As the Crow Flies (77 page)

“I’m
only sorry that I couldn’t discover any worthwhile attribution for your husband’s
painting,” said Cathy, feeling relieved that was not the reason Rebecca had
wanted to see her. She also hoped her boss might confide in her how Sir Charles
had come into possession of the little oil in the first place, and perhaps even
throw some light on the connection between the Trumpers and Captain Trentham.

“I’m
not that surprised,” Becky replied, without offering any further explanation.

You
see, I came across an article in the files that mentioned a certain Captain Guy
Trentham and I wondered... Cathy wanted to say, but she remained silent.

“Would
you like to be one of the spotters when the sale takes place next week?” Becky
asked.

On
the day of the Italian sale, Cathy was accused by Simon of being “full of beans”
although in fact she had been unable to eat a thing that morning.

Once
the sale had started, painting after painting passed its estimate and Cathy was
delighted when The Basilica of St. Mark’s reached a record for a Canaletto.

When
Sir Charles’ little oil replaced the masterpiece she suddenly felt queasy. It
must have been the way the light caught the canvas, because there was now no
doubt in her mind that it too was a masterpiece. Her immediate thought was that
if only she possessed two hundred pounds she would have put in a bid for it
herself.

The
uproar that followed once the little picture had been removed from the easel
made Cathy yet more anxious. She felt the accuser might well be right in his
claim that the painting was an original by Bronzino. She had never seen a
better example of his classic chubby babies with their sunlit halos. Lady
Trumper and Simon placed no blame on Cathy’s shoulders as they continued to
assure everyone who asked that the picture was a copy and had been known to the
gallery for several years.

When
the sale eventually came to an end, Cathy began to check through the dockets to
be sure that they were in the correct order so that there could be no doubt who
had purchased each item. Simon was standing a few feet away and telling a
gallery owner which pictures had failed to reach their reserve price and might
therefore be sold privately. She froze when she heard Lady Trumper turn to
Simon, the moment the dealer had left, and say, “It’s that wretched Trentham
woman up to her tricks again. Did you spot the old horror at the back of the
room?” Simon nodded, but had made no further comment.

It
must have been about a week after the Bishop of Reims had made his
pronouncement that Simon invited Cathy to dinner at his flat in Pimlico. “A
little celebration,” he added, explaining he had asked all those who had been
directly involved with the Italian sale.

Cathy
arrived that night to find several of the staff from the Old Masters department
already enjoying a glass of wine, and by the time they sat down to dinner only
Rebecca Trumper was not present. Once again Cathy felt aware of the family
atmosphere the Trampers created even in their absence. The guests all enjoyed a
sumptuous meal of avocado soup followed by wild duck which they reamed Simon
had spent the whole afternoon preparing. She and a young man called Julian, who
worked in the rare books department, stayed on after the others had left to
help clear up.

“Don’t
bother with the washing up,” said Simon. “My lady who ‘does’ can deal with it
all in the morning.”

“Typical
male attitude,” said Cathy as she continued to wash the dishes. “However, I
admit that I remained behind with an ulterior motive.”

“And
what might that be?” he asked as he picked up a dish cloth and made a token
attempt to help Julian with the drying.

“Who
is Mrs. Trentham?” Cathy asked abruptly. Simon swung round to face her, so she
added awkwardly, “I heard Becky mention her name to you a few minutes after the
sale was over and that man in the tweed jacket who made such a fuss had
disappeared.”

Simon
didn’t answer her question for some time, as if he were weighing up what he
should say. Two dry dishes later he began.

“It
goes back a long way, even before my time. And don’t forget I was at Sotheby’s
with Becky for five years before she asked me to join her at Trumper’s. To be
honest, I’m not sure why she and Mrs. Trentham loathe each other quite so much,
but what I do know is that Mrs. Trentham’s son Guy and Sir Charles served in
the same regiment during the First World War, and that Guy Trentham was somehow
involved with that painting of the Virgin Mary and Child that had to be
withdrawn from the sale. The only other piece of information that I’ve picked
up over the years is that Guy Trentham disappeared off to Australia soon after...
Hey, that was one of my finest coffee cups.”

