As the Crow Flies

“Never,” said Fothergill.

“In nine days’ time would be my bet, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” I added, leaning forward and nearly falling off my box. “I’ll honor my wife’s commitment of five thousand, five ’undred pounds, which I confess was the limit the board ’ad allowed us to go to, but only if you ’ave all the paperwork ready for me to sign before midnight.” Mr. Fothergill opened his mouth indignantly. “Of course,” I added before he could protest, “it shouldn’t be too much work for you. After all, the contract’s been sitting on your desk for the last eighty-one days. All you have to do is change the name and knock off the odd no

ught. Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Fothergill, I must be getting back to my customers.”

“I have never been treated in such a cavalier way before, sir,” declared Mr. Fothergill, jumping up angrily. He turned and marched out, leaving me sitting in the storeroom on my own.

“I have never thought of myself as a cavalier,” I told the upturned orange box. “More of a roundhead, I would have said.”

Once I had read another chapter of Through the Looking-Glass to Daniel and waited for him to fall asleep, I went downstairs to join Becky for dinner. While she served me a bowl of soup I told her the details of my conversation with Fothergill.

“Pity,” was her immediate reaction. “I only wish he’d approached me in the first place. Now we may never get our hands on Number 1”—a sentiment she repeated just before climbing into bed. I turned down the gaslight beside me, thinking that perhaps Becky could be right. I was just beginning to feel drowsy when I heard the front doorbell sound.

“It’s past eleven-thirty,” Becky said sleepily. “Who could that possibly be?”

“A man who understands deadlines?” I suggested as I turned the gaslight back up. I climbed out of bed, donned my dressing gown and went downstairs to answer the door.

“Do come through to my study, Peregrine,” I said, after I had welcomed Mr. Fothergill.

“Thank you, Charles,” he replied. I only just stopped myself laughing as I moved a copy of Mathematics, Part Two from my desk, so that I could get to the drawer that housed the company checks.

“Five thousand, five hundred, if I remember correctly,” I said, as I unscrewed the top of my pen and checked the clock on the mantelpiece. At eleven thirty-seven I handed over the full and final settlement to Mr. Fothergill in exchange for the freehold of Number 1 Chelsea Terrace.

We shook hands on the deal and I showed the former auctioneer out. Once I had climbed back up the stairs and returned to the bedroom I found to my surprise that Becky was sitting at her writing desk.

“What are you up to?” I demanded.

“Writing my letter of resignation to Sotheby’s.”

Tom Arnold began going through Number 1 with far more than a fine-tooth comb in preparation for Becky joining us a month later as managing director of Trumper’s Auctioneers and Fine Art Specialists. He realized that I considered our new acquisition should quickly become the flagship of the entire Trumper empire, even if—to the dismay of Hadlow—the costs were beginning to resemble those of a battleship.

Becky completed her notice at Sotheby’s on Friday, 16 July 1926. She walked into Trumper’s, née Fothergill’s, the following morning at seven o’clock to take over the responsibility of refurbishing the building, at the same time releasing Tom so that he could get back to his normal duties. She immediately set about turning the basement of Number 1 into a storeroom, with the main reception remaining on the ground floor and the auction room on the first floor.

Becky and her team of specialists were to be housed on the second and third floors while the top floor, which had previously been Mr. Fothergill’s flat, became the company’s administrative offices, with a room left over that turned out to be ideal for board meetings.

The full board met for the first time at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace on 17 October 1926.

Within three months of leaving Sotheby’s Becky had “stolen” seven of the eleven staff she had wanted to join her and picked up another four from Bonham’s and Phillips. At her first board meeting she warned us all that it could take anything up to three years to clear the debts incurred by the purchase and refurbishment of Number 1, and it might even be another three before she could be sure they would be making a serious contribution to the group’s profits.

“Not like my first shop,” I informed the board. “Made a profit within three weeks, you know, Chairman.”

“Stop looking so pleased with yourself, Charlie Trumper, and try to remember I’m not selling potatoes,” my wife told me.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied and on 21 October 1926, to celebrate our sixth wedding anniversary, I presented my wife with an oil painting by van Gogh called The Potato Eaters.

Mr. Reed of the Lefevre Gallery, who had been a personal friend of the artist, claimed it was almost as good an example as the one that hung in the Rijksmuseum.

I had to agree even if I felt the asking price a little extravagant, but after some bargaining we settled on a price of six hundred guineas.

For some considerable time everything seemed to go quiet on the Mrs. Trentham front. This state of affairs always worried me, because I assumed she must be up to no good. Whenever a shop came up for sale I expected her to be bidding against me, and if there was ever any trouble in the Terrace I wondered if somehow she might be behind it. Becky agreed with Daphne that I was becoming paranoid, until Arnold told me he had been having a drink at the pub when Wrexall had received a call from Mrs. Trentham. Arnold was unable to report anything of significance because Syd went into a back room to take the call. After that my wife was willing to admit that the passing of time had obviously not lessened Mrs. Trentham’s desire for revenge.

It was some time in March 1927 that Joan informed us that her former mistress had spent two days packing before being driven to Southampton, where she boarded a liner for Australia. Daphne was able to confirm this piece of information when she came round to dinner at Gilston Road the following week.

“So one can only assume, darlings, that she’s paying a visit to that dreadful son of hers.”

“In the past she’s been only too willing to give lengthy reports on the bloody man’s progress to anyone and everyone who cared to listen, so why’s she not letting us know what she’s up to this time?”

“Can’t imagine,” said Daphne.