"And can I get you anythin' while you're 'ere, sir?" Charlie asked, suddenly aware a long queue was forming behind the colonel.
"No, no, your able assistant has already taken excellent care of me, and as you can see I have completed the memsahib's written instructions." He held up a thin slip of paper bearing a list with a row of ticks down one side.
"Then I'll look forward to seeing you on the night of the ball, sir," said Charlie.
The colonel nodded and then stepped out onto the pavement without another word.
Becky strolled over to join her partner, only too aware that he had quite forgotten that she had been waiting to have a word with him. "You're still standing to attention, Charlie," she teased.
"That was my commanding officer, Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton," said Charlie a little pompously. "Led us at the front, 'e did, a gentleman, and 'e remembered my name."
"Charlie, if you could only hear yourself. A gentle man he may be, but he's the one who's out of work, while you're running a thriving business. I know which I'd rather be."
"But 'e's the commanding officer. Don't you understand?"
"Was," said Becky. "And he was also quick to point out the regiment has gone to India without him."
"That doesn't change anythin'."
"Mark my words, Charlie Trumper, that man will end up calling you 'sir.'"
Guy had been away almost a week, and sometimes Becky could now go a whole hour without thinking about him.
She had sat up most of the previous night composing a letter to him although when she left for her morning lecture the following day she walked straight past the pillar box. She had managed to convince herself that the blame for failing to complete the letter should be placed firmly on the shoulders of Mr. Palmer.
Becky had been disappointed to find their engagement had not been announced in The Times the next day, and became quite desperate when it failed to appear on any other day during that week. When in desperation she phoned Garrard's on the following Monday they claimed they knew nothing of a ring ordered in the name of a Captain Trentham of the Royal Fusiliers. Becky decided she would wait a further week before she wrote to Guy. She felt there must be some simple explanation.
Guy was still very much on her mind when she entered the offices of John D. Wood in Mount Street. She palmed the flat bell on the counter and asked an inquiring assistant if she could speak to Mr. Palmer.
"Mr. Palmer? We don't have a Mr. Palmer any longer," she was told. "He was called up nearly a year ago, miss. Can I be of any assistance?"
Becky gripped the counter. "All right then, I'd like to speak to one of the partners," she said firmly.
"May I know the nature of your inquiry?" asked the assistant.
"Yes," said Becky. "I've come to discuss the instructions for the sale of 131 and 135 Chelsea Terrace."
"Ah yes, and may I ask who it is inquiring?"
"Miss Rebecca Salmon."
"I won't be a moment," the young man promised her, but didn't return for several minutes. When he did he was accompanied by a much older man, who wore a long black coat and horn-rimmed spectacles. A silver chain dangled from his waistcoat pocket.
"Good morning, Miss Salmon," the older man said. "My name is Crowther. Perhaps you'd be good enough to join me." He raised the counter lid and ushered her through. Becky duly followed in his wake.
"Good weather for this time of the year, wouldn't you say, madam?"
Becky stared out of the window and watched the umbrellas bobbing up and down along the pavement, but decided not to comment on Mr. Crowther's meteorological judgment.
Once they had reached a poky little room at the back of the building he announced with obvious pride, "This is my office. Won't you please be seated, Miss Salmon?" He gestured towards an uncomfortably low chair placed opposite his desk. He then sat down in his own high-backed chair. "I'm a partner of the firm," he explained, "but I must confess a very junior partner." He laughed at his own joke. "Now, how can I help you?
"My colleague and I want to acquire Numbers 131 and 135 Chelsea Terrace," she said.
"Quite so," said Mr. Crowther, looking down at his file. "And on this occasion will Miss Daphne Harcourt-Browne—"
"Miss Harcourt-Browne will not be involved in this transaction and if, because of that, you feel unable to deal with Mr. Trumper or myself, we shall be happy to approach the vendors direct." Becky held her breath.
"Oh, please don't misunderstand me, madam. I'm sure we will have no trouble in continuing to do business with you."
"Thank you."
"Now, let us start with Number 135," said Mr. Crowther, pushing his spectacles back up his nose before he leafed through the file in front of him. "Ah yes, dear Mr. Kendrick, a first-class butcher, you know. Sadly he is now considering an early retirement."
Becky sighed, and Mr. Crowther looked up at her over his spectacles.
"His doctor has told him that he has no choice if he hopes to live more than a few more months," she said.
"Quite so," said Mr. Crowther, resuming to his file. "Well, it seems that his asking price is one hundred and fifty pounds for the freehold, plus one hundred pounds for the goodwill of the business."
"And how much will he take?"
"I'm not quite sure I catch your drift, madam." The junior partner raised his eyebrows.
"Mr. Crowther, before we waste another minute of each other's time I feel I should let you know in confidence that it is our intention to purchase, if the price is right, every shop that becomes available in Chelsea Terrace, with the long-term aim of owning the entire block, even if it takes us a lifetime to achieve. It is not my intention to visit your office regularly for the next twenty years for the sole purpose of shadowboxing with you. By then I suspect you will be a senior partner, and both of us will have better things to do. Do I make myself clear?"
"Abundantly," said Mr. Crowther, glancing at the note Palmer had attached to the sale of 147: the lad hadn't exaggerated in the forthright opinion of his client. He pushed his spectacles back up his nose.
"I think Mr. Kendrick might be willing to accept one hundred and twenty-five pounds if you would also agree to a pension of twenty-five pounds a year until his death."
"But he might live forever."
"I feel I should point out, madam, that it was you, not I, who referred to Mr. Kendrick's present state of health." For the first time the junior partner leaned back in his chair.
"I have no desire to rob Mr. Kendrick of his pension," Becky replied. "Please offer him one hundred pounds for the freehold of the shop and twenty pounds a year for a period of eight years as a pension. I'm flexible on the latter part of the transaction but not on the former. Is that understood, Mr. Crowther?"
"It certainly is, madam."
"And if I'm to pay Mr. Kendrick a pension I shall also expect him to be available to offer advice from time to time as and when we require it."
"Quite so," said Crowther, making a note of her request in the margin.
"So what can you tell me about 131?"
"Now that is a knotty problem," said Crowther, opening a second file. "I don't know if you are fully aware of the circumstances, madam, but . . ."
Becky decided not to help him on this occasion. She smiled sweetly.
"Um, well," continued the junior partner, "Mr. Rutherford is off to New York with a friend to open an antiques gallery, in somewhere called the 'Village.'" He hesitated.
"And their partnership is of a somewhat unusual nature?" assisted Becky after a prolonged silence. "And he might prefer to spend the rest of his days in an apartment in New York, rather than a cell in Brixton?"