As the Crow Flies

Becky burst out laughing. “So what do we do now?” she asked.

“Go back to Eaton Square, then you can look up Mr. Anson’s number at the Lords and give him a call. That way at least we can be sure that Charlie will contact you within the hour.”

Cathy nodded her agreement but both of them remained transfixed as they watched the oldest dealer in the market ply his trade.

“I don’t offer you these for two pounds,” he declared, holding up a cabbage in both hands. “I don’t offer ’em for one pound, not even fifty pence.”

“No, I’ll give ’em away for twenty pence,” whispered Becky under her breath.

“No, I’ll give ’em away for twenty pence,” shouted Charlie at the top of his voice.

“You do realize,” said Becky as they crept back out of the market, “that Charlie’s grandfather carried on to the ripe old age of eighty-three and died only a few feet from where his lordship is standing now.”

“He’s come a long way since then,” said Cathy, as she raised her hand to hail a taxi.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Becky replied. “Only about a couple of miles—as the crow flies.”