As the Crow Flies (70 page)

Deakins
asked to be allowed to inspect the Georgian tea set once more. Becky nodded her
agreement and the policeman studied each piece carefully against a photograph
that was on an inside page of the newspaper.

“That’s
them all right,” he said, after double-checking. He showed Becky the
photograph.

Cathy
and Peter Fellowes also studied each item while looking carefully at the
picture from the newspaper and had to agree with Deakins that the match was
perfect.

“This
little lot was stolen from the Aberdeen Museum of Silver some three months ago,”
the inspector informed them. “The bloody local police didn’t even bother to let
us know. No doubt they considered it was none of our business.”

“So
what happens now?” asked Becky.

“The
Nottingham constabulary have already visited Mrs. Dawson, where they found
several other pieces of silver and jewelry hidden around the house. She’s been
taken to her local station in order to, as the press would have it, help the
police with their inquiries.” He placed the newspaper back in his briefcase. “After
I’ve phoned them to confirm my piece of news, I expect that she’ll be charged
later today. However, I’m afraid I shall have to take the tea set away with me
for processing at Scotland Yard.”

“Of
course,” said Becky.

“My
sergeant will write out a receipt for you, Lady Trumper, and I’d like to thank
you for your cooperation.” The inspector hesitated as he looked lovingly at the
tea set. “A month’s salary,” he said with a sigh, “and stolen for all the wrong
reasons.” He raised his hat and the two policemen lent the gallery.

“So
what do we do now?” said Cathy.

“Not
much we can do.” Becky sighed. “Carry on with the auction as if nothing had
taken place and when the lot comes up, simply announce that the piece has been
withdrawn.”

“But
then our man will leap up and say, ‘Isn’t this yet another example of
advertising stolen goods and then having to withdraw them at the last moment?’
We won’t look so much like an auction house,” said Simon, his voice rising with
anger. “More like a pawnbroker. So why don’t we just put three balls outside
the front door, and a fence to give a clue as to the class of person we’re
hoping to attract?”

Becky
didn’t react.

“If
you feel so strongly about it, Simon, why not try and turn the whole episode to
our advantage?” suggested Cathy.

“What
do you mean?” asked Becky as both she and Simon swung round to face the young
Australian.

“We
must get the press on our side for a change.”

“I’m
not sure I understand what you’re getting at.”

“Phone
that journalist from the Telegraph what was his name? Barker and give him the
inside story.”

“What
good would that do?” asked Becky.

“He’ll
have our version of what happened this time, and he’ll be only too pleased to
be the one journalist on the inside, especially after that fiasco with the
Bronzino. “

“Do
you think he’d be at all interested in a silver set worth seventy pounds?”

“With
a Scottish museum involved and a professional fence arrested in Nottingham? He’ll
be interested all right. Especially if we don’t tell anyone else.”

“Would
you like to handle Mr. Barker yourself, Cathy?” Becky asked.

“Just
give me the chance.”

The
following morning, the Daily Telegraph had a small but prominent piece on page
three reporting that Trumper’s, the fine art auctioneers, had called in the
police after they had become suspicious about the ownership of a Georgian tea
set that was later discovered to have been stolen from the Aberdeen Museum of
Silver. The Nottingham police had since arrested a woman whom They later
charged with handling stolen goods. The article went on to say that Inspector
Deakins of Scotland Yard had told the Telegraph: “We only wish every auction
house and gallery in London were as conscientious as Trumper’s.”

The
sale that afternoon was well attended, and despite losing one of the
centerpieces of the auction Trumper’s still managed to exceed several of the
estimates. The man in the tweed coat and yellow tie didn’t make an appearance.

When
Charlie read the Telegraph in bed that night he remarked, “So you didn’t take
my advice?”

“Yes
and no,” said Becky. “I admit I didn’t withdraw the tea set immediately, but I
did promote Cathy.”

O
n 9 November
1950 Trumper’s held their second annual general meeting.

The
directors met at ten o’clock in the boardroom so that Arthur Selwyn could take
them slowly through the procedure he intended to follow once they faced the
shareholders.

At
eleven o’clock sharp he guided the chairman and the eight directors out of the
boardroom and into the main hall as if they were school children being led in a
crocodile on their way to morning assembly.

Charlie
introduced each member of the board to the assembled gathering, who numbered
around one hundred and twenty a respectable turnout for such an occasion, Tim
Newman whispered in Becky’s ear. Charlie went through the agenda without a
prompt from his managing director and was only asked one awkward question. “Why
have your costs gone so much over budget in the first full year of trading?”

Arthur
Selwyn rose to explain that the expense of the building had exceeded their
original estimate and that the launching had incurred certain one-off costs
which would not arise again. He also pointed out that, strictly on a trading
basis, Trumper’s had managed to break even in the first quarter of their second
year. He added that he remained confident about the year ahead, especially with
the anticipated rise in the number of tourists who would be attracted to London
by the Festival of Britain. However, he warned shareholders it might be
necessary for the company to raise even more capital, if they hoped to increase
their facilities.

When
Charlie declared the AGM closed he remained seated because the board received a
small ovation, which quite took the chairman by surprise.

Becky
was about to return to Number 1 and continue wit-in her work on an
Impressionist sale she had planned for the spring when Mr. Baverstock came over
and touched her gently on the elbow.

“May
I have a word with you in private, Lady Trumper?”

“Of
course, Mr. Baverstock.” Becky looked around for a quiet spot where they could
talk.

“I
feel that perhaps my office in High Holbom would be more appropriate,” he
suggested. “You see, it’s a rather delicate matter. Would tomorrow, three o’clock
suit you?”

