As the Crow Flies

Simkins was now frantically waving his hands like a semaphore sailor in an attempt to gain Charlie’s attention, while at the same time nodding his head energetically up and down.

“I’ve got a million tons coming in every month, Prime Minister, and the girls are just sitting on their—”

“It will be all right,” whispered Simkins as he began to circle Charlie. “It will be all right, I can assure you.”

“Do you want to speak to the man in charge yourself, sir?”

“No, no,” said Simkins. “That won’t be necessary. I have all the forms, all the forms you need, all the forms.”

“I’ll let him know, sir,” said Charlie, pausing for a moment. “I’m due back in London this evening. Yes, sir, yes, I’ll brief you the moment I return. Goodbye, Prime Minister.”

“Goodbye,” said Becky as she put down the telephone. “And no doubt you’ll tell me what

all that was about when you do get home tonight.”

The minister roared with laughter when Charlie repeated the whole story to him and Jessica Allen later that evening.

“You know, the Prime Minister would have been quite happy to speak to the man if you had wanted him to,” said Woolton.

“If he’d done that Simkins would have had a heart attack,” said Charlie. “And then my rice, not to mention my drivers, would have been stuck in that port forever. In any case, with the food shortage the way it is I wouldn’t have wanted the wretched man to waste another of his biscuits.”

Charlie was in Carlisle attending a farmers’ conference when an urgent call came through for him from London.

“Who is it?” he asked as he tried to concentrate on a delegate who was explaining the problems of increasing turnip yields.

“The Marchioness of Wiltshire,” whispered Arthur Selwyn.

“Then I’ll take it,” said Charlie, and left the conference room to return to his bedroom, where the hotel operator put the call through.

“Daphne, what can I do for you, my luv?”

“No, darling, it’s what I can do for you, as usual. Have you read your Times this morning?”

“Glanced at the headlines. Why?” asked Charlie.

“Then you’d better check the obituaries page more carefully. In particular, the last line of one of them. I won’t waste any more of your time, darling, as the Prime Minister keeps reminding us just what a vital role you’re playing in winning the war.”

Charlie laughed as the line went dead.

“Anything I can do to help?” asked Selwyn.

“Yes, Arthur, I need a copy of today’s Times.”

When Selwyn returned with a copy of the morning paper, Charlie flicked quickly through the pages until he came to the obituaries: Admiral Sir Alexander Dexter, a First World War commander of outstanding tactical ability; J. T. Macpherson, the balloonist and author; and Sir Raymond Hardcastle, the industrialist…

Charlie skimmed through the bare details of Sir Raymond’s career: born and educated in Yorkshire; built up his father’s engineering firm at the turn of the century. During the twenties Hardcastle’s had expanded from a fledgling company into one of the great industrial forces in the north of England. In 1937 Hardcastle sold his shareholding to John Brown and Company for seven hundred and eighty thousand pounds. But Daphne was right—the last line was the only one that really concerned Charlie.

“Sir Raymond, whose wife died in 1914, is survived by two daughters, Miss Amy Hardcastle and Mrs. Gerald Trentham.

Charlie picked up the telephone on the desk beside him and asked to be put through to a Chelsea number. A few moments later Tom Arnold came on the line.

“Where the hell did you say Wrexall was to be found?” was the only question Charlie asked.

“As I explained when you last inquired, Chairman, he now runs a pub in Cheshire, the Happy Poacher, in a village called Hatherton.”

Charlie thanked his managing director and replaced the receiver without another word.

“Can I be of any assistance?” asked Selwyn dryly.