“Yes,” I said and put the phone down, suddenly aware that he didn’t know my name and I didn’t know what he looked like.
When the following day I arrived at the St. Agnes, a dreadful little place just off the Brompton Road, I walked round the block several times before I finally felt able to enter the lobby. A man of about thirty, perhaps thirty-five was leaning on the reception desk. He straightened up the moment he saw me.
“Are you looking for a Mr. Harris, by any chance?” he inquired.
I nodded and he quickly led us through to the tea room and ushered me into a seat in the farthest corner. Once he had sat down in the chair opposite me I began to study him more carefully. He must have been about five foot ten, stocky, with dark brown hair and an even browner moustache. He wore a brown check Harris tweed jacket, cream shirt and thin yellow tie. As I began to explain why I might be in need of his services I became distracted as he started to click the knuckles of his fingers, one by one, first the left hand and then the right. I wanted to get up and leave, and would have done so had I believed for a moment that finding anyone less obnoxious to carry out the task would have proved easy.
It also took me some considerable time to convince Harris that I was not looking for a divorce. At that first meeting I explained to him as much of my dilemma as I felt able. I was shocked when he demanded the extortionate fee of five shillings an hour just to open his investigation. However, I did not feel I had been left with a great deal of choice in the matter. I agreed that he should start the following day and that we would meet again a week later.
Mr. Harris’s first report informed me that, in the view of those who spent most of their working hours at a pub in Chelsea called the Musketeer, Charlie Trumper was the father of Rebecca Salmon’s child, and indeed when the suggestion was put to him directly he made no attempt to deny it. As if to prove the point, within days of the child’s birth he and Miss Salmon were married—quietly in a register office.
Mr. Harris had no trouble in obtaining a copy of the child’s birth certificate. It confirmed that the child, Daniel George Trumper, was the son of Rebecca Salmon and Charlie George Trumper of 147 Chelsea Terrace. I also noted that the child had been named after both his grandparents. In my next letter to Guy I enclosed a copy of the birth certificate along with one or two other little snippets that Harris had supplied, such as details of the wedding and Colonel Hamilton’s appointment as chairman of the Trumper board. I must confess that I assumed that was an end of the matter.
However, two weeks later I received a letter from Guy: I presume it must have crossed with mine in the post. He explained that Sir Danvers had been in communication with his commanding officer, Colonel Forbes, and because of Forbes’ insistence that there might be a breach-of-promise suit pending Guy had been made to appear in front of a group of his fellow officers to explain the relationship between himself and Miss Salmon.
I immediately sat down and wrote a long letter to Colonel Forbes—Guy was obviously not in a position to present the full evidence I had managed to secure. I included a further copy of the birth certificate so that he would be left in no doubt that my son could not have possibly been involved with the Salmon girl in any way. I added—without prejudice—that Colonel Hamilton was now employed as chairman of the board of Trumper’s, a position from which he certainly derived some remuneration. The long information sheets now sent to me on a weekly basis by Mr. Harris were, I had to admit, proving of considerable value.
For some little time matters returned to normal. Gerald busied himself with his parliamentary duties while I concentrated on nothing more demanding than the appointment of the new vicar’s warden and my bridge circle.
The problem, however, went deeper than I had imagined, for quite by chance I discovered that we were no longer to be included on the guest list for Daphne Harcourt-Browne’s marriage to the Marquess of Wiltshire. Of course, Percy would never have become the twelfth marquess had it not been for his father and brother sacrificing their lives on the Western Front. However, I learned from others who were present at the ceremony that Colonel Hamilton as well as the Trumpers were to be seen at St. Margaret’s, and at the reception afterwards.
During this period, Mr. Harris continued to supply me with memoranda about the comings and goings of the Trumpers and their growing business empire. I must confess that I had no interest whatsoever in any of their commercial transactions: it was a world that remained totally alien to me but I didn’t stop him going beyond his brief as it gave me a useful insight into Guy’s adversaries.
A few months later I received a note from Colonel Forbes acknowledging my letter, but otherwise I heard nothing further concerning Guy’s unfortunate misrepresentation. I therefore assumed everything must be back on an even keel and that Colonel Hamilton’s fabrication had been treated with the disdain it merited.
Then one morning in June the following year, Gerald was called away to the War Office on what he thought at the time must be another routine parliamentary briefing.
When my husband returned to Chester Square unexpectedly that afternoon he made me sit down and drink a large whisky before he explained that he had some unpleasant news to impart. I had rarely seen him looking so grim as I sat there silently wondering what could possibly be important enough to cause him to return home during the day.
“Guy has resigned his commission,” announced Gerald tersely. “He will be returning to England just as soon as the necessary paperwork has been completed.”
“Why?” I asked, quite stunned.
“No reason was given,” Gerald replied. “I was called to the War Office this morning, and tipped off by Billy Cuthbert, a brother Fusilier. He informed me privately that if Guy hadn’t resigned he would undoubtedly have been cashiered.”
During the time I waited for Guy’s return to England I went over every snippet of information on the rapidly growing Trumper empire that Mr. Harris was able to supply me with, however minute or seemingly insignificant it seemed at the time. Among the many pages of material that the detective sent, no doubt in order to justify his outrageous fees, I came across one item which I suspected might have been almost as important to the Trumpers as my son’s reputation was to me.
I carried out all the necessary inquiries myself, and having checked over the property one Sunday morning I phoned Savill’s on the Monday and made a bid of two thousand, five hundred pounds for the property in question. The agent rang back later in the week to say someone else—who I realized had to be Trumper’s—had offered three thousand. “Then bid four thousand,” I told him, before replacing the phone.
The estate agents were able to confirm later that afternoon that I was in possession of the freehold on 25 to 99 Chelsea Terrace, a block of thirty-eight flats. Trumper’s representative, I was assured, would b
e informed immediately who their next-door neighbor was to be.
CHAPTER
23
Guy Trentham arrived back on the doorstep of 19 Chester Square on a chilly afternoon in September 1922, just after Gibson had cleared away afternoon tea. His mother would never forget the occasion, because when Guy was shown into the drawing room she hardly recognized him. Mrs. Trentham had been writing a letter at her desk when Gibson announced, “Captain Guy.”
She turned to see her son enter the room and walk straight over to the fireplace where he stood, legs astride, with his back to the coals. His glazed eyes stared in front of him but he didn’t speak.
Mrs. Trentham was only thankful that her husband was taking part in a debate at the Commons that afternoon and was not expected back until after the ten o’clock vote that night.
Guy obviously hadn’t shaved for several days. He could also have made excellent use of a scrubbing brush, while the suit he wore was barely recognizable as the one that only three years before had been tailored by Gieves. The disheveled figure stood with his back to the blazing coal fire, his body visibly shivering, as he turned to face his mother. For the first time Mrs. Trentham noticed that her son was holding a brown paper parcel under one arm.
Although she was not cold, Mrs. Trentham also shuddered. She remained at her desk, feeling no desire to embrace her first born, or be the one who broke the silence between them.
“What have you been told, Mother?” Guy uttered at last, his voice shaky and uncertain.