Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

"A counter clerk?" said Daphne on a rising note. "What was the point of taking all that trouble to get a degree if she ends up as a counter clerk?"

"Apparently everybody starts off that way at Sotheby's, whatever qualifications they bring to the job. Becky explained it all to me," replied the colonel. "It seems that you can be the son of the chairman, have worked in a major West End art gallery for several years, possess a degree or even have no qualifications at all, but you still start on the front desk. Once they discover you're any good you get promoted into a specialist department. Not unlike the army, actually."

"So which department does Becky have her eye on?"

"Seems she wants to join some old fellow called Pemberton who's the acknowledged expert on Renaissance paintings."

"My bet," said Daphne, "is that she'll last on the front desk for about a couple of weeks."

"Charlie doesn't share your low opinion of her," said the colonel.

"Oh, so how long does he give her?"

The colonel smiled. "Ten days at the most."

When the morning mail arrived at Lowndes Square, Wentworth, the butler would place the letters on a silver tray and take them to the brigadier in his study, where his master would remove those addressed to himself before handing the tray back to the butler. He, in turn, would deliver the remaining letters to the ladies of the house.

However, since the announcement of his daughter's engagement in The Times and the subsequent sending out of over five hundred invitations for the forthcoming wedding, the brigadier had become bored with the sorting-out process and instructed Wentworth to reverse his route, so that he would be handed only those letters addressed to him.

Thus it was on a Monday morning in June 1921 that Wentworth knocked on Miss Daphne's bedroom door, entered when bidden and handed her a large bundle of mail. Once Daphne had extracted the letters addressed to her mother and herself, she returned the few that remained to Wentworth, who bowed slightly and proceeded on his anti-clockwise route.

As soon as Wentworth had closed the door behind him Daphne climbed out of bed, placed the stack of letters on her dressing-table and wandered into the bathroom. A little after ten-thirty, feeling ready for the rigors of the day, she returned to her dressing-table and began slitting open the letters. Acceptances and regrets had to be placed in separate piles before they could be ticked or crossed off on a master list; her mother would then be able to calculate the exact numbers to cater for and proceed to work on a seating plan. The breakdown of the thirty-one letters that particular morning produced twenty-two yeses, including a princess, a viscount, two other lords, an ambassador and dear Colonel and Lady Hamilton. There were also four nos, comprising two couples who would be abroad, an elderly uncle who was suffering from advanced diabetes and another whose daughter had been foolish enough to select the same day as Daphne on which to be married. Having ticked and crossed their names off the master list, Daphne turned her attention to the five remaining letters.

One turned out to be from her eighty-seven-year old Aunt Agatha, who resided in Cumberland and had some time previously stated that she would not be attending the wedding as she felt the journey to London might prove too much of a strain. However, Aunt Agatha went on to suggest that perhaps Daphne should bring Percy up north to visit her just as soon as they returned from their honeymoon, as she wished to make his acquaintance.

"Certainly not," said Daphne out loud. "Once I am back in England I shall have far more important things to worry myself with than aging aunts." She then read the P.S.:

And while you are in Cumberland, my darling, it will be a good opportunity for you to advise me on my will, because I'm not sure which of the pictures to give to whom, especially the Canaletto, which I do feel deserves a good home.

Wicked old lady, thought Daphne, well aware that Aunt Agatha wrote an identical P.S. to every one of her relations, however distant, thus guaranteeing that she rarely spent a weekend alone.

The second letter was from Michael Fishlock and Company, the catering specialists, who enclosed an estimate for supplying tea to five hundred guests in Vincent Square immediately preceding the wedding. Three hundred guineas seemed an outrageous sum to Daphne, but without a second thought she placed the estimate on one side, to be dealt with by her father at some later date. Two other letters addressed to her mother that were from friends and no concern of Daphne's were also placed on one side.

The fifth letter she saved until last, because the envelope was enriched by the most colorful stamps, the King's crown set in an oval on the right-hand corner above the words "Ten Annas."

She slit the envelope open slowly and extracted several sheets of heavy notepaper, the first of which was embossed with the crest and legend of the Royal Fusiliers.

"Dear Daphne," the letter began. She hurriedly turned to the last page in order to check the signature, which lead, "Your friend, as always, Guy."

Returning to the first page, she glanced at the address before beginning to read Guy's words with apprehension.

Officers' Mess

2nd Battalion

Royal Fusiliers

Wellington Barracks

Poona

India

15 May 1921

Dear Daphne,

I hope you will forgive me for presuming on our long family friendship, but a problem has arisen of which I am sure you are only too aware, and unfortunately I now find that I must turn to you for help and guidance.

Some time ago, I received a letter from your friend Rebecca Salmon . . .

Daphne placed the unread pages back on her dressing-table, wishing that the letter had arrived a few days after she had set out on her honeymoon rather than before. She fiddled around with the guest list for some time, but realized she would eventually have to find our what Guy expected of her. She returned to his letter.

. . . informing me that she was pregnant and that I was the father of her child.

Let me assure you from the outset that nothing could be further from the truth, as on the only occasion I remained overnight in your flat, Rebecca and I had no physical contact.

As a matter of record, it was she who insisted we had diner together at 97 Chelsea Terrace that evening, despite the fact that I had already booked a table for us at the Ritz.

As the evening progressed, it became obvious that she was trying to get me drunk, and indeed when I thought to leave, I confess I did feel a little queasy, and wasn't certain that I would be able to make the journey safely back to my barracks.

Rebecca immediately suggested that I remain overnight in order to "sleep it off". I use her exact words. Naturally I refused, until she pointed out that I could stay in your room as you were not expected to return from the country until the following afternoon—a fact which you later confirmed.

Indeed, I took up Rebecca's kind offer, and on retiring to bed, quickly fell into a deep sleep only to be awoken later by the banging of a door.

To my horror I awoke to find you standing there in front of me. I was even more shocked to discover that Rebecca, quite unbeknown to me, had crept into bed beside me.

You were naturally embarrassed and left immediately, without uttering another word. I rose, dressed and returned to my barracks, arriving back in my own room by one-fifteen, at the latest.

On arriving at Waterloo Station later in the morning to begin my journey to India I was, as you can imagine, somewhat surprised to find Rebecca waiting for me on the platform. I spend only a few moments with her but left her in no doubt as to how I felt about the trick she had played on me the previous evening. I then shook her by the hand and boarded the boat train for Southampton, never for one moment expecting to hear from her again. The next contact I had with Miss Salmon came a few months later when I received this unwarranted scurrilous letter, which brings me to the reason why I now need your assistance.