Daniel
had phoned from Cambridge that morning and Becky couldn’t remember when she had
heard him sounding so chatty and full of news. She, on the other hand, was not
chatty or full of news: she still hadn’t been able to fathom why the senior
partner of Baverstock, Dickens and Cobb should want to see her on “a rather
delicate matter.”

She
couldn’t believe that Mr. Baverstock’s wife wanted to return the Charles 11
court cupboard or KquiKd mom details on the forthcoming Impressionist sale, but
as in her case anxiety always ruled over optimism, Becky spent the next
twenty-six hours fearing the worst.

She
didn’t burden Charlie with her troubles, because the little she did know of Mr.
Baverstock made her certain that if her husband were involved the lawyer would
have asked to see them both. In any case, Charlie had quite enough problems of
his own to deal with without being weighed down with hers.

Becky
couldn’t manage any lunch and arrived at the solicitor’s office a few minutes
before the appointed hour. She was ushered straight through to Mr. Baverstock’s
rooms.

She
was greeted with a warm smile by her fellow director, as if she were some minor
relation of his large family. He offered her the seat opposite his on the other
side of a large mahogany desk.

Mr.
Baverstock, Becky decided, must have been about fifty-five, perhaps sixty, with
a round, friendly face and the few strands of gray hair that were left were
parted neatly down the center. His dark jacket, waistcoat, gray striped
trousers and black tie could have been worn by any solicitor who practiced
within five square miles of the building in which they now sat. Having resumed
to his own chair he began to study the pile of documents that lay in front of
him before removing his half-moon spectacles.

“Lady
Trumper,” he began. “It’s most kind of you to come and see me.” In the two years
they had known each other he had never once addressed her by her Christian
name.

“I
shall,” he continued, “come straight to the point. One of my clients was the
late Sir Raymond Hardcastle.” Becky wondered why he had never mentioned this
fact before and was about to protest when Mr. Baverstock quickly added, “But I
hasten to say that Mrs. Gerald Trentham is not and never has been a client of
this firm.”

Becky
made no effort to disguise her relief.

“I
must also let you know that I had the privilege of serving Sir Raymond for over
thirty years and indeed considered myself not only to be his legal adviser but
towards the end of his life a close friend. I tell you this as background
information, Lady Trumper, for you may feel such facts are relevant when you’ve
heard all that I have to say.”

Becky
nodded, still waiting for Mr. Baverstock to get to the point.

“Some
years before he died,” continued the solicitor “Sir Raymond drew up a will. In
it he divided the income from his estate between his two daughters an income, I
might add, that has grown considerably since his death, thanks to some prudent
investment on his behalf. The elder of his daughters was Miss Amy Hardcastle,
and the younger, as I feel sure you know, Mrs. Gerald Trentham. The income from
the estate has been sufficient to give both these ladies a standard of living
equal to, if not considerably higher than, the one to which they had grown
accustomed before his death. However... “

Will
dear Mr. Baverstock ever get to the point? Becky was beginning to wonder.

“...
Sir Raymond decided, in his wisdom, that the share capital should remain
intact, after he allowed the firm that his father had founded and he had built
up so successfully to merge with one of his greatest rivals. You see, Lady
Trumper, Sir Raymond felt there was no member of the family who could obviously
fill his shoes as the next chairman of Hardcastle’s. Neither of his two
daughters, or his grandsons for that matter of whom I shall have more to say in
a moment did he consider competent to run a public company.”

The
solicitor removed his glasses, cleaned them with a handkerchief which he took
out of his top pocket and peered through the lenses critically before returning
to the task at hand.

“Sir
Raymond, you see, had no illusions about his immediate pith and kin. His elder
daughter, Amy, was a gende, shy lady who nursed her father valiantly through
his final years. When Sir Raymond died she moved out of the family house into a
small seaside hotel where she resided until her death last year.

“His
younger daughter, Ethel Trentham...” he continued. “Let me put this as
delicately as I can Sir Raymond considered she had perhaps lost touch with
reality and certainly no longer acknowledged any attachment to her past. Anyway,
I know it particularly saddened the old man not to have produced a son of his
own, so when Guy was born his hopes for the future became focused on the young
grandson. From that day he lavished everything on him. Later he was to blame
himself for the boy’s eventual downfall. He did not make the same mistake when
Nigel was born, a child for whom he had neither affection nor respect.

“However,
this firm was instructed to keep Sir Raymond briefed at all times with any
information that came into our hands concerning members of his immediate
family. Thus when Captain Trentham resigned his commission in 1922, somewhat
abruptly, we were asked to try to find out the real cause behind his leaving
the colors. Sir Raymond certainly did not accept his daughter’s star about an
appointment as a partner with an Austrafan cattle broker, and indeed at one
stage was sufficiently concerned that he even contemplated sending me to that
continent to find out the real story. Then Guy died.”

Becky
sat in her chair wanting to wind Mr. Baverstock up like a gramophone and set
him going well above 78 rpm, but she had already come to the conclusion that
nothing she said was going to accelerate him along the track he had set
himself.

“The
result of our investigations,” continued Baverstock, “led us to believe and at
this point, Lady Trumper, I must apologize for any indelicacy, for I do not
intend to offend that Guy Trentham and not Charles Trumper was the father of
your child.”

Becky
bowed her head and Mr. Baverstock apologized once again before he continued.

“Sir
Raymond, however, needed to be convinced that Daniel was his great-grandson,
and to that end he made two separate visits to St. Paul’s after the boy had won
a scholarship to that school.”

Becky
stared at the old lawyer.