As the Crow Flies

“Do you think it’s possible Guy might be planning to return to England now that things have settled down a little?”

“I doubt it.” Daphne’s brow furrowed. “Otherwise the ship would have been sailing in the opposition direction, wouldn’t it? In any case, if his father’s feelings are anything to go by, should Guy ever dare to show his face at Ashurst Hall he won’t exactly be treated like the prodigal son.”

“Something’s still not quite right,” I told her. “This veil of secrecy Mrs. Trentham’s been going in for lately requires some explanation.”

It was three months later, in June 1927, that the colonel drew my attention to the announcement in The Times of Guy Trentham’s death. “What a terrible way to die,” was his only comment.

Daphne attended the funeral at Ashurst parish church—because, as she explained later, she wanted to see the coffin lowered into the grave before she was finally convinced that Guy Trentham was no longer among us.

Percy informed me later that he had only just been able to restrain her from joining the gravediggers as they filled up the hole with good English sods. However, Daphne told us that she remained skeptical about the cause of death, despite the absence of any proof to the contrary.

“At least you’ll have no more trouble from that quarter,” were Percy’s final words on the subject.

I scowled. “They’ll have to bury Mrs. Trentham alongside him before I’ll believe that.”

CHAPTER

26

In 1929 the Trumpers moved to a larger house in the Little Boltons. Daphne assured them that although it was “the Little,” at least it was a step in the right direction. With a glance at Becky she added, “However, it’s still a considerable way from being Eaton Square, darlings.”

The housewarming party the Trumpers gave held a double significance for Becky, because the following day she was to be presented with her master of arts degree. When Percy teased her about the length of time she had taken to complete the thesis on her unrequited lover, Bernardino Luini, she cited her husband as the corespondent.

Charlie made no attempt to defend himself, just poured Percy another brandy before clipping off the end of a cigar.

“Hoskins will be driving us to the

ceremony,” Daphne announced, “so we’ll see you there. That is, assuming on this occasion they’ve been considerate enough to allow us to be seated in the first thirty rows.”

Charlie was pleased to find that Daphne and Percy had been placed only a row behind them so this time were close enough to the stage to follow the entire proceedings.

“Who are they?” demanded Daniel, when fourteen dignified old gentlemen walked onto the platform wearing long black gowns and purple hoods, and took their places in the empty chairs.

“The Senate,” explained Becky to her eight-year-old son. “They recommend who shall be awarded degrees. But you mustn’t ask too many questions, Daniel, or you’ll only annoy all the people sitting around us.”

At that point, the vice-chancellor rose to present the scrolls.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to sit through all the BAs before they reach me,” said Becky.

“Do stop being so pompous, darling,” said Daphne. “Some of us can remember when you considered being awarded a degree was the most important day in your life.”

“Why hasn’t Daddy got a degree?” asked Daniel as he picked up Becky’s program off the floor. “He’s just as clever as you are, Mummy.”

“True,” said Becky. “But his daddy didn’t make him stay at school as long as mine did.”

Charlie leaned across. “But his granpa taught him instead how to sell fruit and vegetables, so he could do something useful for the rest of his life.”

Daniel was silenced for a moment, as he weighed the value of these two contrary opinions.

“The ceremony’s going to take an awfully long time if it keeps going at this rate,” whispered Becky when after half an hour they had only reached the P’s.

“We can wait,” whispered Daphne cheerfully. “Percy and I haven’t a lot planned before Goodwood.”

“Oh, look, Mummy,” said Daniel. “I’ve found another Arnold, another Moore and another Trumper on my list.”

“They’re all fairly common names,” said Becky, not bothering to check the program as she placed Daniel on the edge of her seat.

“Wonder what he looks like?” asked Daniel. “Do all Trumpers look the same, Mummy?”