"So one can only assume, darlings, that she's paying a visit to that dreadful son of hers."
"In the past she's been only too willing to give lengthy reports on the bloody man's progress to anyone and everyone who cared to listen, so why's she not letting us know what she's up to this time?"
"Can't imagine," said Daphne.
"Do you think it's possible Guy might be planning to return to England now that things have settled down a little?"
"I doubt it." Daphne's brow furrowed. "Otherwise the ship would have been sailing in the opposition direction, wouldn't it? In any case, if his father's feelings are anything to go by, should Guy ever dare to show his face at Ashurst Hall he won't exactly be treated like the prodigal son."
"Something's still not quite right," I told her. "This veil of secrecy Mrs. Trentham's been going in for lately requires some explanation."
It was three months later, in June 1927, that the colonel drew my attention to the announcement in The Times of Guy Trentham's death. "What a terrible way to die," was his only comment.
Daphne attended the funeral at Ashurst parish church because, as she explained later, she wanted to see the coffin lowered into the grave before she was finally convinced that Guy Trentham was no longer among us.
Percy informed me later that he had only just been able to restrain her from joining the gravediggers as they filled up the hole with good English sods. However, Daphne told us that she remained skeptical about the cause of death, despite the absence of any proof to the contrary.
"At least you'll have no more trouble from that quarter," were Percy's final words on the subject.
I scowled. "They'll have to bury Mrs. Trentham alongside him before I'll believe that."
Chapter 26
In 1929 the Trumpers moved to a larger house in the Little Boltons. Daphne assured them that although it was "the Little," at least it was a step in the right direction. With a glance at Becky she added, "However, it's still a considerable way from being Eaton Square, darlings."
The housewarming party the Trumpers gave held a double significance for Becky, because the following day she was to be presented with her master of arts degree. When Percy teased her about the length of time she had taken to complete the thesis on her unrequited lover, Bernardino Luini, she cited her husband as the corespondent.
Charlie made no attempt to defend himself, just poured Percy another brandy before clipping off the end of a cigar.
"Hoskins will be driving us to the ceremony," Daphne announced, "so we'll see you there. That is, assuming on this occasion they've been considerate enough to allow us to be seated in the first thirty rows."
Charlie was pleased to find that Daphne and Percy had been placed only a row behind them so this time were close enough to the stage to follow the entire proceedings.
"Who are they?" demanded Daniel, when fourteen dignified old gentlemen walked onto the platform wearing long black gowns and purple hoods, and took their places in the empty chairs.
"The Senate," explained Becky to her eight-year-old son. "They recommend who shall be awarded degrees. But you mustn't ask too many questions, Daniel, or you'll only annoy all the people sitting around us."
At that point, the vice-chancellor rose to present the scrolls.
"I'm afraid we'll have to sit through all the BAs before they reach me," said Becky.
"Do stop being so pompous, darling," said Daphne. "Some of us can remember when you considered being awarded a degree was the most important day in your life."
"Why hasn't Daddy got a degree?" asked Daniel as he picked up Becky's program off the floor. "He's just as clever as you are, Mummy."
"True," said Becky. "But his daddy didn't make him stay at school as long as mine did."
Charlie leaned across. "But his granpa taught him instead how to sell fruit and vegetables, so he could do something useful for the rest of his life."
Daniel was silenced for a moment, as he weighed the value of these two contrary opinions.
"The ceremony's going to take an awfully long time if it keeps going at this rate," whispered Becky when after half an hour they had only reached the P's.
"We can wait," whispered Daphne cheerfully. "Percy and I haven't a lot planned before Goodwood."
"Oh, look, Mummy," said Daniel. "I've found another Arnold, another Moore and another Trumper on my list."
"They're all fairly common names," said Becky, not bothering to check the program as she placed Daniel on the edge of her seat.
"Wonder what he looks like?" asked Daniel. "Do all Trumpers look the same, Mummy?"
"No, silly, they come in all shapes and sizes."
"But he's got the same first initial as Dad," Daniel said, loudly enough for everyone in the three rows in front of them to feel they were now part of the conversation.
"Shhh," said Becky, as one or two people turned round and stared in their direction.
"Bachelor of Arts," declared the vice-chancellor. "Mathematics second class, Charles George Trumper."
"And he even looks like your dad," said Charlie as he rose from his place and walked up to receive his degree from the vice-chancellor. The applause increased once the assembled gathering became aware of the age of this particular graduate. Becky's mouth opened wide in disbelief, Percy rubbed his glasses, while Daphne showed no surprise at all.
"How long have you known?" demanded Becky through clenched teeth.
"He registered at Birkbeck College the day after you were awarded your degree."
"But when has he found the time?"
"It's taken him nearly eight years and an awful lot of early mornings while you were sound asleep."
By the end of her second year Becky's financial forecasts for Number 1 had begun to look a little too optimistic. As each month passed by the overdraft seemed to remain constant, and it was not until the twenty-seventh month that she first began to make small inroads on the capital debt.
She complained to the board that although the managing director was continually helping with the turnover he was not actually contributing to the profits because he always assumed he could purchase their most sought-after items at the buy-in cost.
"But we are at the same time building a major art collection, Mrs. Trumper," he reminded her.
"And saving a great deal on tax while also making a sound investment," Hadlow pointed out. "Might even prove useful as collateral at some later date."
"Perhaps, but in the meantime it doesn't help my balance sheet, Chairman, if the managing director is always making off with my most saleable stock—and it certainly doesn't help that he's worked out the auctioneer's code so that he always knows what our reserve price is."
"You must look upon yourself as part of the company and not as an individual, Mrs. Trumper," said Charlie with a grin, adding, "though I confess it might have been a lot cheaper if we had left you at Sotheby's in the first place."
"Not to be minuted," said the chairman sternly. "By the way, what is this auctioneer's code?"
"A series of letters from a chosen word or words that indicate numbers; for example, Charlie would be C-1, H-2, A-3 but if any letter is repeated then it has to be ignored. So once you've worked out the two words we are substituting for one to zero and can get your hands on our master catalogue you will always know the reserve price we have set for each painting."
"So why don't you change the words from time to time?"
"Because once you've mastered the code, you can always work out the new words. In any case, it takes hours of practice to glance down at QNHH, and know immediately it's—"