As the Crow Flies

My next problem was how I could possibly get to see him. The only idea that occurred to me was that I might take my medal into Number 1 for a valuation—and then pray.

During the next week I was on the day shift at the hotel so I was unable to return to Number 1 Chelsea Terrace before the following Monday afternoon, when I presented the girl on the front counter with my MC and asked if the medal could be valued. She considered my tiny offering, then called for someone else to examine it more carefully. A tall, studious-looking man spent some time checking the piece before he offered an opinion. “A miniature MC,” he declared, “sometimes known as a dress MC because it would be worn on a mess or dinner jacket for regimental nights, value approximately ten pounds.” He hesitated for a moment. “But of course Spinks at 5 King Street SW1 would be able to give you a more accurate assessment should you require it.”

“Thank you,” I said, having learned nothing new and finding myself quite unable to think of any way I might phrase a question about Sir Charles Trumper’s war record.

“Anything else I can help you with?” he asked as I remained rooted to the spot.

“How do you get a job here?” I bleated out, feeling rather stupid.

“Just write in, giving us all the details of your qualifications and past experience and we’ll be back in touch with you within a few days.”

“Thank you,” I said and left without another word.

I sat down that evening and drafted a long handwritten letter, setting out my qualifications as an art historian. They appeared a bit slender to me when I looked at them on paper.

The next morning I rewrote the letter on the hotel’s finest stationery before addressing the envelope to “Job Inquiries”—as I had no name as a contact other than Trumper’s—Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, London SW7.

The following afternoon I hand-delivered the missive to a girl on the front desk of the auction house, never really expecting to receive a reply. In any case, I wasn’t actually sure what I would do if they did offer me a job, as I planned on returning to Melbourne in a few months and I still couldn’t imagine how working at Trumper’s would ever lead to my meeting Sir Charles.

Ten days later I received a letter from the personnel officer, saying they would like to interview me. I spent four pounds fifteen shillings of my hard-earned wages on a new dress that I could ill afford and arrived over an hour early for the interview. I ended up having to walk round the block several times. During that hour I discovered that Sir Charles really did seem to sell everything any human being could desire, as long as you had enough money to pay for it.

At last the hour was up and I marched in and presented myself at the front counter. I was taken up some stairs to an office on the top floor. The lady who interviewed me said she couldn’t understand what I was doing stuck in a hotel as a chambermaid with my qualifications, until I explained to her that hotel work was the only job available to those who couldn’t afford to pay their passage over to England.

She smiled before warning me that if I wanted to work at Number 1 everyone started on the front desk. If they proved to be any good they were promoted fairly quickly.

“I started on the front desk at Sotheby’s,” my interviewer went on to explain. I wanted to ask her how long she’d lasted.

“I’d love to come and work at Trumper’s,” I told her, “but I’m afraid I still have two months of my contract to complete before I can leave the Melrose Hotel.”

“Then we’ll have to wait for you,” she replied without hesitation. “You can start at the front desk on first of September, Miss Ross. I will confirm all the arrangements in writing by the end of the week.”

I was so excited by her offer that I quite forgot why I’d applied for the job in the first place: until my interviewer sent her promised letter and I was able to decipher her signature scribbled across the foot of the page.

CHAPTER

40

Cathy had worked on the front desk of Trumper’s Auction House for just eleven days when Simon Matthews asked her to help him prepare the catalogue for the Italian sale. He was the first to spot how, as the auction house’s premier line of defense, she handled the myriad inquiries that were thrown at her without constantly having to seek a second opinion. She worked just as hard for Trumper’s as she had done at the Melrose Hotel, but with a difference: she now enjoyed what she was doing.

For the first time in her life Cathy felt she was part of a family, because Rebecca Trumper was invariably relaxed and friendly with her staff, treating them all as equals. Her salary was far more generous than the bare minimum she had received from her previous employer, and the room they gave her above the butcher’s shop at Number 135 was palatial in comparison with her hideaway at the back of the hotel.

Trying to find out more about her father began to seem less important to Cathy as she set about proving she was worth her place at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace. Her primary task in preparing the catalogue for the Italian sale was to check the history of every one of the fifty-nine pictures that were to come under the hammer. To this end she traveled right across London from library to library and telephoned gallery after gallery in her quest to track down every attribution. In the end only one picture completely baffled her, that of the Virgin Mary and Child, which bore no signature and had no history attached except that it had originally come from the private collection of Sir Charles Trumper and was now owned by a Mrs. Kitty Bennett.

Cathy asked Simon Matthews if he could give any lead on the picture and was told by her head of department that he felt it might have come from the school of Bronzino.

Simon, who was in charge of the auction, went on to suggest that she should check through the press cuttings books.

“Almost everything you need to know about the Trumpers is in there somewhere.”

“And where will I find them?”

“On the fourth floor in that funny little room at the end of the passage.”

When she eventually found the cubicle that housed the files she had to brush off a layer of dust and even remove the odd cobweb as she browsed through the annual offerings. She sat on the floor, her legs tucked beneath her, as she continued to turn the pages, becoming more and more engrossed in the rise of Charles Trumper from his days when he owned his first barrow in Whitechapel to the proposed plans for Trumper’s of Chelsea. Although the press references were sketchy in those early years, it was a small article in the Evening Standard that stopped Cathy in her tracks. The page had yellowed with age and on the top right-hand corner, barely discernible, was printed the date: 8 September 1922.

A tall man in his late twenties, unshaven and dressed in an old army greatcoat, broke into the home of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Trumper of 11 Gilston Road, Chelsea, yesterday morning. Though the intruder escaped with a small oil painting thought to be of little value, Mrs. Trumper, seven months pregnant with her second child, was in the house at the time and collapsed from the shock. She was later rushed to Guy’s Hospital by her husband.

On arrival an emergency operation was carried out by the senior surgeon Mr. Armitage, but their little girl was stillborn. Mrs. Trumper is expected to remain at Guy’s Hospital under observation for several days.