As the Crow Flies Read online

  As Becky put the phone down, she decided to give the green light and send the catalogues out, despite Charlie’s apprehension. They were posted the same day along with invitations to the press and selected customers.

  A couple of journalists applied for tickets to the sale. An unusually sensitive Becky checked them out, only to find that both worked for national newspapers, and had covered Trumper’s sales several times in the past.

  Simon Matthews considered that Becky was overreacting, while Cathy tended to agree with Sir Charles that the wise course would be to withdraw the tea set from the auction until they had been given the all-clear by Deakins.

  “If we’re to withdraw a lot every time that man takes an interest in one of our sales we may as well close our front doors and take up stargazing,” Simon told them.

  The Monday before the sale was to take place Inspector Deakins telephoned to ask if he could see Becky urgently. He arrived at the gallery thirty minutes later, again accompanied by his sergeant. This time the only item he removed from his briefcase was a copy of the Aberdeen Evening Express dated 15 October 1949.

  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 left 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.”

  CHAPTER

  37

  On 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 with 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 Holborn 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 retur