As the Crow Flies

The senior partner nodded and by dint of remaining at his desk until nearly midnight for the next four days he managed to complete all the paperwork necessary to fulfill his client’s requirements only hours before Mrs. Trentham was due to leave for London.

Guy Trentham was certified as dead by the doctor in attendance at three minutes past six on the morning of 23 April 1927, and the following day Mrs. Trentham began her somber journey back to England, accompanied by his coffin. She was relieved that only two people on that continent knew as much as she did, one an elderly gentleman only months away from retirement, the other a woman who could now spend the rest of her life in a style she would never have believed possible only a few days before.

Mrs. Trentham cabled her husband with the minimum information she considered necessary before sailing back to Southampton as silently and as anonymously as she had come. Once she had set foot on English soil Mrs. Trentham was driven directly to her home in Chester Square. She briefed her husband on the details of the tragedy, and he reluctantly accepted that an announcement should be placed in The Times the following day. It read:

“The death is announced of Captain Guy Trentham, MC, tragically from tuberculosis after suffering a long illness. The funeral will take place at St. Mary’s, Ashurst, Berkshire, on Tuesday, 8 June, 1927.”

The local vicar conducted the ceremony for the dear departed. His death, he assured the congregation, was a tragedy for all who knew him.

Guy Trentham was laid to rest in the plot originally reserved for his father. Major and Mrs. Trentham, relations, friends of the family, parishioners and servants left the burial ground with their heads bowed low.

During the days that followed, Mrs. Trentham received over a hundred letters of condolence, one or two of which pointed out that she could at least be consoled with the knowledge that there was a second son to take Guy’s place.

The next day Nigel’s photograph replaced his elder brother’s on the bedside table.

CHARLIE

1926–1945

CHAPTER

25

I was walking down Chelsea Terrace with Tom Arnold on our Monday morning round when he first offered an opinion.

“It will never happen,” I said.

“You could be right, sir, but at the moment a lot of the shopkeepers are beginning to panic.”

“Bunch of cowards,” I told him. “With nearly a million already unemployed there’ll be only a handful who would be foolish enough to consider an all-out strike.”

“Perhaps, but the Shops Committee is still advising its members to board up their windows.”

“Syd Wrexall would advise his members to board up their windows if a Pekingese put a leg up against the front door of the Musketeer. What’s more, the bloody animal wouldn’t even have to piss.”

A smile flickered across Tom’s lips. “So you’re prepared for a fight, Mr. Trumper?”

“You bet I am. I’ll back Mr. Churchill all the way on this one.” I stopped to check the window of hats and scarves. “How many people do we currently employ?”

“Seventy-one.”

“And how many of those do you reckon are considering strike action?”

“Half a dozen, ten at the most would be my bet—and then only those who are members of the Shopworkers’ Union. But there could still be the problem for some of our employees who wouldn’t find it easy to get to work because of a public transport stoppage.”

“Then give me all the names of those you’re not sure of by this evening and I’ll have a word with every one of them during the week. At least that way I might be able to convince one or two of them about their long-term future with the company.”

“What about the company’s long-term future if the strike were to go ahead?”

“When will you get it into your head, Tom, that nothing is going to happen that will affect Trumper’s?”

“Syd Wrexall thinks—”

“I can assure you that’s the one thing he doesn’t do.”

“—thinks that at least three shops will come on the market during the next month, and if there were to be a general strike there might be a whole lot more suddenly available. The miners are persuading—”

“They’re not persuading Charlie Trumper,” I told him. “So let me know the moment you hear of anyone who wants to sell, because I’m still a buyer.”