As the Crow Flies Read online

  CHAPTER

  9

  Becky began to notice small changes in Charlie’s manner, at first subtle and then more obvious.

  Daphne made no attempt to hide her involvement in what she described as “the social discovery of the decade, my very own Charlie Doolittle. Why, only this weekend,” she declared, “I took him down to Harcourt Hall, don’t you know, and he was a wow. Even Mother thought he was fantastic.”

  “Your mother approves of Charlie Trumper?” said Becky in disbelief.

  “Oh, yes, darling, but then you see Mummy realizes that I have no intention of marrying Charlie.”

  “Be careful, I had no intention of marrying Guy.”

  “My darling, never forget you spring from the romantic classes, whereas I come from a more practical background, which is exactly why the aristocracy have survived for so long. No, I shall end up marrying a certain Percy Wiltshire and it’s got nothing to do with destiny or the stars, it’s just good old-fashioned common sense.”

  “But is Mr. Wiltshire aware of your plans for his future?”

  “Of course the marquise of Wiltshire isn’t. Even his mother hasn’t told him yet.”

  “But what if Charlie were to fall in love with you?”

  “That’s not possible. You see, there’s another woman in his life.”

  “Good heavens,” said Becky. “And to think I’ve never met her.”

  The shop’s six-month and nine-month figures showed a considerable improvement on the first quarter’s, as Daphne discovered to her cost when she received her next dividends. She told Becky that at this rate she couldn’t hope to make any long-term profit from her loan. As for Becky herself, she spent less and less of her time thinking about Daphne, Charlie or the shop as the hour drew nearer for Guy’s departure to India.

  India…Becky hadn’t slept the night she had learned of Guy’s three-year posting and she certainly might have wished to discover something that would so disrupt their future from his lips and not Daphne’s. In the past Becky had accepted, without question, that because of Guy’s duties with the regiment it would not be possible for them to see each other on a regular basis; but as the time of his departure drew nearer she began to resent guard duty, night exercises and most of all, any weekend operations in which the Fusiliers were expected to take part.

  Becky had feared that Guy’s attentions would cool after her distressing visit to Ashurst Hall, but if anything he became even more ardent and kept repeating how different it would all be once they were married.

  But then, as if without warning, the months became weeks, the weeks days, until the dreaded circle Becky had penciled around 3 February 1920 on the calendar by the side of her bed was suddenly upon them.

  “Let’s have dinner at the Cafe Royal, where we spent our first evening together,” Guy suggested, the Monday before he was due to leave.

  “No,” said Becky. “I don’t want to share you with a hundred strangers on our last evening.” She hesitated before adding, “If you can face the thought of my cooking, I’d rather give you dinner at the flat. At least that way we can be on our own.”

  Guy smiled.

  Once the shop seemed to be running smoothly Becky didn’t drop in every day, but she couldn’t resist a glance through the window whenever she passed Number 147. She was surprised to find at eight o’clock that particular Monday morning that Charlie wasn’t to be seen behind the counter.

  “Over here,” she heard a voice cry and turned to find Charlie sitting on the same bench opposite the shop where she had first spotted him the day he returned to London. She crossed the road to join him.

  “What’s this, taking early retirement before we’ve repaid the loan?”

  “Certainly not. I’m working.”

  “Working? Please explain, Mr. Trumper, how lounging about on a park bench on a Monday morning can be described as work?”

  “It was Henry Ford who taught us that ‘For every minute of action, there should be an hour of thought,’” said Charlie, with only a slight trace of his old Cockney accent; Becky also couldn’t help noticing how he had pronounced “Henry.”

  “And where are those Fordian-like thoughts taking you at this particular moment?” she asked.

  “To that row of shops opposite.”

  “All of them?” Becky looked over at the block. “And what conclusion would Mr. Ford have come to had he been sitting on this bench, pray?”

  “That they represent thirty-six different ways of making money.”

  “I’ve never counted them, but I’ll take your word for it.”

  “But what else do you see when you look across the road?”

  Becky’s eyes returned to Chelsea Terrace. “Lots of people walking up and down the pavement, mainly ladies with parasols, nannies pushing prams, and the odd child with a skipping rope or hoop.” She paused. “Why, what do you see?”

  “Two ‘For Sale’ signs.”

  “I confess I hadn’t noticed them.” Once again she looked across the road.

  “That’s because you’re looking with a different pair of eyes,” Charlie explained.

  “First there’s Kendrick’s the butcher. Well, we all know about him, don’t we? Heart attack, been advised by his doctor to retire early or he can’t hope to live much longer.”

  “And then there’s Mr. Rutherford,” said Becky, spotting the second “For Sale” sign.

  “The antiques dealer. Oh, yes, dear Julian wants to sell up and join his friend in New York, where society is a little more sympathetic when it comes to his particular proclivities—like that word?”

  “How did you find—?”

  “Information,” said Charlie, touching his nose. “The life blood of any business.”

  “Another Fordian principle?”

  “No, much nearer home than that,” admitted Charlie. “Daphne Harcourt-Browne.”

  Becky smiled. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to get hold of them both, aren’t I?”

  “And how do you intend to do that?”

  “With my cunning and your diligence.”

  “Are you being serious, Charlie Trumper?”

  “Never more.” Charlie turned to face her once again. “After all, why should Chelsea Terrace be any different from Whitechapel?”

  “Just the odd decimal point, perhaps,” suggested Becky.

  “Then let’s move that decimal point, Miss Salmon. Because the time has come for you to stop being a sleeping partner and start fulfilling your end of the bargain.”

  “But what about at my exams?”

  “Use the extra time you’ll have now that your boyfriend has departed for India.”

  “He goes tomorrow, actually.”

  “Then I’ll grant you a further day’s leave. Isn’t that how officers describe a day off? Because tomorrow I want you to return to John D. Wood and make an appointment to see that pimply young assistant—what was his name?”

  “Palmer,” said Becky.

  “Yes, Palmer,” said Charlie. “Instruct him to negotiate a price on our behalf for both those shops, and warn him that we’re also interested in anything else that might come up in Chelsea Terrace.”

  “Anything else in Chelsea Terrace?” said Becky, who had begun making notes on the back of her textbook.

  “Yes, and we’ll also need to raise nearly all the money it’s going to cost to purchase the freeholds, so visit several banks and see that you get good terms. Don’t consider anything above four percent.”

  “Nothing above four percent,” repeated Becky. Looking up, she added, “But thirty-six shops, Charlie?”

  “I know, it could take an awful long time.”

  In the Bedford College library, Becky tried to push Charlie’s dreams of being the next Mr. Selfridge to one side as she attempted to complete an essay on the influence of Bernini on seventeenth-century sculpture. But her mind kept switching from Bernini to Charlie and then back to Guy. Unable to grapple with the modern, Bec