As the Crow Flies (67 page)

The
Telegraph correspondent rang my office the day the interview appeared and
informed me that his paper intended to fly the distinguished cleric over at
their expense so that he could study the painting firsthand and thus establish
its provenance beyond doubt. Our legal advisers warned us that we would be
unwise not to allow the bishop to view the painting; to deny him access would
be tantamount to acknowledging we were trying to hide something. Charlie agreed
without hesitation and simply added, “Let the man see the picture. I’m
confident that Tommy left that church with nothing other than a German officer’s
helmet.”

The
next day, in the privacy of his office, Tim Newman warned us that if the Bishop
of Reims identified the picture as the original Bronzino, then the launch of
Trumper’s as a public company would have to be held up for at least a year,
while the auction house might never recover from such a scandal.

The
following Thursday the Bishop of Reims flew into London, to be greeted by, a
bank of photographers whose flashbulbs popped again and again before the monsignor
was driven off to Westminster, where he was staying as a guest of the
archbishop.

The
bishop had agreed to visit the gallery at four the same afternoon, and anyone
walking through Chelsea Terrace that Thursday might have been forgiven for
thinking Frank Sinatra was about to make a personal appearance. A large
gathering had formed on the curbside as they waited keenly for the cleric’s
arrival.

I
met the bishop at the entrance to the gallery and introduced him to Charlie,
who bowed before kissing the episcopal ring. I think the bishop was somewhat
surprised to discover that Charlie was a Roman Catholic. I smiled nervously at
our visitor, who appeared to have a perpetual beam on his face a face that was
red from wine, not sun, I suspected. He glided off down the passage in his long
purple cassock as Cathy led him in the direction of my room, where the picture
awaited him. Barker, the reporter from the Telegraph, introduced himself to
Simon as if he were dealing with someone from the underworld. He made no
attempt to be civil when Simon tried to strike up a conversation with him.

The
bishop came through to my little office and accepted a proffered cup of coffee.
I had already placed the picture on an easel, having at Charlie’s insistence
refitted the original old black frame on the painting. We all sat round the
table in silence as the priest stared at the Virgin Mary.

“Vous
permeaez’” he asked, holding out his arms.

“Certainly,”
I replied, and handed over the little oil.

I
watched his eyes carefully as he held the painting in front of him. He seemed
to take just as much interest in Charlie, whom I had never seen so nervous, as
he did in the picture itself. He also glanced at Barker, who in contrast had a
look of hope in his eyes. After that the bishop returned his attention to the
painting, smiled and seemed to become transfixed by the Virgin Mary.

“Well?”
inquired the reporter.

“Beautiful.
An inspiration for any nonbeliever.”

Barker
also smiled and wrote his words down.

“You
know,” the priest added, “this painting brings back many many memories” he
hesitated for a moment and I thought my heart was going to stop before he
pronounced “but, helas, I must inform you, Mr. Barker, that she is not the
original. A mere copy of the madonna I knew so well.”

The
reporter stopped writing. “Only a copy?”

“Yes,
je le regrette. An excellent copy, peut-etre painted by a young pupil of the
great man would be my guess, but nonetheless a copy.”

Barker
was unable to hide his disappointment as he placed his pad down on the table,
looking as if he wished to make some protest.

The
bishop rose and bowed in my direction. “It is my regret that you have been
troubled, Lady Trumper.”

I
too rose and accompanied him to the door, where he was faced once again with
the assembled press. The journalists fell silent as they waited for the priest
to utter some revelation and I felt for a moment that he might actually be
enjoying the experience.

“Is
it the real thing, Bishop?” shouted a reporter in the crowd.

He
smiled benignly. “It is indeed a portrait of the Blessed Virgin, but this
particular example is only a copy, and of no great significance.” He did not
add a word to this statement before climbing back into his car to be whisked
away.

“What
a relief,” I said once the car was out of sight. I turned round to look for
Charlie, but he was nowhere to be seen. I rushed back to my office and found
him holding the picture in his hands. I closed the door behind me so that we
could be alone.

“What
a relief,” I repeated. “Now life can return to normal.”

“You
realize, of course, that this is the Bronzino,” Charlie said, looking straight
at me.

“Don’t
be silly,” I said. “The bishop... “

“But
did you see the way he held her?” said Charlie. “You don’t cling to a
counterfeit like that. And then I watched his eyes while he came to a decision.”

“A
decision?”

“Yes,
as to whether or not to ruin our lives, in exchange for his beloved Virgin.”

“So
we’ve been in possession of a masterpiece without even knowing it?”

“It
would seem so, but I’m still not sure who removed the painting from the chapel
in the first place.”

“Surely
not Guy...”

“Why
not, he’s more likely to have appreciated its value than Tommy.”

“But
how did Guy discover where it ended up, let alone what it was really worth?”

“Company
records, perhaps, or a chance conversation with Daphne might have put him in
the right direction.”

“But
that still doesn’t explain how he found out it was an original.”

“I
agree,” said Charlie. “I suspect he didn’t, and simply saw the picture as
another way of discrediting me.”

“Then
how the blazes...?”

“Whereas
Mrs. Trentham has had several years to stumble across... “

“Good
God, but where does Kitty fit in?”

“She
was a distraction, nothing more, used by Mrs. Trentham simply to set us up.”

“Will
that woman go to any lengths to destroy us?”

“I
suspect so. And one thing’s for certain, she isn’t going to be pleased when she
discovers her ‘best laid plans’ have once again been scuppered.”

I
collapsed on the chair beside my husband. “What shall we do now?”

Charlie
continued to cling to the little masterpiece as if he were afraid someone might
try to seize it from him.

“There’s
only one thing we can do.”

