Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Cathy, half rising from her seat.

"No, no," said Charlie, waving her back down. "Don't be silly, it wasn't that important. Our news can wait until later."

"They're very hot, so watch it," said Daniel, dropping a crumpet onto Cathy's plate. "Well, if my inheritance is of such monumental insignificance then I shall have to impart my own little piece of news first. Roll of drums, curtain up opening line"—Daniel raised the toasting fork as if it were a baton—"Cathy and I are engaged to be married."

"I don't believe it," said Becky, immediately springing up from her chair to hug Cathy in delight. "What wonderful news."

"How long has this been going on?" asked Charlie. "I must have been blind."

"Nearly two years," admitted Daniel. "And to be fair, Dad, even you couldn't expect to have a telescope capable of focusing on Cambridge every weekend. I'll let you into another little secret: Cathy wouldn't allow me to tell you until Mum had invited her to join the management committee."

"As someone who's always been a dealer, my boy," said Charlie, beaming, "I can tell you you've got the better of this bargain." Daniel grinned. "In fact, I think Cathy's probably been shortchanged. But when did all this happen?"

"We met at your housewarming party. You won't remember, Sir Charles, but we bumped into each other on the stairs," Cathy said, nervously fingering the little cross that hung around her neck.

"Of course I remember and please call me Charlie. Everyone else does."

"So have you decided on a date?" asked Becky.

"We were planning to be married during the Easter vacation," said Daniel. "If that suits you?"

"Next week suits me," said Charlie. "I couldn't be happier. And where do you plan to hold the wedding?"

"The College Chapel," said Daniel without hesitation. "You see, both Cathy's parents are dead so we thought down here in Cambridge might be best, in the circumstances."

"And where will you live?" asked Becky.

"Ah, that all depends," said Daniel mysteriously.

"On what?" asked Charlie.

"I've applied for a chair in mathematics at King's, London—and I'm reliably informed that their choice will be announced to the world in two weeks' time."

"Are you at all hopeful?" asked Becky.

"Well, let me put it this way," said Daniel. "The provost has asked me to have dinner with him next Thursday at his lodgings, and as I've never set eyes on the gentleman in question before—" He broke off as the telephone interrupted his flow.

"Now, whoever can that be?" he asked rhetorically. "The monsters don't usually bother me on a Sunday." He picked up the receiver and listened for a moment.

"Yes, she is," he said after a few more seconds. "May I say who's calling? I'll let her know." He turned to face his mother. "Mr. Baverstock for you, Mum."

Becky pushed herself out of her chair and took the telephone from Daniel as Charlie looked on apprehensively.

"Is that you, Lady Trumper?"

"Yes, it is."

"Baverstock here. I'll be brief. But first, have you informed Daniel about the details of Sir Raymond's will?"

"No. My husband was just about to do so."

"Then please don't mention the subject to him until I have had the chance to see you again."

"But why not?" Becky realized it was now going to be necessary to conduct a one-sided conversation.

"It isn't something I feel comfortable about discussing over the telephone, Lady Trumper. When are you expecting to be back in town?"

"Later this evening."

"I think we should meet as soon as possible."

"Do you consider it's that important?" said Becky, still mystified.

"I do. Would seven o'clock this evening suit you?"

"Yes, I feel sure we'll be back by then."

"In that case I'll come round to Eaton Square at seven. And please, whatever you do, don't mention anything about Sir Raymond's will to Daniel. I apologize about the mystery but I fear I have been left with little choice. Goodbye, dear lady."

"Goodbye," said Becky and put the receiver down.

"Problem?" asked Charlie, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't know." Becky looked her husband straight in the eye. "It's just that Mr. Baverstock wants to see us about those papers he briefed me on last week." Charlie grimaced. "And he doesn't wish us to discuss the details with anyone else for the time being."

"Now that does sound mysterious," said Daniel, turning to Cathy. "Mr. Baverstock, my darling, is on the board of the barrow, a man who would consider phoning his wife during office hours a breach of contract."

"That sounds like the right qualifications for a place on the board of a public company."

"You've met him once before, as a matter of fact," said Daniel. "He and his wife were also at Mum's housewarming party, but I fear he isn't exactly memorable."

"Who painted that picture?" said Charlie suddenly, staring at a watercolor of the Cam that hung above Daniel's desk.

Becky only hoped the change of subject hadn't been too obvious.

On the journey back to London Becky was torn between delight at the thought of having Cathy as a daughter-in-law and anxiety over what Mr. Baverstock could possibly went to see them about.

When Charlie asked yet again for details, Becky tried to repeat the conversation she'd conducted with Baverstock word for word, but it left neither of them any the wiser.

"We'll know soon enough," said Charlie as they left the A10 to go through Whitechapel and on into the City. It always gave Charlie a thrill whenever he passed all the different barrows displaying their colorful wares and heard the cries of the merchants shouting their outrageous claims.

"I don't offer you these for . . ."

Suddenly Charlie brought the car to a halt, turned off the engine and stared out of the window.

"Why are you stopping?" asked Becky. "We haven't any time to spare."

Charlie pointed at the Whitechapel Boys' Club: it looked even more run-down and dilapidated than usual.

"You've seen the club a thousand times before, Charlie. And you know we mustn't be late for Mr. Baverstock."

He took out his diary and began unscrewing the top of his fountain pen.

"What are you up to?"

"When will you learn, Becky, to look more carefully?" Charlie was busy scribbling down the number of the estate agent on the "For Sale" sign.

"You surely don't want to open a second Trumper's in Whitechapel."

"No, but I do want to find out why they're closing my old boys' club," said Charlie. He resumed the pen to his inside pocket and pressed the button to start up the engine.

The Trumpers arrived back at 17 Eaton Square with just over half an hour to spare before Mr. Baverstock was due to visit them; and Mr. Baverstock, they both were painfully aware, was never late.

Becky immediately set about dusting the tables and plumping up the cushions in the drawing room.

"Everything looks fine to me," said Charlie. "Do stop fussing. In any case, that's what we employ a housekeeper for."

"But it's a Sunday night," Becky reminded him. She continued to check under objects she hadn't touched for months and finally put a match to the well-laid fire.

At exactly seven the front doorbell rang and Charlie left to greet his guest.

"Good evening, Sir Charles," said Mr. Baverstock, removing his hat.

Ah, yes, thought Charlie, there is someone I know who never calls me Charlie. He took Mr. Baverstock's coat, scarf and hat and hung them on the hallstand.

"I am sorry to bother you on a Sunday evening," Mr. Baverstock said as he followed his host into the drawing room carrying his Gladstone bag. "But I hope when you learn my news, you will feel I came to the right decision."

"I'm sure we will. We were naturally both intrigued by your call. But first let me offer you a drink. Whisky?"