As the Crow Flies

I glanced round the faces at the boardroom table. Daphne, dressed in a perky yellow outfit, was doodling away all over her minutes. Tim Newman was looking as suave as ever and simply nodded, while Simon took a sip from the glass of water in front of him and when he caught my eye raised it in a mock toast. Ned Denning whispered something inaudible in Bob Makins’ ear while Cathy placed a tick by item number two. Only Paul Merrick looked as if he wasn’t enjoying the occasion. I turned my attention back to Charlie.

As no one appeared to be showing any dissent, Jessica folded back the last page of the minutes to allow Charlie to scrawl his signature below the bottom line. I noticed Charlie smile when he reread the final instruction the board had given him on the last occasion we had met: “Chairman to try and come to some amicable agreement with Mr. Nigel Trentham concerning the orderly takeover of Trumper’s.”

“Matters arising from the minutes?” Charlie asked. Still no one else spoke, so once again Charlie’s eyes returned to the agenda. “Item number four, the future of—” he began, but then every one of us tried to speak at once.

When some semblance of order had been regained, Charlie suggested that it might be wise if the chief executive were to bring us up to date on the latest position. I joined the “Hear, hears” and nods that greeted this suggestion.

“Thank you, Chairman,” said Arthur Selwyn, removing some papers from a briefcase by the side of his chair. The rest of the board waited patiently. “Members of the board will be aware that,” he began, sounding like the senior civil servant he had once been, “following the announcement by Mr. Nigel Trentham that it was no longer his intention to mount a takeover bid for Trumper’s, the company’s shares subsequently fell from their peak of two pounds four shillings to their present price of one pound nineteen shillings.”

“We’re all capable of following the vagaries of the stock market,” said Daphne, butting in. “What I would like to know is: what has happened to Trentham’s personal shareholding?”

I didn’t join in with the chorus of approval that followed as I already knew every last detail of the agreement.

“Mr. Trentham’s stock,” said Mr. Selwyn, continuing as if he had not been interrupted, “was, following an agreement reached between his lawyers and Miss Ross’, acquired a fortnight ago by Mr. Baverstock on behalf of the Hardcastle Trust at a cost of two pounds one shilling per share.”

“And will the rest of the board ever be privy to what brought about this cozy little arrangement?” asked Daphne.

“It has recently come to light,” answered Selwyn, “that Mr. Trentham has, during the past year, been building up a considerable holding in the company on borrowed money, causing him to accumulate a large overdraft—an overdraft, I am given to understand, he can no longer sustain. With that in mind he has sold his personal holding in the company—some twenty-eight percent—direct to the Hardcastle Trust at the going market rate.”

“Has he now?” said Daphne.

“Yes,” said Charlie. “And it may also interest the board to know that during the past week I have received three letters of resignation, from Mr. Trentham, Mr. Folland and Mr. Gibbs, which I took the liberty of accepting on your behalf.”

“That was indeed a liberty,” said Daphne sharply.

“You feel we shouldn’t have accepted their resignations?”

“I certainly do, Chairman.”

“May one ask your reasons, Lady Wiltshire?”

“They’re purely selfish, Mr. Chairman.” I thought I detected a chuckle in her voice, as Daphne waited to be sure she had the full attention of the board. “You see, I’d been looking forward to proposing that all three of them should be sacked.”

Few members of the board were able to keep a straight face at this suggestion.

“Not to be recorded in the minutes,” said Charlie, turning towards Jessica. “Thank you, Mr. Selwyn, for an admirable summary of the present situation. Now, as I cannot believe there is anything to be gained by continuing to rake over those particular coals, let us move on to item number five, the banking hall.”

Charlie sat back contentedly while Cathy reported to us that the new facility was making a respectable monthly return and she could see no reason why the figures should not continue to improve for the foreseeable future. “In fact,” she said, “I believe the time has come for Trumper’s to offer its regular customers their own credit card as…”

I stared at the miniature MC that hung from a gold chain around Cathy’s neck, the missing link that Mr. Roberts always insisted had to exist. Cathy was still unable to recall a great deal of what had taken place in her life before she had come to work in London, but I agreed with Dr. Atkins’ assessment that we should no longer waste our time with the past but let her concentrate on the future.

None of us doubted that when the time came to select a new chairman we wouldn’t have far to look. The only problem I had to face now was how to convince the present chairman that perhaps the time had come for him to make way for someone younger.

“Do you have any strong feelings about upper limits, Chairman?” asked Cathy.

“No, no, it all makes good sense to me,” said Charlie, sounding unusually vague.

“I’m not so sure that I’m able to agree with you on this occasion, Chairman,” said Daphne.

“And why’s that, Lady Wiltshire?” asked Charlie, smiling benignly.

“Partly because you haven’t been listening to a single word that’s been said for about the last ten minutes,” Daphne declared, “so how can you possibly know what you’re agreeing to?”

“Guilty,” said Charlie. “I confess my mind was on the other side of the world. However,” he continued, “I did read Cathy’s report on the subject and I suggest that the upper limits will have to vary from customer to customer, according to their credit rating, and we may well need to employ some new staff in future who have been trained in the City, rather than on the high street. Even so, I shall still require a detailed timetable if we’re to consider seriously the introduction of such a scheme, which should be ready for presentation at the next board meeting. Is that possible, Miss Ross?” Charlie asked firmly, no doubt hoping that yet another example of his well-known “thinking on his feet” had released him from the jaws of Daphne.

“I will have everything ready for the board to consider at least a week before our next meeting.”

“Thank you,” said Charlie. “Item number six. Accounts.”