As the Crow Flies

“Where is it at this moment?” I asked, looking across at a man to whom I had paid thousands of pounds since we had first met almost twenty years ago. He still turned up for our weekly meetings at the St. Agnes wearing what seemed to be the same brown tweed jacket and shiny yellow tie, even if he did appear to have acquired one or two more shirts lately. He put down his whisky, pulled out a brown paper package from under his chair and handed it over to me.

“How much did you have to pay to get it back?”

“Fifty pounds.”

“I told you not to offer him more than twenty pounds without consulting me.”

“I know, but there was a West End dealer nosing around the shop at the time. I just couldn’t risk it, could I?”

I didn’t believe for one moment that it had cost Harris fifty pounds. However, I did accept that he realized how important the picture was to my future plans.

“Would you like me to hand the painting over to the police?” he asked. “I could then drop a hint that perhaps—”

“Certainly not,” I said without hesitation. “The police are far too discreet in these matters. Besides, what I have in mind for Mr. Trumper will be a great deal more humiliating than a private interview in the privacy of Scotland Yard.”

Mr. Harris leaned back in the old leather chair and began clicking the knuckles of his left hand.

“What else do you have to report?”

“Daniel Trumper has taken up his place at Trinity College. He’s to be found on New Court, staircase B, Room 7.”

“That was all in your last report.”

Both of us stopped speaking while an elderly guest selected a magazine from a nearby table.

“Also, he’s started seeing quite a lot of a girl called Marjorie Carpenter. She’s a third-year mathematician from Girton College.”

“Is that so? Well, if it begins to look at all serious let me know at once and you can start a file on her.” I glanced around to be sure no one could overhear our conversation. The clicking began again and I looked back to find Harris staring fixedly at me.

“Is something worrying you?” I asked as I poured myself another cup of tea.

“Well, to be honest with you there is one thing, Mrs. Trentham. I feel the time might have come for me to ask for another small rise in my hourly rate. After all, I’m expected to keep so many secrets”—he hesitated for a moment—“secrets that might…”

“That might what?”

“Prove to be invaluable to other equally interested parties.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Harris?”

“Certainly not, Mrs. Trentham, it’s just that—”

“I’ll say this once and once only, Mr. Harris. If you ever reveal to anyone anything that has passed between us it won’t be an hourly rate that you’ll be worrying about but the length of time you’ll be spending in prison. Because I also have kept a file on you which I suspect some of your former colleagues might well be interested to learn about. Not least the pawning of a stolen picture and the disposal of an army greatcoat after a crime had been committed. Do I make myself clear?”

Harris didn’t reply, just clicked his fingers back into place, one by one.

Some weeks after war was declared I learned that Daniel Trumper had avoided being called up. It transpired that he was now to be found serving behind a desk in Bletchley Park and was therefore unlikely to experience the wrath of the enemy unless a bomb were to land directly on top of him.

As it happened, the Germans did manage to drop a bomb, right in the middle of my flats, destroying them completely. My initial anger at this disaster evaporated when I saw the chaos it left behind in Chelsea Terrace. For several days I gained considerable satisfaction from just standing on the opposite side of the road admiring the Germans’ handiwork.

A few weeks later it was the turn of the Musketeer and Trumper’s greengrocer shop to feel the brunt of the Luftwaffe. The only perceptible outcome of this second bombing was that Charlie Trumper signed up for the Fusiliers the following week. However much I might have desired to see Daniel disposed of by a stray bullet, I still required Charlie Trumper to remain very much alive: it was a more public execution I had in mind for him.

It didn’t require Harris to brief me on Charlie Trumper’s new appointment at the Ministry of Food because it was fully reported in every national paper. However, I made no attempt to take advantage of his prolonged absence as I reasoned there could be little purpose in acquiring further property in the Terrace while war was still being waged, and in any case Harris’ monthl

y reports revealed that Trumper’s was steadily losing money.

Then, when I was least prepared for it, my father died of a heart attack. I immediately dropped everything and hurried off to Yorkshire in order to oversee the arrangements for the burial.

Two days later I led the mourners at the funeral, which was held in Wetherby parish church. As titular head of the family, I was placed on the left-hand end of the front pew with Gerald and Nigel on my right. The service was well attended by family, friends and business associates alike, including the solemn Mr. Baverstock, clutching onto his inevitable Gladstone bag that I noticed he never let out of his sight. Amy, who sat in the row directly behind me, became so distressed during the archdeacon’s address that I don’t believe she would have got through the rest of the day had I not been there to comfort her.