As the Crow Flies

“What good would that do?” asked Becky.

“He’ll have our version of what happened this time, and he’ll be only too pleased to be the one journalist on the inside, especially after that fiasco with the Bronzino.”

“Do you think he’d be at all interested in a silver set worth seventy pounds?”

“With a Scottish museum involved and a professional fence arrested in Nottingham? He’ll be interested all right. Especially if we don’t tell anyone else.”

“Would you like to handle Mr. Barker yourself, Cathy?” Becky asked.

“Just give me the chance.”

The following morning, the Daily Telegraph had a small but prominent piece on page three reporting that Trumper’s, the fine art auctioneers, had called in the police after they had become suspicious about the ownership of a Georgian tea set that was later discovered to have been stolen from the Aberdeen Museum of Silver. The Nottingham police had since arrested a woman whom they later charged with handling stolen goods. The article went on to say that Inspector Deakins of Scotland Yard had told the Telegraph: “We only wish every auction house and gallery in London were as conscientious as Trumper’s.”

The sale that afternoon was well attended, and despite losing one of the centerpieces of the auction Trumper’s still managed to exceed several of the estimates. The man in the tweed coat and yellow tie didn’t make an appearance.

When Charlie read the Telegraph in bed that night he remarked, “So you didn’t take my advice?”

“Yes and no,” said Becky. “I admit I didn’t withdraw the tea set immediately, but I did promote Cathy.”

CHAPTER

37

On 9 November 1950 Trumper’s held their second annual general meeting.

The directors met at ten o’clock in the boardroom so that Arthur Selwyn could take them slowly through the procedure he intended to follow once they faced the shareholders.

At eleven o’clock sharp he guided the chairman and the eight directors out of the boardroom and into the main hall as if they were school children being led in a crocodile on their way to morning assembly.

Charlie introduced each member of the board to the assembled gathering, who numbered around one hundred and twenty—a respectable turnout for such an occasion, Tim Newman whispered in Becky’s ear. Charlie went through the agenda without a prompt from his managing director and was only asked one awkward question. “Why have your costs gone so much over budget in the first full year of trading?”

Arthur Selwyn rose to explain that the expense of the building had exceeded their original estimate and that the launching had incurred certain one-off costs which would not arise again. He also pointed out that, strictly on a trading basis, Trumper’s had managed to break even in the first quarter of their second year. He added that he remained confident about the year ahead, especially with the anticipated rise in the number of tourists who would be attracted to London by the Festival of Britain. However, he warned shareholders it might be necessary for the company to raise even more capital, if they hoped to increase their facilities.

When Charlie declared the AGM closed he remained seated because the board received a small ovation, which quite took the chairman by surprise.

Becky was about to return to Number 1 and continue with her work on an Impressionist sale she had planned for the spring when Mr. Baverstock came over and touched her gently on the elbow.

“May I have a word with you in private, Lady Trumper?”

“Of course, Mr. Baverstock.” Becky looked around for a quiet spot where they could talk.

“I feel that perhaps my office in High Holborn would be more appropriate,” he suggested. “You see, it’s a rather delicate matter. Would tomorrow, three o’clock suit you?”

Daniel had phoned from Cambridge that morning and Becky couldn’t remember when she had heard him sounding so chatty and full of news. She, on the other hand, was not chatty or full of news: she still hadn’t been able to fathom why the senior partner of Baverstock, Dickens and Cobb should want to see her on “a rather delicate matter.”

She couldn’t believe that Mr. Baverstock’s wife wanted to retur

n the Charles II court cupboard or required more details on the forthcoming Impressionist sale, but as in her case anxiety always ruled over optimism, Becky spent the next twenty-six hours fearing the worst.

She didn’t burden Charlie with her troubles, because the little she did know of Mr. Baverstock made her certain that if her husband were involved the lawyer would have asked to see them both. In any case, Charlie had quite enough problems of his own to deal with without being weighed down with hers.

Becky couldn’t manage any lunch and arrived at the solicitor’s office a few minutes before the appointed hour. She was ushered straight through to Mr. Baverstock’s rooms.

She was greeted with a warm smile by her fellow director, as if she were some minor relation of his large family. He offered her the seat opposite his on the other side of a large mahogany desk.

Mr. Baverstock, Becky decided, must have been about fifty-five, perhaps sixty, with a round, friendly face and the few strands of gray hair that were left were parted neatly down the center. His dark jacket, waistcoat, gray striped trousers and black tie could have been worn by any solicitor who practiced within five square miles of the building in which they now sat. Having returned to his own chair he began to study the pile of documents that lay in front of him before removing his half-moon spectacles.

“Lady Trumper,” he began. “It’s most kind of you to come and see me.” In the two years they had known each other he had never once addressed her by her Christian name.