“I’m
so sorry,” said Cathy. “How clumsy of me.” She bent down and started picking up
the little pieces of china that were scattered over the kitchen floor. “Where
can I find another one?”

“In
the china department of Trumper’s,” said Simon. “They’re about two shillings
each.” Cathy laughed. “Just take my advice,” he added. “Remember that the older
staff have a golden rule about Mrs. Trentham.”

Cathy
stopped gathering up the pieces.

“They
don’t mention her name in front of Becky unless she raises the subject. And
never refer to the name of ‘Trentham’ in the presence of Sir Charles. If you
did, I think he’d sack you on the spot.”

“I’m
not likely to be given the chance,” Cathy said. “I’ve never even met him. In
fact, the nearest I’ve been to the man was watching him in the seventh row at
the Italian sale.”

“Well,
at least we can do something about that,” said Simon. “How would you like to
accompany me to a housewarming party the Trumpers are giving next Monday at
their new home in Eaton Square?”

“Are
you serious?”

“I
certainly am,” replied Simon. “Anyway, I don’t think Sir Charles would
altogether approve of my taking Julian.”

“Mightn’t
they consider it somewhat presumptuous for such a junior member of staff to
turn up on the arm of the head of the department?”

“Not
Sir Charles. He doesn’t know what the word ‘presumptuous’ means.”

Cathy
spent many hours during her lunch breaks poking around the dress shops in
Chelsea before she selected what she considered was the appropriate outfit for
Trumpers’ housewarming party. Her final choice was a sunflower-yellow dress
with a large sash around the waist which the assistant who served her described
as suitable for a cocktail party. Cathy became fearful at the last minute that
its length, or lack of length, might be a little too daring for such a grand
occasion. However, when Simon came to pick her up at 135 his immediate comment
was “You’ll be a sensation, I promise you.” His unreserved assurance made her
feel more confident at least until they arrived on the top step of the Trumpers’
home in Eaton Square.

As
Simon knocked on the door of his employers’ residence, Cathy only hoped that it
wasn’t too obvious that she had never been invited to such a beautiful house
before. However, she lost all her inhibitions the moment the butler invited
them inside. Her eyes immediately settled on the feast that awaited her. While
others drank from the seemingly endless bottles of champagne and helped
themselves from the passing trays of canapes, she turnd her attention elsewhere
and even began to climb the staircase, savoring each of the rare delicacies one
by one.

First
came a Courbet, a still life of magnificent rich reds, oranges and greens; then
a Picasso of two doves surrounded by pink blossoms, their beaks almost
touching; after a further step her eyes fell on a Pissarro of an old woman
carrying a bundle of hay, dominated by different shades of green. But she
gasped when she first saw the Sisley, a stretch of the Seine with every touch
of pastel shading being made to count.

“That’s
nay favorite,” said a voice from behind her. Cathy turnd to see a tall,
tousle-haired young man give her a grin that must have made many people return
his smile. His dinner jacket didn’t quite fit, his bow tie needed adjusting and
he lounged on the banisters as if without their support he might collapse
completely.

“Quite
beautiful,” she admitted. “When I was younger I used to try and paint a little
myself, and it was Sisley who finally convinced me I shouldn’t bother.”

“Why?”

Cathy
sighed. “Sisley completed that picture when he was seventeen and still at
school.”

“Good
heavens,” the young man said. “An expert in our presence.” Cathy smiled at her
new companion. “Perhaps we should sneak a look at some more works on the upper
corridor?”

“Do
you think Sir Charles would mind?”

“Wouldn’t
have thought so,” the young man replied. “After all, what’s the point of being
a collector if other people are never given the chance to admire what you’ve
acquired?”

Buoyed
up by his confidence Cathy mounted another step. “Magnificent,” she said. “An
early Sickert. They hardly ever come on the market.”

