“Good,” said the colonel. “That covers last year’s problems, Charlie, so now you can frighten us with your plans for the future.”
Charlie opened the smart new leather case that Becky had given him on 20 January and took out the latest report from John D. Wood. He cleared his throat theatrically and Becky had to put a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh.
“Mr. Crowther,” began Charlie, “has prepared a comprehensive survey of all the properties in Chelsea Terrace.”
“For which, incidentally, he has charged us ten guineas,” said Becky, checking the accounts book.
“I have no quarrel with that, if it turns out to be a good investment,” said the colonel.
“It already has,” said Charlie. He handed over copies of Crowther’s report. “As you both already know, there are thirty-six shops in Chelsea Terrace, of which we currently own seven. In Crowther’s opinion a further five could well become available during the next twelve months. However, as he points out, all the shopkeepers in Chelsea Terrace are now only too aware of my role as a buyer, which doesn’t exactly help keep the price down.”
“I suppose that was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“I agree, Colonel,” said Charlie, “but it’s still far sooner than I’d hoped for. In fact, Syd Wrexall, the chairman of the Shops Committee, is becoming quite wary of us.”
“Why Mr. Wrexall in particular?” asked the colonel.
“He’s the publican who owns the Musketeer on the other corner of Chelsea Terrace. He’s started telling his customers that it’s my long-term aim to buy up all the property in the block and drive out the small shopkeepers.”
“He has a point,” said Becky.
“Maybe, but I never expected him to form a cooperative with the sole purpose of stopping me purchasing certain properties. I was rather hoping to get my hands on the Musketeer itself in time but whenever the subject comes up he just says, ‘Over my dead body.’”
“That comes as rather a blow,” said the colonel.
“Not at all,” said Charlie. “No one can expect to go through life without facing a moment of crisis. The secret will be spotting Wrexall’s when it comes and then moving in quickly. But it does mean for the time being that I’m occasionally going to have to pay over the odds if a shop owner decides the time has come to sell.”
“Not a lot we can do about that I suspect,” said the colonel.
“Except call their bluff from time to time,” said Charlie.
“Call their bluff? I’m not sure I catch your drift.”
“Well, we’ve had an approach from two shops recently with an interest in disposing of their freehold and I turned them both down out of hand.”
“Why?”
“Simply because they were demanding such outrageous prices, not to mention Becky nagging me about our present overdraft.”
“And have they reconsidered their position?”
“Yes and no,” said Charlie. “One has already come back with a far more realistic demand, while the other is still holding out for his original price.”
“Who is holding out?”
“Cuthbert’s, Number 101, the wine and spirits merchant. But there’s no need to make any sort of move in that direction for the time being, because Crowther says that Mr. Cuthbert has recently been looking at several properties in Pimlico, and he’ll be able to keep us informed of any progress on that front. We can then make a sensible offer the moment Cuthbert commits himself.”
“Well done, Crowther, I say. By the way, where do you pick up all your information?” the colonel asked.
“Mr. Bales the newsagent, and Syd Wrexall himself.”
“But I thought you said Wrexall wasn’t proving that helpful.”
“He isn’t,” said Charlie, “but he’ll still offer his opinion on any subject for the price of a pint, so Bob Makins has become a regular and learned never to complain about being short-measured. I even get a copy of the Shops Committee minutes before they do.”
The colonel laughed. “And what about the auctioneers at Number 1? Have we still got our eye on them?”
“We most certainly have, Colonel. Mr. Fothergill, the proprietor, continues to go deeper and deeper into debt, having had another bad year. But somehow he manages to keep his head above water, if only just, but I anticipate he will finally go under some time next year, at the latest the year after, when I will be standing on the quayside waiting to throw him a lifeline. Especially if Becky feels she is ready to leave Sotheby’s by then.”
“I’m still learning so much,” confessed Becky. “I’d rather like to stay put for as long as I can. I’ve completed a year in Old Masters,” she added, “and now I’m trying to get myself moved to Modern, or Impressionist as they’ve started calling that department. You see, I still feel I need to gain as much experience as possible before they work out what I’m up to. I attend every auction I can, from silverware to old books, but I’d be far happier if we could leave Number I until the last possible moment.”
“But if Fothergill does go under for a third time, Becky, you’re our lifeboat. So what if the shop were suddenly to come on the market?”
“I could just about handle it, I suppose. I’ve already got my eye on the man who ought to be our general manager. Simon Matthews. He’s been with Sotheby’s for the past twelve years and is disenchanted at being passed over once too often. There’s also a bright young trainee who’s been around for about three years who I think will be the pick of the next generation of auctioneers. He’s only two years younger than the chairman’s son so he might be only too happy to join us if we were able to make him an attractive offer.”
“On the other hand, it may well suit us for Becky to remain at Sotheby’s for as long as possible,” said Charlie. “Because Mr. Crowther has identified a further problem we’re going to have to face in the near future.”
“Namely?” queried the colonel.
