As the Crow Flies

The police would like to interview anyone who may have been in the vicinity at the time.

Cathy’s eyes moved on to a second piece, dated some three weeks later.

Police have come into possession of an abandoned army greatcoat that may have been worn by the man who broke into 11 Gilston Road, Chelsea, the home of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Trumper, on the morning of 7 September. The ownership of the coat has been traced to a Captain Guy Trentham,

formerly of the Royal Fusiliers, who until recently was serving with his regiment in India.

Cathy read the two pieces over and again. Could she really be the daughter of a man who had tried to rob Sir Charles and had been responsible for the death of his second child? And where did the painting fit in? Just how had Mrs. Bennett come into possession of it? More important, why had Lady Trumper taken such an interest in a seemingly unimportant oil by an unknown artist? Unable to answer any of these questions, Cathy closed the cuttings book and pushed it back to the bottom of the pile. After she had washed her hands she wanted to return downstairs and ask Lady Trumper all her questions one by one, but knew that wasn’t possible.

When the catalogue had been completed and on sale for over a week Lady Trumper asked to see Cathy in her office. Cathy only hoped that some frightful mistake hadn’t been unearthed, or someone hadn’t come across an attribution for the painting of the Virgin Mary and Child that she should have discovered in time to be credited in the catalogue.

As Cathy stepped into the office Becky said, “My congratulations.”

“Thank you,” said Cathy, not quite sure what she was being praised for.

“Your catalogue has been a sell-out and we’re having to rush through a reprint.”

“I’m only sorry that I couldn’t discover any worthwhile attribution for your husband’s painting,” said Cathy, feeling relieved that was not the reason Rebecca had wanted to see her. She also hoped her boss might confide in her how Sir Charles had come into possession of the little oil in the first place, and perhaps even throw some light on the connection between the Trumpers and Captain Trentham.

“I’m not that surprised,” Becky replied, without offering any further explanation.

You see, I came across an article in the files that mentioned a certain Captain Guy Trentham and I wondered… Cathy wanted to say, but she remained silent.

“Would you like to be one of the spotters when the sale takes place next week?” Becky asked.

On the day of the Italian sale, Cathy was accused by Simon of being “full of beans” although in fact she had been unable to eat a thing that morning.

Once the sale had started, painting after painting passed its estimate and Cathy was delighted when The Basilica of St. Mark’s reached a record for a Canaletto.

When Sir Charles’ little oil replaced the masterpiece she suddenly felt queasy. It must have been the way the light caught the canvas, because there was now no doubt in her mind that it too was a masterpiece. Her immediate thought was that if only she possessed two hundred pounds she would have put in a bid for it herself.

The uproar that followed once the little picture had been removed from the easel made Cathy yet more anxious. She felt the accuser might well be right in his claim that the painting was an original by Bronzino. She had never seen a better example of his classic chubby babies with their sunlit halos. Lady Trumper and Simon placed no blame on Cathy’s shoulders as they continued to assure everyone who asked that the picture was a copy and had been known to the gallery for several years.

When the sale eventually came to an end, Cathy began to check through the dockets to be sure that they were in the correct order so that there could be no doubt who had purchased each item. Simon was standing a few feet away and telling a gallery owner which pictures had failed to reach their reserve price and might therefore be sold privately. She froze when she heard Lady Trumper turn to Simon, the moment the dealer had left, and say, “It’s that wretched Trentham woman up to her tricks again. Did you spot the old horror at the back of the room?” Simon nodded, but had made no further comment.

It must have been about a week after the Bishop of Reims had made his pronouncement that Simon invited Cathy to dinner at his flat in Pimlico. “A little celebration,” he added, explaining he had asked all those who had been directly involved with the Italian sale.

Cathy arrived that night to find several of the staff from the Old Masters department already enjoying a glass of wine, and by the time they sat down to dinner only Rebecca Trumper was not present. Once again Cathy felt aware of the family atmosphere the Trumpers created even in their absence. The guests all enjoyed a sumptuous meal of avocado soup followed by wild duck which they learned Simon had spent the whole afternoon preparing. She and a young man called Julian, who worked in the rare books department, stayed on after the others had left to help clear up.

“Don’t bother with the washing up,” said Simon. “My lady who ‘does’ can deal with it all in the morning.”

“Typical male attitude,” said Cathy as she continued to wash the dishes. “However, I admit that I remained behind with an ulterior motive.”

“And what might that be?” he asked as he picked up a dish cloth and made a token attempt to help Julian with the drying.

“Who is Mrs. Trentham?” Cathy asked abruptly. Simon swung round to face her, so she added awkwardly, “I heard Becky mention her name to you a few minutes after the sale was over and that man in the tweed jacket who made such a fuss had disappeared.”

Simon didn’t answer her question for some time, as if he were weighing up what he should say. Two dry dishes later he began.

“It goes back a long way, even before my time. And don’t forget I was at Sotheby’s with Becky for five years before she asked me to join her at Trumper’s. To be honest, I’m not sure why she and Mrs. Trentham loathe each other quite so much, but what I do know is that Mrs. Trentham’s son Guy and Sir Charles served in the same regiment during the First World War, and that Guy Trentham was somehow involved with that painting of the Virgin Mary and Child that had to be withdrawn from the sale. The only other piece of information that I’ve picked up over the years is that Guy Trentham disappeared off to Australia soon after…Hey, that was one of my finest coffee cups.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Cathy. “How clumsy of me.” She bent down and started picking up the little pieces of china that were scattered over the kitchen floor. “Where can I find another one?”

“In the china department of Trumper’s,” said Simon. “They’re about two shillings each.” Cathy laughed. “Just take my advice,” he added. “Remember that the older staff have a golden rule about Mrs. Trentham.”

Cathy stopped gathering up the pieces.

“They don’t mention her name in front of Becky unless she raises the subject. And never refer to the name of ‘Trentham’ in the presence of Sir Charles. If you did, I think he’d sack you on the spot.”