“A problem?” Mrs. Trentham drew back the veil that covered her face.
“Yes. As you are aware, I have almost completed my work in Yorkshire. I am sorry it has taken so long, madam, but I fear I have been overindulgent with my time, such was my appreciation of—”
Mrs. Trentham waved a hand in a manner that indicated she was not displeased.
“And I fear,” he continued, “that despite enlisting the good services of Dr. Halcombe as my assistant and also remembering the time it takes to travel up and down to Yorkshire it may still take us several more weeks to both catalogue and value such a fine collection—always aware that your late father spent a lifetime putting the library together.”
“It’s of no consequence,” Mrs. Trentham assured him. “You see, I’m not in a hurry. Do take your time, Mr. Sneddles, and just let me know when you have completed the task.”
The antiquarian smiled at the thought of being allowed to continue his cataloguing uninterrupted.
He escorted Mrs. Trentham back to the front of the shop and opened the door to let her out. No one who saw them together would have believed they had been born in the same year. She stared up and down Chelsea Terrace before quickly dropping the veil across her face.
Mr. Sneddles closed the door behind her and rubbed his mittens together, then shuffled back to his room to join Dr. Halcombe.
Lately he had been annoyed whenever a customer entered the shop.
“After thirty years, I have no intention of changing my stockbrokers,” Gerald Trentham said curtly as he poured himself a second cup of coffee.
“But can’t you understand, my dear, just what a boost it would give Nigel to secure your account for his company?”
“And what a blow it would be for David Cartwright and Vickers da Costa to lose a client whom they have served so honorably for over a hundred years? No, Ethel, it’s high time Nigel carried out his own dirty work. Damn it all, he’s over forty.”
“All the more reason to help,” his wife suggested as she buttered a second piece of toast.
“No, Ethel. I repeat, no.”
“But can’t you see that one of Nigel’s responsibilities is to bring new clients into the firm? It’s particularly important at this moment, as I feel sure that now the war is over, they will soon be offering him a partnership.”
Major Trentham didn’t try to hide his incredulity at this piece of news. “If that is the case, he should be making more use of his own contacts—preferably the ones he made at school and at Sandhurst, not to mention the City. He shouldn’t always expect to fall back on his father’s friends.”
“That’s hardly fair, Gerald. If he can’t rely on his own flesh and blood, why should he expect anyone else to come to his aid?”
“Come to his aid? That just about sums it up.” Gerald’s voice rose with every word. “Because that’s exactly what you’ve been doing since the day he was born, which is perhaps the reason he is still unable to stand on his own two feet.”
“Gerald,” Mrs. Trentham said, removing a handkerchief from her sleeve. “I never thought—”
“In any case,” the major replied, trying to restore some calm, “it’s not as if my portfolio is all that impressive. As you and Mr. Attlee know only too well, all our capital is bound up in land and has been for generations.”
“It’s not the amount that matters,” Mrs. Trentham chided him. “It’s the principle.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more,” said Gerald as he folded his napkin, rose from the breakfast table and left the room before his wife could utter another word.
Mrs. Trentham picked up her husband’s morning paper and ran her finger down the names of those who had been awarded knighthoods in the birthday honors. Her shaking finger stopped at the Ts.
During his summer vacation, according to Max Harris, Daniel Trumper had taken the Queen Mary to America. However, the private detective was quite unable to answer Mrs. Trentham’s next question—why? All that Harris could be sure of was that Daniel’s college still expected the young don back for the start of the new academic year.
During the weeks that Daniel was away in America Mrs. Trentham spent a considerable amount of time closeted with her solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn Fields while they prepared a building application for her.
She had already sought out three architects, all of whom had recently qualified. She instructed them to prepare outline drawings for a block of flats to be built in Chelsea. The winner, she assured them, would be offered the commission while the other two would receive one hundred pounds each in compensation. All three happily agreed to her terms.
Some twelve weeks later, each presented his portfolio but only one of them had come up with what Mrs. Trentham was hoping for.
In the opinion of the senior partner of the law practice, the submission by the youngest of the three, Justin Talbot, would have made Battersea Power Station look like the Palace of Versailles. Mrs. Trentham did not divulge to her solicitor that she had been influenced in her selection by the fact that Mr. Talbot’s uncle was a member of the Planning Committee of the London County Council.
Even if Talbot’s uncle were to come to his nephew’s aid, Mrs. Trentham remained unconcerned that a majority of the committee would accept such an outrageous offering. It resembled a bunker that even Hitler might have rejected. However, her lawyers suggested that she should state in her application that the primary purpose of the new building was to create some low-cost housing in the center of London to help students and single unemployed men who were in dire need of temporary accommodation. Second, any income derived from the flats would be placed in a charitable trust to help other families suffering from the same problem. Third, she should bring to the committee’s attention the painstaking efforts that have been made to give a young, recently qualified architect his first break.
Mrs. Trentham didn’t know whether to be delighted or appalled when the LCC granted its approval. After