Come over to my place and have that glass of champagne just as soon as you’ve finished looking over your new home.”

The colonel continued on down Tregunter Road, swinging his umbrella in the morning sun, pleased with himself and the world, arriving back just in time for his first whisky of the day.

He imparted all his news to Elizabeth, who had many more questions about the baby and the house than about the present state of the company accounts or her husband’s appointment as chairman. Having acquitted himself as best he could, the colonel asked his manservant to place a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. He then retired to his study to check through the morning mail while he awaited the Trumpers’ arrival.

There were three letters unopened on his desk: a bill from his tailor—which reminded him of Becky’s strictures on such matters—an invitation to the Ashburton Shield to be held at Bisley, an annual event he always enjoyed, and a letter from Daphne, which he rather expected might simply repeat the news that Becky had already relayed to him.

The envelope was postmarked Delhi. The colonel slit it open in anticipation. Daphne dutifully repeated how much she was enjoying the trip, but failed to mention her weight problem. She did, however, go on to say that she had some distressing news to impart concerning Guy Trentham. She wrote that while they were staying in Poona, Percy had come across him one evening at the officers’ club dressed in civilian clothes. He had lost so much weight that her husband hardly recognized him. He informed Percy that he had been forced to resign his commission and there was only one person to blame for his downfall: a sergeant who had lied about him in the past, and was happy to associate with known criminals. Guy was claiming that he had even caught the man stealing himself. Once he was back in England Trentham intended to—

The front doorbell rang.

“Can you answer it, Danvers?” Elizabeth said, leaning over the banister. “I’m upstairs arranging the flowers.”

The colonel was still seething with anger when he opened the front door to find Charlie and Becky waiting on the top step in anticipation. He must have looked surprised to see them because Becky had to say, “Champagne, Chairman. Or have you already forgotten my physical state?”

“Ah, yes, sorry. My thoughts were some distance away.” The colonel stuffed Daphne’s letter into his jacket pocket. “The champagne should be at the perfect temperature by now,” he added, as he ushered his guests through to the drawing room.

“Two and a quarter Trumpers have arrived,” he barked back up the stairs to his wife.

CHAPTER

18

It always amused the colonel to watch Charlie spending so much of his time running from shop to shop, trying to keep a close eye on all his staff, while also attempting to concentrate his energy on any establishment that wasn’t showing a worthwhile return. But whatever the various problems he faced, the colonel was only too aware that Charlie couldn’t resist a spell of serving at the fruit and vegetable shop, which remained his pride and joy. Coat off, sleeves rolled up and cockney accent at its broadest, Charlie was allowed an hour a day by Bob Makins to pretend he was back on the corner of Whitechapel Road peddling his wares from his granpa’s barrow.

“’Alf a pound of tomatoes, some runner beans, and your usual pound of carrots, Mrs. Symonds, if I remember correctly.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Trumper. And how’s Mrs. Trumper?”

“Never better.”

“And when’s the baby expected?”

“In about three months, the doctor thinks.”

“Don’t see you serving in the shop so much nowadays.”

“Only when I know the important customers are around, my luv,” said Charlie. “After all, you were one of my first.”

“I was indeed. So have you signed the deal on the flats yet, Mr. Trumper?”

Charlie stared at Mrs. Symonds as he handed back her change, unable to hide his surprise. “The flats?”

“Yes, you know, Mr. Trumper. Numbers 25 to 99.”

“Why do you ask, Mrs. Symonds?”

“Because you’re not the only person who’s showing an interest in them.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know because I saw a young man holding a bunch of keys, waiting outside the building for a client last Sunday morning.”