“On page nine of his report, Crowther points out that Numbers 25 to 99, a block of thirty-eight flats bang in the middle of Chelsea Terrace—one of which Daphne and Becky shared until a couple of years ago—may well come on the market in the not too distant future. They’re currently owned by a charitable trust who are no longer satisfied with the return they receive on their investment, and Crowther says they’re considering disposing of them. Now, remembering our long-term plan, it might be wise to purchase the block as soon as possible rather than risk waiting for years when we would have to pay a far higher price or, worse, never be able to get hold of them at all.”
“Thirty-eight flats,” said the colonel. “Hm, how much is Crowther expecting them to fetch?”
“His guess would be around the two-thousand-pound mark; they’re currently only showing an income of two hundred and ten pounds a year and what with repairs and maintenance they’re probably not even declaring a profit. If the property does come on the market, and we’re able to afford them, Crowther also recommends that we only issue ten-year leases in future, and try to place any empty flats with staff from embassies or foreign visitors, who never make any fuss about having to move at a moment’s notice.”
“So the profit on the shops would end up having to pay for the flats,” said Becky.
“I’m afraid so,” said Charlie. “But with any luck it would only take me a couple of years, three at the outside, before I could have them showing a profit. Mind you, if the charity commissioners are involved, the paperwork could take that long.”
“Nevertheless, remembering our current overdraft limit, a demand on our resources like that may well require another lunch with Hadlow,” said the colonel. “Still, I can see if we need to get hold of those flats I’m left with little choice. Might even take the opportunity to bump into Chubby Duckworth at the club and drop a word in his ear.” The colonel paused. “To be fair to Hadlow, he’s also come up with a couple of good ideas himself, both of which I feel are worthy of our consideration, and accordingly I have placed them next on the agenda.”
Becky stopped writing and looked up.
“Let me begin by saying that Hadlow is most satisfied with the way our first two years’ figures have worked out, but nevertheless he feels strongly that because of the state of our overdraft and for taxation reasons we should stop being a partnership and form ourselves into a company.”
“Why?” asked Charlie. “What advantage could there possibly be in that?”
“It’s the new finance bill that has just gone through the Commons,” explained Becky. “The change in the tax laws could well be used to our advantage, because at the moment we’re trading as seven different businesses and taxed accordingly, whereas if we were to put all our shops into one company we could run the losses of, say, the tailor’s shop and hardware against any gains made by the grocery store and the butcher’s, and thus reduce our tax burden. It could be especially beneficial in a bad year.”
“That all makes good sense to me,” said Charlie. “So let’s go ahead and do it.”
“Well, it’s not quite that easy,” said the colonel, placing his monocle to his good eye. “To start with, if we were to become a company Mr. Hadlow is advising us to appoint some new directors to cover those areas in which we currently have little or no professional experience.”
“Why would Hadlow expect us to do that?” asked Charlie sharply. “We’ve never needed anyone else to interfere with our business before.”
“Because we’re growing so rapidly, Charlie. We may need other people to advise us in the future who can offer expertise we simply don’t at present possess. The purchasing of the flats is a good example.”
“But we have Mr. Crowther for that.”
“And perhaps he would feel a greater commitment to our cause if he were on the board.” Charlie frowned. “I can well understand how you feel,” continued the colonel. “It’s your show, and you believe you don’t need any outsiders to tell you how to run Trumper’s. Well, even if we did form a company it would still be your show, because all the shares would be lodged in the names of you and Becky, and any assets would therefore remain totally under your control. But you would have the added advantage of non-executive directors to call on for advice.”
“And to spend our money and overrule our decisions,” said Charlie. “I just don’t like the idea of outsiders telling me what to do.”
“It wouldn’t necessarily work like that,” said Becky.
“I’m not convinced it will work at all.”
“Charlie, you should listen to yourself sometimes. You’re beginning to sound like a Luddite.”
“Perhaps we should take a vote,” said the colonel, trying to calm things down. “Just to see where we all stand.”
“Vote? What on? Why? The shops belong to me.”
Becky looked up. “To both of us, Charlie, and the colonel has more than earned his right to give an opinion.”
“I’m sorry, Colonel, I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t, Charlie, but Becky’s right. If you want to realize your long-term aims you’ll undoubtedly need some outside help. It just won’t be possible to achieve such a dream all on your own.”
“And it will with outside interferers?”
“Think of them as inside helpers,” said the colonel.
“So what are we voting on?” asked Charlie touchily.
“Well,” began Becky, “someone should propose a resolution that we turn ourselves into a company. If that is passed we could then invite the colonel to be chairman, who can in turn appoint you as managing director and myself as secretary. I think Mr. Crowther should also be invited to join the board, along with a representative from the bank.”
“I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought,” said Charlie.
“That was my side of the bargain, if you remember our original deal correctly, Mr. Trumper,” Becky replied.
“We’re not Marshall Field’s, you know.”
“Not yet,” said the colonel, with a smile. “Remember it’s you, Charlie, who has taught us to think like this.”
“I knew somehow it would all end up being my fault.”
“So I propose the resolution that we form a company,” said Becky. “Those in favor?”