I
drove us to the archbishop’s house that night and parked the car outside the
tradesmen’s entrance. “How appropriate,” Charlie remarked, before knocking
quietly on an old oak door. A priest answered our call and without a word
ushered us in before leading us through to see the archbishop, whom we found
sharing a glass of wine with the Bishop of Reims.

“Sir
Charles and Lady Trumper,” the priest intoned.

“Welcome,
my children,” said the archbishop as he came forward to greet us. “This is an
unexpected pleasure,” he added, after Charlie kissed his ring. “But what brings
you to my home?”

“We
have a small gift for the bishop,” I said as I handed over a little paper
parcel to his grace. The bishop smiled the same smile as when he had declared
the picture to be a copy. He opened the parcel slowly, like a child who knows
he’s being given a present when it isn’t his birthday. He held the little
masterpiece in his hands for some time before passing it to the archbishop for
his consideration.

“Truly
magnificent,” said the archbishop, who studied it carefully before handing it
back to the bishop. “But where will you display it?”

“Above
the cross in the chapel of St. Augustine I consider would be appropriate,” the
bishop replied. “And possibly in time someone far more scholarly on such
matters than myself will declare the picture to be an original.” He looked up
and smiled, a wicked smile for a bishop.

The
archbishop turned towards me. “Would you and your husband care to join us for
dinner?”

I
thanked him for the kind offer and muttered some excuse about a previous
engagement before we both bade them good night and quietly slipped out the way
we had come.

As
the door closed behind us I heard the archbishop say: “You win your bet,
Pierre.”

“
Twenty
thousand pounds?” said Becky as she came to a halt outside Number 141. “You
must be joking.”

“That’s
the price the agent is demanding,” said Tim Newman.

“But
the shop can’t be worth more than three thousand at most,” said Charlie, staring
at the only building on the block he still didn’t own, other than the flats. “And
in any case I signed an agreement with Mr. Sneddles that when... “

“Not
for the books, you didn’t,” said the banker.

“But
we don’t want the books,” said Becky, noticing for the first time that a heavy
chain and bolt barred them from entering the premises.

“Then
you can’t take possession of the shop, because until the last book is sold your
agreement with Mr. Sneddles cannot come into operation.”

“What
are the books really worth?” Becky asked.

“In
his typical fashion, Mr. Sneddles has penciled a price in every one of them,”
said Tim Newman. “His colleague, Dr. Halcombe, tells me the total comes to
around five thousand pounds with the exception... “

“So
buy the lot,” said Charlie, “because knowing Sneddles he probably undervalued
them in the first place. Then Becky can auction the entire collection some time
later in the year. That way the shortfall shouldn’t be more than about a
thousand.”

“With
the exception of a first edition of Blake’s Songs of Innocence,” added Newman. “Vellum
bound, that is marked up in Sneddles’ inventory at fifteen thousand pounds.”

“Fifteen
thousand pounds at a time when I’m expected to watch every penny. Who imagines
that... ?”

“Someone
who realizes you can’t go ahead with the building of a department store until
you are in possession of this particular shop?” suggested Newman.

“But
how could she...?”

“Because
the Blake in question was originally purchased from the Heywood Hill bookshop
in Curzon Street for the princely sum of four pounds ten shillings and I
suspect the inscription solves half the mystery.”

“Mrs.
Ethel Trentham, I’ll be bound,” said Charlie.

“No,
but not a bad guess. The exact words on the flyleaf, if I remember correctly,
read: ‘From your loving grandson, Guy. 9 July 1917.’”

Charlie
and Becky stared at Tim Newman for some time until Charlie finally asked, “What
do you mean half the mystery?”

“I
also suspect she needs the money,” replied the banker.

“What
for?” asked Becky incredulously.

“So
she can purchase even more shares in Trumper’s of Chelsea.”

On
19 July 1948, two weeks after the bishop had resumed to Reims, the official
tender document for Trumper’s was released to the press to coincide with
full-page advertisements taken in The Times and the Financial Times. All
Charlie and Becky could do now was sit and wait for the public’s response.
Within three days of the announcement the share issue was oversubscribed and
within a week the merchant bankers had received double the applications
necessary. When all the requests had been counted, Charlie and Tim Newman were
left with only one problem: how to allocate the shares. They agreed that
institutions who had applied for a large holding should be taken up first, as
that would give the board easy access to the majority of shares should any
problem arise in the future.

The
only application that puzzled Tim Newman came from Hambros who offered no
explanation as to why they should wish to purchase one hundred thousand shares,
which would give them control of ten percent of the company. However, Tim
recommended that the chairman should accept their application in full while at
the same time offering them a place on the board. This Charlie agreed to do,
but only after Hambros had confirmed that the bid had not come from Mrs.
Trentham or one of her proxies. Two other institutions applied for five
percent: Prudential Assurance, which had serviced the company from its outset,
and a United States source which Becky discovered was simply a front for one of
the Field family trusts. Charlie readily accepted both these applications and
the rest of the shares were then divided between another one thousand, seven
hundred ordinary investors, including one hundred shares, the minimum allowed,
which were taken up by an old age pensioner living in Chelsea. Mrs. Symonds had
dropped Charlie a line to remind him that she had been one of his original
customers when he opened his first shop.

Having
distributed the shares, Tim Newman felt the next matter Charlie should consider
was further appoint meets to the board. Hambros put up a Mr. Baverstock, a
senior partner of the solicitors Baverstock, Dickens and Cobb, whom Charlie
accepted without question. Becky suggested that Simon Matthews, who virtually
ran the auction house whenever she was absent, should also be appointed. Again
Charlie acquiesced, bringing the full complement on the board to nine.