Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

"When I visited Ashurst last weekend, Major Trentham showed me the letter that Guy had sent to his mother explaining why he had been forced to resign his commission with the Fusiliers. He claimed this had come about because you had written to Colonel Forbes informing him that Guy had been responsible for putting 'a tart from Whitechapel' in the family way. I saw the exact wording of the sentence."

The colonel's cheeks suffused with rage.

"'Whereas time has proved conclusively that Trumper was the father of the child all along.' Anyway, that's the story Trentham is putting about."

"Has the man no morals?"

"None, it would seem," said Daphne. "You see, the letter went on to suggest that Charlie Trumper is now employing you in order to make sure that you keep your mouth shut. 'Thirty pieces of silver' was the precise expression he used."

"He deserves to be horsewhipped."

"Even Major Trentham might add 'Hear, hear' to that. But my greatest fear isn't for you or even Becky for that matter, but for Charlie himself."

"What are you getting at?"

"Before we left India, Trentham warned Percy when they were on their own at the Overseas Club that Trumper would regret this for the rest of his life."

"But why blame Charlie?"

"Percy asked the same question, and Guy informed him that it was obvious that Trumper had put you up to it in the first place simply to settle an old score."

"But that's not true."

"Percy explained as much, but he just wouldn't listen."

"And in any case what did he mean by 'to settle an old score'?"

"No idea, except that later that evening Guy kept asking me about a painting of the Virgin Mother and—"

"Not the one that hangs in Charlie's front room?"

"The same, and when I finally admitted I had seen it he dropped the subject altogether."

"The man must have gone completely out of his senses."

"He seemed sane enough to me," said Daphne.

"Well, let's at least be thankful that he's stuck in India, so there's a little time to consider what course of action we should take."

"Not that much time, I fear," said Daphne.

"How come?"

"Major Trentham tells me that Guy is expected to return to these shores sometime next month."

After lunch with Daphne the colonel resumed to Tregunter Road. He was fuming with anger when his butler opened the front door to let him in, but he remained uncertain as to what he could actually do about it. The butler informed his master that a Mr. Crowther awaited him in the study.

"Crowther? What can he possibly want?" mumbled the colonel to himself before straightening a print of the Isle of Skye that hung in the hall and joining him in the study.

"Good afternoon, Chairman," Crowther said as he rose from the colonel's chair. "You asked me to report back as soon as I had any news on the flats."

"Ah, yes so I did," said the colonel. "You've closed the deal?"

"No, sir. I placed a bid of three thousand pounds with Savill's, as instructed, but then received a call from them about an hour later to inform me that the other side had raised their offer to four thousand."

"Four thousand," said the colonel in disbelief. "But who . . . ?"

"I said we were quite unable to match the sum, and even inquired discreetly who their client might be. They informed me that it was no secret whom they were representing. I felt I ought to let you know immediately, Chairman, as the name of Mrs. Gerald Trentham meant nothing to me."

As I sat alone on that bench in Chelsea Terrace staring across at a shop with the name "Trumper's" painted over the awning, a thousand questions went through my mind. Then I saw Posh Porky—or, to be accurate, I thought it must be her, because if it was, during my absence she'd changed into a woman. What had happened to that flat chest, those spindly legs, not to mention the spotty face? If it hadn't been for those flashing brown eyes I might have remained in doubt.

She went straight into the shop and spoke to the man who had been acting as if he was the manager. I saw him shake his head; she then turned to the two girls behind the counter who reacted in the same way. She shrugged, before going over to the till, pulling out the tray and beginning to check the day's takings.

I had been watching the manager carry out his duties for over an hour before Becky arrived, and to be fair he was pretty good, although I had already spotted several little things that could have been done to help improve sales, not least among them moving the counter to the far end of the shop and setting up some of the produce in boxes out on the pavement, so that the customers could be tempted to buy. "You must advertise your wares, not just hope people will come across them," my granpa used to say. However, I remained patiently on that bench until the staff began to empty the shelves prior to closing up the premises.

A few minutes later Becky came back out onto the pavement and looked up and down the street as if she were waiting for someone. Then the young man, who was now holding a padlock and key, joined her and nodded in my direction. Becky looked over towards the bench for the first time.

Once she had seen me I jumped up and crossed the road to join her. For some time neither of us spoke. I wanted to hug her, but we ended up just shaking hands rather formally, before I asked, "So what's the deal?"

"Couldn't find anyone else who would supply me with free cream buns," she told me, before going on to explain why she had sold the baker's shop and how we had come to own 147 Chelsea Terrace. When the staff had left for the night, she showed me round the flat. I couldn't believe my eyes—a bathroom with a toilet, a kitchen with crockery and cutlery, a front room with chairs and a table, and a bedroom—not to mention a bed that didn't look as if it would collapse when you sat down on it.

Once again I wanted to hug her, but I simply asked if she could stay and share dinner, as I had a hundred other questions that still needed answering.

"Sorry, not tonight," she said as I opened my case and began to unpack. "I'm off to a concert with a gentleman friend." No sooner had she added some remark about Tommy's picture than she smiled and left. Suddenly I was on my own again.

I took off my coat, rolled up my sleeves, went downstairs to the shop and for several hours moved things around until everything was exactly where I wanted it. By the time I had packed away the last box I was so exhausted that I only just stopped myself collapsing on the bed and grabbing some kip fully dressed. I didn't draw the curtains so as to be sure I would wake by four.

I dressed quickly the following morning, excited by the thought of returning to a market I hadn't seen for nearly two years. I arrived at the garden a few minutes before Bob Makins, who I quickly discovered knew his way around without actually knowing his way about. I accepted that it would take me a few days before I could work out which dealers were being supplied by the most reliable farmers, who had the real contacts at the docks and ports, who struck the most sensible price day in, day out, and, most important of all, who would take care of you whenever there was any sort of real shortage. None of these problems seemed to worry Bob, as he strolled around the market in an uninterrupted, undemanding circle, collecting his wares.

I loved the shop from the moment we opened that first morning, my first morning. It took me a little time to get used to Bob and the girls calling me "sir" but it also took them almost as long to become used to where I'd put the counter and to having to place the boxes out on the pavement before the customers were awake. However, even Becky agreed that it was an inspiration to place our wares right under the noses of potential buyers, although she wasn't sure how the local authorities would react when they found out.