As the Crow Flies Read online

  Although the room was not much larger than Daphne’s hall in Eaton Square, they had still somehow managed to pack in over a hundred chairs of different shapes and sizes. The walls were covered in a faded green baize that displayed several hook marks where pictures must have hung in the past and the carpet had become so threadbare that Charlie could see the floorboards in places. He began to feel that the cost of bringing Number 1 up to the standard he expected for all Trumper’s shops was going to be greater than he had originally anticipated.

  Glancing around, he estimated that over seventy people were now seated in the auction house, and wondered just how many had no interest in bidding themselves but had simply come to see the showdown between the Trumpers and Mrs. Trentham.

  Syd Wrexall, as the representative of the Shops Committee, was already in the front row, arms folded, trying to look composed, his vast bulk almost taking up two seats. Charlie suspected that he wouldn’t go much beyond the second or third bid. He soon spotted Mrs. Trentham seated in the third row, her gaze fixed directly on the grandfather clock.

  Then, with two minutes to spare, Becky slipped into the auction house. Charlie was sitting on the edge of his seat waiting to carry out his instructions to the letter. He rose from his place and walked purposefully towards the exit. This time Mrs. Trentham did glance round to see what Charlie was up to. Innocently he collected another bill of sale from the back of the room, then returned to his seat at a leisurely pace, stopping to talk to another shop owner who had obviously taken an hour off to watch the proceedings.

  When Charlie returned to his place he didn’t look in the direction of his wife, who he knew must now be hidden somewhere towards the back of the room. Nor did he once look at Mrs. Trentham, although he could feel her eyes fixed on him.

  As the clock chimed ten, Mr. Fothergill—a tall thin man with a flower in his buttonhole and not a hair of his silver locks out of place—climbed the four steps of the circular wooden box. Charlie thought he looked an impressive figure as he towered over them. As soon as he had composed himself he rested a hand on the rim of the box and beamed at the packed audience, picked up his gavel and said, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” A silence fell over the room.

  “This is a sale of the property known as Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, its fixtures, fittings and contents, which have been on view to the general public for the past two weeks. The highest bidder will be required to make a deposit of ten percent immediately following the auction, then complete the final transaction within ninety days. Those are the terms as stated on your bill of sale, and I repeat them only so that there can be no misunderstanding.”

  Mr. Fothergill cleared his throat and Charlie could feel his heart beat faster and faster. He watched the colonel clench a fist as Becky removed a pair of glasses out of her bag and placed them in her lap.

  “I have an opening bid of one thousand pounds,” Fothergill told the silent audience, many of whom were standing at the side of the room or leaning against the wall as there were now few seats vacant. Charlie kept his eyes fixed on the auctioneer. Mr. Fothergill smiled in the direction of Mr. Wrexall, whose arms remained folded in an attitude of determined resolution. “Do I see any advance on one thousand?”

  “One thousand, five hundred,” said Charlie, just a little too loudly. Those not involved in the intrigue looked around to see who it was who had made the bid. Several turned to their neighbors and began talking in noisy whispers.

  “One thousand, five hundred,” said the auctioneer. “Do I see two thousand?” Mr. Wrexall unfolded his arms and raised a hand like a child in school determined to prove he knows the answer to one of teacher’s questions.

  “Two thousand, five hundred,” said Charlie, even before Wrexall had lowered his hand.

  “Two thousand, five hundred in the center of the room. Do I see three thousand?”

  Mr. Wrexall’s hand rose an inch from his knee, then fell back. A deep frown formed on his face. “Do I see three thousand?” Mr. Fothergill asked for a second time. Charlie couldn’t believe his luck. He was going to get Number 1 for two thousand, five hundred. Each second felt like a minute as he waited for the hammer to come down.

  “Do I hear three thousand bid anywhere in the room?” said Mr. Fothergill, sounding a little disappointed. “Then I am offering Number 1 Chelsea Terrace at two thousand, five hundred pounds for the first time…” Charlie held his breath. “For the second time.” The auctioneer started to raise his gavel “…Three thousand pounds,” Mr. Fothergill announced with an audible sigh of relief, as Mrs. Trentham’s gloved hand settled back in her lap.

  “Three thousand, five hundred,” said Charlie as Mr. Fothergill smiled in his direction, but as soon as he looked back towards Mrs. Trentham she nodded to the auctioneer’s inquiry of four thousand pounds.

  Charlie allowed a second or two to pass before he stood up, straightened his tie and, looking grim, walked slowly down the center of the aisle and out onto the street. He didn’t see Becky put her glasses on, or the look of triumph that came over Mrs. Trentham’s face. “Do I see four thousand, five hundred pounds?” asked the auctioneer, and with only a glance towards where Becky was seated he said, “I do.”

  Fothergill returned to Mrs. Trentham and asked, “Five thousand pounds, madam?” Her eyes quickly searched round the room, but it became obvious for all to see that she couldn’t work out where the last bid had come from. Murmurs started to turn into chatter as everyone in the auction house began the game of searching for the bidder. Only Becky, safely in her back row seat, didn’t move a muscle.

  “Quiet, please,” said the auctioneer. “I have a bid of four thousand, five hundred pounds. Do I see five thousand anywhere in the room?” His gaze returned to Mrs. Trentham. She raised her hand slowly, but as she did so swung quickly round to see if she could spot who was bidding against her. But no one had moved when the auctioneer said, “Five thousand, five hundred. I now have a bid of five thousand, five hundred.” Mr. Fothergill surveyed his audience. “Are there any more bids?” He looked in Mrs. Trentham’s direction, but she in turn looked baffled, her hands motionless in her lap.

  “Then it’s five thousand, five hundred for the first time,” said Mr. Fothergill. “Five thousand, five hundred for a second time”—Becky pursed her lips to stop herself from breaking into a large grin—“and for a third and final time,” he said, raising his gavel.

  “Six thousand,” said Mrs. Trentham clearly, while at the same time waving her hand. A gasp went up around the room: Becky removed her glasses with a sigh, realizing that her carefully worked-out ploy had failed even though Mrs. Trentham had been made to pay triple the price any shop in the Terrace had fetched in the past.

  The auctioneer’s eyes returned to the back of the room but the glasses were now clasped firmly in Becky’s hand, so he transferred his gaze back to Mrs. Trentham, who sat bolt upright, a smile of satisfaction on her face.

  “At six thousand for the first time,” said the auctioneer, his eyes searching the room. “Six thousand for the second time then, if there are no more bids, it’s six thousand for the last time…” Once again the gavel was raised.

  “Seven thousand pounds,” said a voice from the back of the room. Everyone turned to see that Charlie had returned and was now standing in the aisle, his right hand high in the air.

  The colonel looked round, and when he saw who the new bidder was he began to perspire, something he didn’t like to do in public. He removed a handkerchief from his top pocket and mopped his brow.

  “I have a bid of seven thousand pounds,” said a surprised Mr. Fothergill.

  “Eight thousand,” said Mrs. Trentham, staring straight at Charlie belligerently.

  “Nine thousand,” barked back Charlie.

  The chatter in the room quickly turned into a babble. Becky wanted to jump up and push her husband back out into the street.

  “Quiet, please,” said Mr. Fothergill. “Quiet!” he pleaded, almost shouting. The colonel was still mop