“You
obviously work in an art gallery.”

“I
work at Trumper’s,” Cathy said proudly. “Number 1 Chelsea Terrace. And you?”

“I
sort of work for Trumper’s myself,” he admitted. Out of the corner of her eye,
Cathy saw Sir Charles appearing from a room on the upstairs landing her first
close encounter with the chairman. Like Alice, she wanted to disappear through
a keyhole, but her companion remained unperturbed, seemingly quite at home.

Her
host smiled at Cathy as he came down the stairs. “Hello,” he said once he’d
reached them. “I’m Charlie Trumper and I’ve already heard all about you, young
lady. I saw you at the Italian sale, of course, and Becky tells me that you’re
doing a superb job. By the way, congratulations on the catalogue.”

“Thank
you, sir,” said Cathy, unsure what else she should say as the chairman
continued on down the stairs, delivering a rat-a-tat-tat of sentences while
ignoring her companion.

“I
see you’ve already met my son,” Sir Charles added as he looked back towards
her. “Don’t be taken in by his donnish facade; he’s every bit as much of a
rogue as his father. Show her the Bonnard, Daniel.” With this Sir Charles
disappeared into the drawing room.

“Ah
yes, the Bonnard. Father’s pride and joy,” said Daniel. “I can think of no
better way of luring a girl into the bedroom.”

“You’re
Daniel Tramper?”

“No.
Raffles, the well-known art thief,” Daniel said as he took Cathy’s hand and
guided her up the stairs and on into his parents’ room.

“Well
what about that?” he asked.

“Stunning”
was all Cathy could think of saying as she stared up at the vast Bonnard nude
of his mistress Michelle drying herself that hung above the double bed.

“Father’s
immensely proud of that particular lady,” Daniel explained. “As he never stops
reminding us, he only paid three hundred guineas for her. Almost as good as the...”
but Daniel didn’t complete the sentence.

“He
has excellent taste.”

“The
best untrained eye in the business, Mother always says. And as he’s selected
every picture that hangs in this house, who’s to argue with her?”

“Your
mother chose none of them?”

“Certainly
not. My mother’s by nature a seller, while my father’s a buyer, a combination
unequaled since Duveen and Bernstein cornered the art market.”

“These
two should have ended up in jail,” said Cathy.

“Whereas,”
said Daniel, “I suspect my father will end up in the same place as Duveen.”
Cathy laughed. “And now I think we ought to go back downstairs and grab some
food before it all disappears.”

Once
they entered the dining room Cathy watched as Daniel walked over to a table on
the far side of the room and switched round two of the placecards.

“Well,
I’ll be browed, Miss Ross,” Daniel said, pulling back a chair for her as other
guests searched for their places. “After all that unnecessary banter, I find we’re
sitting next to each other.”

Cathy
smiled as she sat down beside him and watched a rather shy looking girl circle
the table desperately hunting for her placecard. Soon Daniel was answering all
her questions about Cambridge while he in rum wanted to know everything about
Melbourne, a city he had never visited, he told her. Inevitably the question
arose, “And what do your parents do?” Cathy replied without hesitation, “I don’t
know. I’m an orphan.”

Daniel
smiled. “Then we’re made for each other.”

“Why’s
that?”

“I’m
the son of a fruit and veg man and a baker’s daughter from Whitechapel. An
orphan from Melbourne you say? You’ll certainly be a step up the social ladder
for me, that’s for sure.”

Cathy
laughed as Daniel recalled his parents’ early careers, and as the evening went
on she even began to feel this might be the first man she would be willing to
talk to about her somewhat unexplained and unexplainable background.

When
the last course had been cleared away and they sat lingering over their coffee,
Cathy noticed that the shy girl was now standing immediately behind her chair.
Daniel rose to introduce her to Marjorie Carpenter, a mathematics don from
Girton. It became obvious that she was Daniel’s guest for the evening and had
been surprised if not a little disappointed to find that she had not been
seated next to him at dinner.