As the Crow Flies

“Do you consider it’s that important?” said Becky, still mystified.

“I do. Would seven o’clock this evening suit you?”

“Yes, I feel sure we’ll be back by then.”

“In that case I’ll come round to Eaton Square at seven. And please, whatever you do, don’t mention anything about Sir Raymond’s will to Daniel. I apologize about the mystery but I fear I have been left with little choice. Goodbye, dear lady.”

“Goodbye,” said Becky and put the receiver down.

“Problem?” asked Charlie, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know.” Becky looked her husband straight in the eye. “It’s just that Mr. Baverstock wants to see us about those papers he briefed me on last week.” Charlie grimaced. “And he doesn’t wish us to discuss the details with anyone else for the time being.”

“Now that does sound mysterious,” said Daniel, turning to Cathy. “Mr. Baverstock, my darling, is on the board of the barrow, a man who would consider phoning his wife during office hours a breach of contract.”

“That sounds like the right qualifications for a place on the board of a public company.”

“You’ve met him once before, as a matter of fact,” said Daniel. “He and his wife were also at Mum’s housewarming party, but I fear he isn’t exactly memorable.”

“Who painted that picture?” said Charlie suddenly, staring at a watercolor of the Cam that hung above Daniel’s desk.

Becky only hoped the change of subject hadn’t been too obvious.

On the journey back to London Becky was torn between delight at the thought of having Cathy as a daughter-in-law and anxiety over what Mr. Baverstock could possibly want to see them about.

When Charlie asked yet again for details, Becky tried to repeat the conversation she’d conducted with Baverstock word for word, but it left neither of them any the wiser.

“We’ll know soon enough,” said Charlie as they left the A10 to go through Whitechapel and on into the City. It always gave Charlie a thrill whenever he passed all the different barrows displaying their colorful wares and heard the cries of the merchants shouting their outrageous claims.

“I don’t offer you these for…”

Suddenly Charlie brought the car to a halt, turned off the engine and stared out of the window.

“Why are you stopping?” asked Becky. “We haven’t any time to spare.”

Charlie pointed at the Whitechapel Boys’ Club: it looked even more run-down and dilapidated than usual.

“You’ve seen the club a thousand times before, Charlie. And you know we mustn’t be late for Mr. Baverstock.”

He took out his diary and began unscrewing the top of his fountain pen.

“What are you up to?”

“When will you learn, Becky, to look more carefully?” Charlie was busy scribbling down the number of the estate agent on the “For Sale” sign.

“You surely don’t want to open a second Trumper’s in Whitechapel?”

“No, but I do want to find out why they’re closing my old boys’ club,” said Charlie. He returned the pen to his inside pocket and pressed the button to start up the engine.

The Trumpers arrived back at 17 Eaton Square with just over half an hour to spare before Mr. Baversto

ck was due to visit them; and Mr. Baverstock, they both were painfully aware, was never late.

Becky immediately set about dusting the tables and plumping up the cushions in the drawing room.

“Everything looks fine to me,” said Charlie. “Do stop fussing. In any case, that’s what we employ a housekeeper for.”

“But it’s a Sunday night,” Becky reminded him. She continued to check under objects she hadn’t touched for months and finally put a match to the well-laid fire.