Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

"Are you by any chance referring to Gandhi?" asked Charlie, as he puffed away more confidently at his cigar. "I find him rather impressive."

On the way back to Gilston Road Becky chatted happily as she revealed all the gossip she had picked up from Daphne. It became obvious to Charlie that the two women had not touched on the subject of Trentham, or the threat he currently posed.

Charlie had a restless night, partly caused by having indulged in too much rich food and alcohol, but mainly because his mind kept switching from why the colonel should want to resign to the problem that had to be faced with Trentham's imminent return to England.

At four o'clock in the morning he rose and donned his oldest clothes before setting off to the market, something he still tried to do at least once a week, convinced there was no one at Trumper's who could work the Garden the way he did, until, quite recently, when a trader at the market called Ned Denning had managed to palm him off with a couple of boxes of overripe avocados and followed it up the next day by pressing Charlie into buying a box of oranges he'd never wanted in the first place. Charlie decided to get up very early on the third day and see if he could have the man removed from his job once and for all.

The following Monday Ned Denning joined Trumper's as the grocery shop's first general manager.

Charlie had a successful morning stocking up with provisions for both 131 and 147, and Bob Makins arrived an hour later to drive him and Ned back to Chelsea Terrace in their newly acquired van.

Once they arrived at the fruit and vegetable shop, Charlie helped unload and lay out the goods before resuming home for breakfast a few minutes after seven. He still considered it was a little early to place a phone call through to the colonel.

Cook served him up eggs and bacon for breakfast, which he shared with Daniel and his nanny. Becky didn't join them, as she had not yet recovered from the aftereffects of Daphne's dinner party.

Charlie happily spent most of breakfast trying to answer Daniel's string of unrelated, never ending questions until nanny picked up the protesting child and carried him back upstairs to the playroom. Charlie flicked open the cover of his half hunter to check the time. Although it was still only a few minutes before eight, he felt he couldn't wait any longer so he walked through to the hall, picked up the stem phone, unhooked the earpiece and asked the operator to connect him with Flaxman 172. A few moments later he was put through.

"Can I have a word with the colonel?"

"I'll tell him you're on the line, Mr. Trumper," came back the reply. Charlie was amused by the thought that he was never going to be able to disguise his accent over the telephone.

"Good morning, Charlie," came back another accent that was also immediately recognizable.

"I wonder if I might come round and see you, sir?" Charlie asked.

"Of course," said the colonel. "But could you leave it until ten, old fellow? By then Elizabeth will have gone off to visit her sister in Camden Hill."

"I'll be there at ten on the dot," promised Charlie. After he had put the phone back on the hook, he decided to occupy the two hours by completing a full round of the shops. For a second time that morning and still before Becky had stirred, he left for Chelsea Terrace.

Charlie dug Major Arnold out of hardware before beginning a spot check on all nine establishments. As he passed the block of flats he began to explain in detail to his deputy the plans he had to replace the building with six new shops.

After they had left Number 129, Charlie confided in Arnold that he was worried about wines and spirits, which he considered was still not pulling its weight. This was despite their now being able to take advantage of the new delivery service that had originally been introduced only for fruit and vegetables. Charlie was proud that his was one of the first shops in London to take orders by telephone, then drop off the goods on the same day for account customers. It was another idea he had stolen from the Americans, and the more he read about what his opposite numbers were up to in the States the more he wanted to visit that country and see how they went about it firsthand.

He could still recall his first delivery service when he used his granpa's barrow for transport and Kitty as the delivery girl. Now he ran a smart blue three-horsepower van with the words, "Trumper, the honest trader, founded in 1823," emblazoned in gold letters down both sides.

He stopped on the corner of Chelsea Terrace and stared at the one shop that would always dominate Chelsea with its massive bow window and great double door. He knew the time must almost be ripe for him to walk in and offer Mr. Fothergill a large check to cover the auctioneer's debts; a former employee of Number 1 had recently assured Charlie that his bank balance was overdrawn by more than two thousand pounds.

Charlie marched into Number 1 to pay a far smaller bill and asked the girl behind the counter if they had finished reframing the Virgin Mary and Child, which was already three weeks overdue.

He didn't complain about the delay as it gave him another excuse to nose around. The paper was still peeling off the wall behind the reception area, and there was only one girl assistant left at the desk, which suggested to Charlie that the weekly wages were not always being met.

Mr. Fothergill eventually appeared with the picture in its new gilt frame and handed the little oil over to Charlie.

"Thank you," said Charlie as he once again studied the bold brushwork of reds and blues that made up the portrait and realized just how much he had missed it.

"Wonder what it's worth?" he asked Fothergill casually as he passed over a ten-shilling note.

"A few pounds at the most," the expert declared as he touched his bow tie. "After all, you can find countless examples of the subject by unknown artists right across the continent of Europe."

"I wonder," said Charlie as he checked his watch and stuffed the receipt into his pocket. He had allowed himself sufficient time for a relaxed walk across Princess Gardens and on to the colonel's residence, expecting to arrive a couple of minutes before ten. He bade Mr. Fothergill "Good morning," and left.

Although it was still quite early, the pavements in Chelsea were already bustling with people and Charlie raised his hat to several customers he recognized.

"Good morning, Mr. Trumper."

"Good morning, Mrs. Symonds," said Charlie as he crossed the road to take a shortcut through the garden.

He began to try and compose in his mind what he would say to the colonel once he'd discovered why the chairman felt it had been necessary to offer his resignation. Whatever the reason, Charlie was determined not to lose the old soldier. He closed the park gate behind him and started to walk along the man-made path.

He stood aside to allow a lady pushing a pram to pass him and gave a mock salute to an old soldier sitting on a park bench rolling a Woodbine. Once he had crossed the tiny patch of grass, he stepped into the Gilston Road, closing the gate behind him.

Charlie continued his walk towards Tregunter Road and began to quicken his pace. He smiled as he passed his little home, quite forgetting he still had the picture under his arm, his mind still preoccupied with the reason for the colonel's resignation.

Charlie turned immediately when he heard the scream and a door slam somewhere behind him, more as a reflex than from any genuine desire to see what was going on. He stopped in his tracks as he watched a disheveled figure dash out onto the road and then start running towards him.

Charlie stood mesmerized as the tramplike figure drew closer and closer until the man came to a sudden halt only a few feet in front of him. For a matter of seconds the two men stood and stared at each other without uttering a word. Neither ruffian nor gentleman showed on a face half obscured by rough stubble. And then recognition was quickly followed by disbelief.