As the Crow Flies

“That I should be allowed to go one bid over five thousand.”

“But—”

“No buts, Charlie,” said Becky as she served her husband up another portion of Irish stew. “On the morning of the auction I want you on parade, dressed in your best suit and sitting in the seventh row on the gangway looking very pleased with yourself. You will then proceed to bid ostentatiously up to one over three thousand pounds. When Mrs. Trentham goes to the next bid, as undoubtedly she will, you must stand up and flounce out of the room, looking defeated, while I continue the bidding in your absence.”

“Not bad,” said Charlie as he put his fork into a couple of peas. “But surely Mrs. Trentham will work out exactly what you’re up to?”

“Not a chance,” said Becky. “Because I will have an agreed code with the auctioneer that she could never hope to spot, let alone to decipher.”

“But will I understand what you are up to?”

&

nbsp; “Oh, yes,” said Becky, “because you’ll know exactly what I’m doing when I use the glasses ploy.”

“The glasses ploy? But you don’t even wear glasses.”

“I will be on the day of the auction, and when I’m wearing them you’ll know I’m still bidding. If I take them off, I’ve finished bidding. So when you leave the room all the auctioneer will see when he looks in my direction is that I still have my glasses on. Mrs. Trentham will think you’ve gone, and will, I suspect, be quite happy to let someone else continue with the bidding so long as she’s confident they don’t represent you.”

“You’re a gem, Mrs. Trumper,” said Charlie as he rose to clear away the plates. “But what if she sees you chatting to the auctioneer or, worse, finds out your code even before Mr. Fothergill calls for the first bid?”

“She can’t,” said Becky. “I’ll agree on the code with Fothergill only minutes before the auction begins. In any case, it will be at that moment that you will make a grand entrance, and then only seconds after the other members of the board have taken their seats directly behind Mrs. Trentham, so with a bit of luck she’ll be so distracted by everything that’s going on around her that she won’t even notice me.”

“I married a very clever girl,” said Charlie.

“You never admitted as much when we were at Jubilee Street Elementary.”

On the morning of the auction, Charlie confessed over breakfast that he was very nervous, despite Becky’s appearing to be remarkably calm, especially after Joan had informed her mistress that the second footman had heard from the cook that Mrs. Trentham had placed a limit of four thousand pounds on her bidding.

“I just wonder…” said Charlie.

“Whether she planted the sum in the cook’s mind?” said Becky. “It’s possible. After all, she’s every bit as cunning as you are. But as long as we stick to our agreed plan—and remember everyone, even Mrs. Trentham, has a limit—we can still beat her.”

The auction was advertised to begin at ten A.M. A full twenty minutes before the bidding was due to commence Mrs. Trentham entered the room and swept regally down the aisle. She took her place in the center of the third row, and placed her handbag on one seat and a catalogue on the other to be certain that no one sat next to her. The colonel and his two colleagues entered the half-filled room at nine-fifty A.M. and, as instructed, filed into the seats immediately behind their adversary. Mrs. Trentham appeared to show no interest in their presence. Five minutes later Charlie made his entrance. He strolled down the center aisle, raised his hat to a lady he recognized, shook hands with one of his regular customers and finally took his place on the gangway at the end of the seventh row. He continued to chat noisily with his next-door neighbor about England’s cricket tour of Australia explaining once again that he was not related to the great Australian batsman whose name he bore. The minute hand on the grandfather clock behind the auctioneer’s box moved slowly towards the appointed hour.

Although the room was not much larger than Daphne’s hall in Eaton Square, they had still somehow managed to pack in over a hundred chairs of different shapes and sizes. The walls were covered in a faded green baize that displayed several hook marks where pictures must have hung in the past and the carpet had become so threadbare that Charlie could see the floorboards in places. He began to feel that the cost of bringing Number 1 up to the standard he expected for all Trumper’s shops was going to be greater than he had originally anticipated.

Glancing around, he estimated that over seventy people were now seated in the auction house, and wondered just how many had no interest in bidding themselves but had simply come to see the showdown between the Trumpers and Mrs. Trentham.

Syd Wrexall, as the representative of the Shops Committee, was already in the front row, arms folded, trying to look composed, his vast bulk almost taking up two seats. Charlie suspected that he wouldn’t go much beyond the second or third bid. He soon spotted Mrs. Trentham seated in the third row, her gaze fixed directly on the grandfather clock.

Then, with two minutes to spare, Becky slipped into the auction house. Charlie was sitting on the edge of his seat waiting to carry out his instructions to the letter. He rose from his place and walked purposefully towards the exit. This time Mrs. Trentham did glance round to see what Charlie was up to. Innocently he collected another bill of sale from the back of the room, then returned to his seat at a leisurely pace, stopping to talk to another shop owner who had obviously taken an hour off to watch the proceedings.

When Charlie returned to his place he didn’t look in the direction of his wife, who he knew must now be hidden somewhere towards the back of the room. Nor did he once look at Mrs. Trentham, although he could feel her eyes fixed on him.

As the clock chimed ten, Mr. Fothergill—a tall thin man with a flower in his buttonhole and not a hair of his silver locks out of place—climbed the four steps of the circular wooden box. Charlie thought he looked an impressive figure as he towered over them. As soon as he had composed himself he rested a hand on the rim of the box and beamed at the packed audience, picked up his gavel and said, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” A silence fell over the room.

“This is a sale of the property known as Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, its fixtures, fittings and contents, which have been on view to the general public for the past two weeks. The highest bidder will be required to make a deposit of ten percent immediately following the auction, then complete the final transaction within ninety days. Those are the terms as stated on your bill of sale, and I repeat them only so that there can be no misunderstanding.”

Mr. Fothergill cleared his throat and Charlie could feel his heart beat faster and faster. He watched the colonel clench a fist as Becky removed a pair of glasses out of her bag and placed them in her lap.

“I have an opening bid of one thousand pounds,” Fothergill told the silent audience, many of whom were standing at the side of the room or leaning against the wall as there were now few seats vacant. Charlie kept his eyes fixed on the auctioneer. Mr. Fothergill smiled in the direction of Mr. Wrexall, whose arms remained folded in an attitude of determined resolution. “Do I see any advance on one thousand?”

“One thousand, five hundred,” said Charlie, just a little too loudly. Those not involved in the intrigue looked around to see who it was who had made the bid. Several turned to their neighbors and began talking in noisy whispers.

“One thousand, five hundred,” said the auctioneer. “Do I see two thousand?” Mr. Wrexall unfolded his arms and raised a hand like a child in school determined to prove he knows the answer to one of teacher’s questions.

“Two thousand, five hundred,” said Charlie, even before Wrexall had lowered his hand.