As the Crow Flies

“What’s my program for the rest of the day looking like, Arthur?”

“Well, they haven’t quite finished with the turnips yet, then you’re meant to be attending more sessions all afternoon. This evening you’re proposing the health of the government at the conference dinner before finally presenting the farmers’ annual dairy awards tomorrow morning.”

“Then pray I’m back in time for the dinner,” said Charlie. He stood up and grabbed his overcoat.

“Do you want me to come with you?” asked Selwyn, trying to keep up with his master.

“No, thank you, Arthur. It’s a personal matter. Just cover for me if I’m not back in time.”

Charlie ran down the stairs and out into the yard. His driver was dozing peacefully behind the wheel.

Charlie jumped into his car and the slammed door woke him up. “Take me to Hatherton.”

“Hatherton, sir?”

“Yes, Hatherton. Head south out of Carlisle, and by then I should be able to point you in the right direction.” Charlie flicked open the road map, turned to the back and began running his finger down the H’s. There were five Hathertons listed but luckily just the one in Cheshire. The only other word Charlie uttered on the entire journey was “Faster,” which he repeated several times. They passed through Lancaster, Preston and Warrington before coming to a halt outside the Happy Poacher half an hour before the pub was due to close for the afternoon.

Syd Wrexall’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when Charlie strolled in the front door.

“A Scotch egg and a pint of your best bitter, landlord, and no short measures,” Charlie said with a grin, placing a briefcase by his side.

“Fancy seeing you in these parts, Mr. Trumper,” declared Syd after he had shouted over his shoulder, “Hilda, one Scotch egg, and come and see who’s ’ere.”

“I was just on my way to a farmers’ conference in Carlisle,” explained Charlie. “Thought I’d drop by and have a pint and a snack with an old friend.”

“That’s right neighborly of you,” said Syd as he placed the pint of bitter on the counter in front of him. “Of course, we read about you in the papers a lot nowadays, and all the work you’re doing with Lord Woolton for the war effort. You’re becoming quite a celebrity.”

“It’s a fascinating job the Prime Minister has given me,” said Charlie. “I can only hope that I’m doing some good,” he added, hoping he sounded pompous enough.

“But what about your shops, Charlie? Who’s taking care of them with you away so much of the time?”

“Arnold’s back at base doing the best he can in the circumstances, but I’m afraid I’ve got four or five closed, not to mention those that were already boarded up. I can tell you, Syd, in confidence”—Charlie lowered his voice—“if things don’t start brightening up before too long I shall soon be looking for a buyer myself.” Wrexaff’s wife came bustling in carrying a plate of food.

“Hello, Mrs. Wrexall,” said Charlie, as she put down a Scotch egg and a plate of salad in front of him. “Good to see you again, and why don’t you and your husband have a drink on me?”

“Don’t mind if I do, Charlie. Can you see to it, Hilda?” he said, as he leaned over the bar conspiratorially. “Don’t suppose you know anyone who’d be interested in purchasing the syndicate’s shops, and the pub, for that matter?”

“Can’t say I do,” said Charlie. “If I remember rightly, Syd, you were asking an awful lot of money for the Musketeer which is now nothing more than a bomb site. Not to mention the state of the few shops the syndicate still have boarded up.”

“I came down to your figure of six thousand, which I thought we had already shaken hands on, but Arnold told me you were no longer interested,” said Syd, as his wife placed two pints on the counter before going off to serve another customer.

“He told you that?” said Charlie, trying to sound surprised.

“Oh, yes,” said Wrexall. “I accepted your offer of six thousand, even sent the signed contract for your approval, but he just returned the documents without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Charlie. “After I’d given my word, Syd. Why didn’t you get in touch with me direct?”

“Not that easy nowadays,” said Wrexall, “what with your new exalted position I didn’t think you’d be available for the likes of me.”

“Arnold had no right to do that,” said Charlie. “He obviously didn’t appreciate how long our relationship goes back. I do apologize, Syd, and remember, for you I’m always available. You don’t still have the contract, by any chance?”

“Certainly do,” said Wrexall. “And it’ll prove I’m as good as my word.” He disappeared, leaving Charlie to take a bite of Scotch egg and a slow swig of the local brew.

The publican returned a few minutes later and slammed down some documents on the bar top. “There

you are, Charlie, true as I stand here.”

Charlie studied the contract that he had been shown by Arnold some eighteen months before. It already bore the signature “Sydney Wrexall,” with the figures “six thousand” written in after the words “for the consideration of—”