As the Crow Flies Read online

  “Good morning, Miss Salmon,” the older man said. “My name is Crowther. Perhaps you’d be good enough to join me.” He raised the counter lid and ushered her through. Becky duly followed in his wake.

  “Good weather for this time of the year, wouldn’t you say, madam?”

  Becky stared out of the window and watched the umbrellas bobbing up and down along the pavement, but decided not to comment on Mr. Crowther’s meteorological judgment.

  Once they had reached a poky little room at the back of the building he announced with obvious pride, “This is my office. Won’t you please be seated, Miss Salmon?” He gestured towards an uncomfortably low chair placed opposite his desk. He then sat down in his own high-backed chair. “I’m a partner of the firm,” he explained, “but I must confess a very junior partner.” He laughed at his own joke. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “My colleague and I want to acquire Numbers 131 and 135 Chelsea Terrace,” she said.

  “Quite so,” said Mr. Crowther, looking down at his file. “And on this occasion will Miss Daphne Harcourt-Browne—”

  “Miss Harcourt-Browne will not be involved in this transaction and if, because of that, you feel unable to deal with Mr. Trumper or myself, we shall be happy to approach the vendors direct.” Becky held her breath.

  “Oh, please don’t misunderstand me, madam. I’m sure we will have no trouble in continuing to do business with you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, let us start with Number 135,” said Mr. Crowther, pushing his spectacles back up his nose before he leafed through the file in front of him. “Ah, yes, dear Mr. Kendrick, a first-class butcher, you know. Sadly he is now considering an early retirement.”

  Becky sighed, and Mr. Crowther looked up at her over his spectacles.

  “His doctor has told him that he has no choice if he hopes to live more than a few more months,” she said.

  “Quite so,” said Mr. Crowther, returning to his file. “Well, it seems that his asking price is one hundred and fifty pounds for the freehold, plus one hundred pounds for the goodwill of the business.”

  “And how much will he take?”

  “I’m not quite sure I catch your drift, madam.” The junior partner raised his eyebrows.

  “Mr. Crowther, before we waste another minute of each other’s time I feel I should let you know in confidence that it is our intention to purchase, if the price is right, every shop that becomes available in Chelsea Terrace, with the long-term aim of owning the entire block, even if it takes us a lifetime to achieve. It is not my intention to visit your office regularly for the next twenty years for the sole purpose of shadowboxing with you. By then I suspect you will be a senior partner, and both of us will have better things to do. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Abundantly,” said Mr. Crowther, glancing at the note Palmer had attached to the sale of 147: the lad hadn’t exaggerated in the forthright opinion of his client. He pushed his spectacles back up his nose.

  “I think Mr. Kendrick might be willing to accept one hundred and twenty-five pounds if you would also agree to a pension of twenty-five pounds a year until his death.”

  “But he might live forever.”

  “I feel I should point out, madam, that it was you, not I, who referred to Mr. Kendrick’s present state of health.” For the first time the junior partner leaned back in his chair.

  “I have no desire to rob Mr. Kendrick of his pension,” Becky replied. “Please offer him one hundred pounds for the freehold of the shop and twenty pounds a year for a period of eight years as a pension. I’m flexible on the latter part of the transaction but not on the former. Is that understood, Mr. Crowther?”

  “It certainly is, madam.”

  “And if I’m to pay Mr. Kendrick a pension I shall also expect him to be available to offer advice from time to time as and when we require it.”

  “Quite so,” said Crowther, making a note of her request in the margin.

  “So what can you tell me about 131?”

  “Now that is a knotty problem,” said Crowther, opening a second file. “I don’t know if you are fully aware of the circumstances, madam, but…”

  Becky decided not to help him on this occasion. She smiled sweetly.

  “Um, well,” continued the junior partner, “Mr. Rutherford is off to New York with a friend to open an antiques gallery, in somewhere called the ‘Village.’” He hesitated.

  “And their partnership is of a somewhat unusual nature?” assisted Becky after a prolonged silence. “And he might prefer to spend the rest of his days in an apartment in New York, rather than a cell in Brixton?”

  “Quite so,” said Mr. Crowther, as a bead of perspiration appeared on his forehead. “And in this particular gentleman’s case, he wishes to remove everything from the premises, as he feels his merchandise might well fetch a better price in Manhattan. Therefore all that he would leave for your consideration would be the freehold.”

  “Then can I presume in his case there will be no pension?”

  “I think we may safely presume that.”

  “And may we therefore expect his price to be a little more reasonable, remembering some of the pressures he is under?”

  “I would have thought not,” replied Mr. Crowther, “as the shop in question is rather larger than most of the others in Chelsea—”

  “One thousand, four hundred and twenty-two square feet, to be precise,” said Becky, “compared with one thousand square feet at Number 147, which we acquired for—”

  “A very reasonable price at the time, if I may be so bold as to suggest, Miss Salmon.”

  “However…”

  “Quite so,” said Mr. Crowther. Another bead of sweat appeared on his forehead.

  “So how much is he hoping to raise for the freehold, now that we have established that he won’t be requiring a pension?”

  “His asking price,” said Mr. Crowther, whose eyes had once again returned to the file, “is two hundred pounds. However, I suspect,” he added before Becky had the chance to challenge him, “that if you were able to close the negotiations quickly he might allow the property to go for as little as one hundred and seventy-five.” His eyebrows arched. “I am given to understand that he is anxious to join his friend as quickly as possible.”

  “If he’s that anxious to join his friend I suspect he will be only too happy to lower his price to one hundred and fifty for a quick sale, and he might even accept one hundred and sixty, despite it taking a few days longer.”

  “Quite so.” Mr. Crowther removed his handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped his brow. Becky couldn’t help noticing that it was still raining outside. “Will there be anything else, madam?” he asked, the handkerchief having been returned to the safety of his pocket.

  “Yes, Mr. Crowther,” said Becky. “I should like you to keep a watching brief on all the properties in Chelsea Terrace and approach either Mr. Trumper or myself the moment you hear of anything likely to come on the market.”

  “Perhaps it might be helpful if I were to prepare a full assessment of the properties on the block, then let you and Mr. Trumper have a comprehensive written report for your consideration?”

  “That would be most useful,” said Becky, hiding her surprise at this sudden piece of initiative.

  She rose from her chair to make it clear she considered the meeting to be over.

  As they walked back to the front desk, Mr. Crowther ventured, “I am given to understand that Number 147 is proving most popular with the inhabitants of Chelsea.”

  “And how would you know that?” asked Becky, surprised for a second time.

  “My wife,” Mr. Crowther explained, “refuses to shop for her fruit and vegetables anywhere else, despite the fact that we live in Fulham.”

  “A discerning lady, your wife,” said Becky.

  “Quite so,” said Mr. Crowther.

  Becky assumed that the banks would react to her approach with much the same enthusiasm as the estate agent ha