"No. My husband was just about to do so."
"Then please don't mention the subject to him until I have had the chance to see you again."
"But why not?" Becky realized it was now going to be necessary to conduct a one-sided conversation.
"It isn't something I feel comfortable about discussing over the telephone, Lady Trumper. When are you expecting to be back in town?"
"Later this evening."
"I think we should meet as soon as possible."
"Do you consider it's that important?" said Becky, still mystified.
"I do. Would seven o'clock this evening suit you?"
"Yes, I feel sure we'll be back by then."
"In that case I'll come round to Eaton Square at seven. And please, whatever you do, don't mention anything about Sir Raymond's will to Daniel. I apologize about the mystery but I fear I have been left with little choice. Goodbye, dear lady."
"Goodbye," said Becky and put the receiver down.
"Problem?" asked Charlie, raising an eyebrow.
"I don't know." Becky looked her husband straight in the eye. "It's just that Mr. Baverstock wants to see us about those papers he briefed me on last week." Charlie grimaced. "And he doesn't wish us to discuss the details with anyone else for the time being."
"Now that does sound mysterious," said Daniel, turning to Cathy. "Mr. Baverstock, my darling, is on the board of the barrow, a man who would consider phoning his wife during office hours a breach of contract."
"That sounds like the right qualifications for a place on the board of a public company."
"You've met him once before, as a matter of fact," said Daniel. "He and his wife were also at Mum's housewarming party, but I fear he isn't exactly memorable."
"Who painted that picture?" said Charlie suddenly, staring at a watercolor of the Cam that hung above Daniel's desk.
Becky only hoped the change of subject hadn't been too obvious.
On the journey back to London Becky was torn between delight at the thought of having Cathy as a daughter-in-law and anxiety over what Mr. Baverstock could possibly went to see them about.
When Charlie asked yet again for details, Becky tried to repeat the conversation she'd conducted with Baverstock word for word, but it left neither of them any the wiser.
"We'll know soon enough," said Charlie as they left the A10 to go through Whitechapel and on into the City. It always gave Charlie a thrill whenever he passed all the different barrows displaying their colorful wares and heard the cries of the merchants shouting their outrageous claims.
"I don't offer you these for . . ."
Suddenly Charlie brought the car to a halt, turned off the engine and stared out of the window.
"Why are you stopping?" asked Becky. "We haven't any time to spare."
Charlie pointed at the Whitechapel Boys' Club: it looked even more run-down and dilapidated than usual.
"You've seen the club a thousand times before, Charlie. And you know we mustn't be late for Mr. Baverstock."
He took out his diary and began unscrewing the top of his fountain pen.
"What are you up to?"
"When will you learn, Becky, to look more carefully?" Charlie was busy scribbling down the number of the estate agent on the "For Sale" sign.
"You surely don't want to open a second Trumper's in Whitechapel."
"No, but I do want to find out why they're closing my old boys' club," said Charlie. He resumed the pen to his inside pocket and pressed the button to start up the engine.
The Trumpers arrived back at 17 Eaton Square with just over half an hour to spare before Mr. Baverstock was due to visit them; and Mr. Baverstock, they both were painfully aware, was never late.
Becky immediately set about dusting the tables and plumping up the cushions in the drawing room.
"Everything looks fine to me," said Charlie. "Do stop fussing. In any case, that's what we employ a housekeeper for."
"But it's a Sunday night," Becky reminded him. She continued to check under objects she hadn't touched for months and finally put a match to the well-laid fire.
At exactly seven the front doorbell rang and Charlie left to greet his guest.
"Good evening, Sir Charles," said Mr. Baverstock, removing his hat.
Ah, yes, thought Charlie, there is someone I know who never calls me Charlie. He took Mr. Baverstock's coat, scarf and hat and hung them on the hallstand.
"I am sorry to bother you on a Sunday evening," Mr. Baverstock said as he followed his host into the drawing room carrying his Gladstone bag. "But I hope when you learn my news, you will feel I came to the right decision."
"I'm sure we will. We were naturally both intrigued by your call. But first let me offer you a drink. Whisky?"
"No, thank you," said Mr. Baverstock. "But a dry sherry would be most acceptable."
Becky poured Mr. Baverstock a Tio Pepe and her husband a whisky before she joined the two men round the fire and waited for the lawyer to explain his uncharacteristic interruption.
"This isn't easy for me, Sir Charles."
Charlie nodded. "I understand. Just take your time."
"Can I first confirm with you that you did not reveal to your son any details of Sir Raymond's will?"
"We did not. We were saved that embarrassment first by the announcement of Daniel's engagement to be married and then by your fortuitous telephone call."
"Oh, that is good news," said Mr. Baverstock. "To the charming Miss Ross, no doubt. Please do pass on my congratulations. "
"You knew all along?" said Becky.
"Oh, yes," said Mr. Baverstock. "It was obvious for everyone to see, wasn't it?"
"Everyone except us," said Charlie.
Mr. Baverstock permitted himself a wry smile before he removed a file from his Gladstone bag.
"I'll waste no more words," continued Mr. Baverstock. "Having talked to the other side's solicitors during the past few days, I have learned that at some time in the past Daniel paid a visit to Mrs. Trentham at her home in Chester Square."
Charlie and Becky were unable to hide their astonishment.
"Just as I thought," said Baverstock. "Like myself, you were both obviously quite unaware that such a meeting had taken place."
"But how could they have met—when?" asked Charlie.
"That we may never get to the bottom of, Sir Charles. However, what I do know is that at that meeting Daniel came to an agreement with Mrs. Trentham."
"And what was the nature of this agreement?" asked Charlie.
The old solicitor extracted yet another piece of paper from the file in front of him and reread Mrs. Trentham's handwritten words: "'In exchange for Mrs. Trentham's withdrawing her opposition to any planning permission for the building to be known as Trumper Towers, and in addition for agreeing not to proceed with her own scheme for the rebuilding of a block of flats in Chelsea Terrace, Daniel Trumper will waive any rights he might be entitled to now or at any time in the future from the Hardcastle estate.' At that time, of course, Daniel had no idea that he was the main beneficiary of Sir Raymond's will."
"So that's why she gave in without putting up a fight?" said Charlie eventually.
"It would seem so."
"He did all that without even letting us know," said Becky as her husband began to read through the document.
"That would appear to be the case, Lady Trumper."
"And is it legally binding?" were Charlie's first words after he had finished reading the page of Mrs. Trentham's handwriting.
"Yes, I'm afraid it is, Sir Charles."
"But if he didn't know the full extent of the inheritance . . . ?"
"This is a contract between two people. The courts would have to assume Daniel had relinquished his interest to any claim in the Hardcastle estate, once Mrs. Trentham had kept her part of the bargain."