"Why? I simply can't understand why," said Charlie.
"Has the picture turned up anywhere?"
"No sign of it so far," he said, just as Daphne came in bearing a huge basket of provisions. She kissed Becky on the cheek before confining that the fruit had been purchased at Trumper's that morning. Becky managed a smile as she munched her way through a peach. Daphne sat on the end of the bed and immediately launched into all her latest news.
She was able to let them know, following one of her periodic visits to the Trenthams, that Guy had disappeared off to Australia and that his mother was claiming he had never set foot in England in the first place, but traveled to Sydney direct from India.
"Via the Gilston Road," said Charlie.
"That's not what the police think," said Daphne. "They remain convinced that he left England in 1920 and they can find no proof he ever returned."
"Well, we're certainly not going to enlighten them," said Charlie, taking his wife's hand.
"Why not?" asked Daphne.
"Because even I consider Australia far enough away for Trentham to be left to his own devices: in any case nothing can be gained from pursuing him now. If the Australians give him enough rope I'm sure he'll hang himself."
"But why Australia?" asked Becky.
"Mrs. Trentham's telling everyone who cares to listen that Guy has been offered a partnership in a cattle broker's—far too good a position to turn down, even if it did mean having to resign his commission. The vicar is the only person I can find who believes the story." But even Daphne had no simple answer as to why Trentham should have been so keen to get his hands on the little oil painting.
The colonel and Elizabeth also visited Becky on several occasions and as he continually talked of the company's future and never once referred to his resignation letter Charlie didn't press him on the subject.
It was to be Crowther who eventually enlightened Charlie as to who had purchased the flats.
Six weeks later Charlie drove his wife home to Gilston Road—at a more stately pace—Mr. Armitage having suggested a quiet month resting before she considered returning to work. Charlie promised the surgeon that he would not allow Becky to do anything until he felt sure she had fully recovered.
The morning Becky returned home Charlie left her propped up in bed with a book and headed back to Chelsea Terrace where he went straight to the jewelry shop he had acquired in his wife's absence.
Charlie took a considerable time selecting a string of cultured pearls, a gold bracelet and a lady's Victorian watch, which he then instructed to be sent to Grace, to the staff nurse and to the nurse who had taken care of Becky during her unscheduled stay at Guy's. His next stop was the greengrocer's shop where he asked Bob to make up a basket of the finest fruit, while he personally selected a bottle of vintage wine from Number 101 to accompany it. "Send them both round to Mr. Armitage at 7 Cadogan Square, London SW1, with my compliments," he added.
"Right away," said Bob. "Anything else while I'm at it?"
"Yes, I want you to repeat that order every Monday for the rest of his life."
It was about a month later, in November 1922, that Charlie learned of the problems Arnold was facing with the simple task of replacing a shop assistant. In fact, selecting staff had become one of Arnold's biggest headaches of late, because for every job that became vacant fifty to a hundred people were applying to fill it. Arnold would then put together a shortlist as Charlie still insisted that he interview the final candidates before any position was confirmed.
On that particular Monday, Arnold had already considered a number of girls for the position as sales assistant at the flower shop, following the retirement of one of the company's longest-serving employees.
"Although I've already shortlisted three for the job," said Arnold, "I thought you would be interested in one of the applicants I rejected. She didn't seem to have the appropriate qualifications for this particular position. However—"
Charlie glanced at the sheet of paper Arnold passed to him. "Joan Moore. Why would I . . . ?" began Charlie, as his eyes ran swiftly down her application. "Ah, I see," he said. "How very observant of you, Tom." He read a few more lines. "But I don't need a—well, on the other hand perhaps I do." He looked up. "Arrange for me to see Miss Moore within the next week."
The following Thursday Charlie interviewed Joan Moore for over an hour at his home in Gilston Road and his first impression was of a cheery, well-mannered if somewhat immature girl. However, before he offered her the position as lady's maid to Mrs. Trumper he still had a couple of questions he felt needed answering.
"Did you apply for this job because you knew of the relationship between my wife and your former employer?" Charlie asked.
The girl looked him straight in the eyes. "Yes, sir, I did."
"And were you sacked by your previous employer?"
"Not exactly, sir, but when I left she refused to supply me with a reference."
"What reason did she give for that?"
"I was walkin' out with the second footman, 'aving failed to inform the butler, who is in charge of the 'ousehold."
"And are you still walking out with the second footman?"
The girl hesitated. "Yes, sir," she said. "You see, we're 'oping to be married as soon as we've saved up enough."
"Good," said Charlie. "Then you can report for duly next Monday morning. Mr. Arnold will deal with all the necessary arrangements."
When Charlie told Becky he had employed a lady's maid for her she laughed at first, then asked, "And what would I want with one of those?" Charlie told her exactly why she wanted "one of those." When he had finished all Becky said was, "You're an evil man, Charlie Trumper, that's for sure."
It was at the February board meeting in 1924 that Crowther warned his colleagues that Number 1 Chelsea Terrace might well come on the market earlier than anticipated.
"Why's that?" asked Charlie, a little anxiously.
"Your estimate of another two years before Fothergill would have to cave in is beginning to look prophetic."
"So how much does he want?"
"It's not quite as simple as that."
"Why not?"
"Because he's decided to auction the property himself."
"Auction it?" inquired Becky.
"Yes," said Crowther. "That way he avoids paying any fees to an outside agent."
"I see. So what are you expecting the property to fetch?" asked the colonel.
"Not an easy one to answer, that," replied Crowther. "It's four times the size of any other shop in the Terrace, it's on five floors and it's even bigger than Syd Wrexall's pub on the other corner. It also has the largest shop frontage in Chelsea and a double entrance on the corner facing the Fulham Road. For all those reasons it's not that simple to estimate its value."
"Even so, could you try and put a figure on it?" asked the chairman.
"If you were to press me I'd say somewhere in the region of two thousand, but it could be as much as three, if anyone else were to show an interest."
"What about the stock?" asked Becky. "Do we know what's happening to that?"
"Yes, it's being sold along with the building."
"And what's it worth?" asked Charlie. "Roughly?"
"More Mrs. Trumper's department than mine, I feel," said Crowther.
"It's no longer that impressive," said Becky. "A lot of Fothergill's best works have already gone through Sotheby's, and I suspect Christie's have seen just as many during the past year. However, I would still expect what's left over to fetch around a thousand pounds under the hammer."
"So the face value of the property and the stock together appears to be around the three-thousand pound mark," suggested Hadlow.
"But Number 1 will go for a lot more than that," said Charlie.