Becky and the colonel each placed a hand in the air, and a few seconds later Charlie reluctantly raised his and added, “Now what?”
“My second proposal,” said Becky, “is that Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton should be our first chairman.”
This time Charlie’s hand shot straight up.
“Thank you,” said the colonel. “And my first action as chairman is to appoint Mr. Trumper as managing director and Mrs. Trumper as company secretary. And with your permission I shall approach Mr. Crowther, and I think also Mr. Hadlow, with a view to asking them to join the board.”
“Agreed,” said Becky, who was scribbling furiously in the minutes book as she tried to keep up.
“Any other business?” asked the colonel.
“May I suggest, Mr. Chairman,” said Becky—the colonel couldn’t resist a smile—“that we fix a date for our first monthly meeting of the full board.”
“Any time suits me,” said Charlie. “Because one thing’s for certain, we won’t be able to get them all round this table at any one time, unless of course you propose to hold the meetings at four-thirty in the moming. At least that way we might find out who the real workers are.”
The colonel laughed. “Well, that’s another way you could guarantee that all your own resolutions are passed without us ever finding out, Charlie. But I must warn you, one will no longer constitute a quorum.”
“A quorum?”
“The minimum number of people needed to pass a resolution,” explained Becky.
“That used to be just me,” said Charlie wistfully.
“That was probably true of Mr. Marks before he met Mr. Spencer,” said the colonel, “so let’s settle on our next meeting being a month today.”
Becky and Charlie nodded.
“Now if there is no other business I will declare the meeting closed.”
“There is,” said Becky, “but I don’t think such information should be minuted.”
“The floor’s all yours,” said the chairman, looking puzzled.
Becky stretched across the table and took Charlie’s hand. “It comes under miscellaneous expenses,” she said. “You see, I’m going to have another baby.”
For once Charlie was speechless. It was the colonel who eventually asked if there were a bottle of champagne anywhere near at hand.
“I’m afraid not,” said Becky. “Charlie won’t let me buy anything from wine and spirits until we own the shop.”
“Quite understandably,” said the colonel. “Then we shall just have to walk round to my place,” he added, rising from his seat and picking up his umbrella. “That way Elizabeth can join the celebration. I declare the meeting closed.”
A few moments later the three of them stepped out onto Chelsea Terrace just as the postman was entering the shop. Seeing Becky he handed her a letter.
“It can only have come from Daphne with all those stamps,” she told them as she ripped the envelope open and began reading its contents.
“Come on, then, what’s she been up to?” asked Charlie, as they walked towards Tregunter Road.
“She’s covered America and China, and as far as I can tell India’s next,” Becky announced. “She’s also put on half a stone and met a Mr. Calvin Coolidge, whoever he is.”
“The vice-president of the United States,” said Charlie.
“Is that so? And they still hope to be home sometime in August, so it won’t be that long before we are able to learn everything firsthand. Becky looked up to discover that only the colonel was still by her side. “Where’s Charlie?” They both turned round to see him staring up at a small town house that had a “For Sale” sign attached to the wall.
They walked back towards him. “What do you think?” he asked, continuing to stare at the property.
“
What do you mean, ‘What do I think?’”
“I suspect, my dear, what Charlie is inquiring of you is your opinion of the house.”
Becky stared up at the little house that was on three floors, its front covered in Virginia creeper.
“It’s wonderful, quite wonderful.”
“It’s better than that,” said Charlie placing his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket. “It’s ours, and also ideal for someone with a wife and three children who is the managing director of an expanding business in Chelsea.”
“But I don’t have a second child yet, let alone a third.”
“Just planning ahead,” said Charlie. “Something you taught me.”
“But can we afford it?”
“No, of course we can’t,” he said. “But I’m confident that the value of property will soon be going up in this area, once people realize they will have their own department store within walking distance. In any case, it’s too late now, because I put down the deposit this morning.” He placed a hand in his jacket pocket and removed a key.
“But why didn’t you consult me first?” asked Becky.
“Because I knew you’d only say we couldn’t afford it, as you did with the second, third, fourth, fifth and every subsequent shop.”
He walked towards the front door with Becky still a yard behind him.
“But—”
“I’ll leave you two to sort things out,” said the colonel. “Come over to my place and have that glass of champagne just as soon as you’ve finished looking over your new home.”
The colonel continued on down Tregunter Road, swinging his umbrella in the morning sun, pleased with himself and the world, arriving back just in time for his first whisky of the day.
He imparted all his news to Elizabeth, who had many more questions about the baby and the house than about the present state of the company accounts or her husband’s appointment as chairman. Having acquitted himself as best he could, the colonel asked his manservant to place a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. He then retired to his study to check through the morning mail while he awaited the Trumpers’ arrival.
There were three letters unopened on his desk: a bill from his tailor—which reminded him of Becky’s strictures on such matters—an invitation to the Ashburton Shield to be held at Bisley, an annual event he always enjoyed, and a letter from Daphne, which he rather expected might simply repeat the news that Becky had already relayed to him.