As the Crow Flies

Chapter 39

The one question I was never able to answer as a child was, "When did you last see your father?"

Unlike the young cavalier, I simply didn't know the answer. In fact I had no idea who my father was, or my mother, for that matter. Most people don't realize how many times a day, a month, a year one is asked such a question. And if your reply is always, "I simply don't know, because they both died before I can remember," you are greeted with looks of either surprise or suspicion or, worse still, disbelief. In the end you learn how to throw up a smokescreen or simply avoid the issue by changing the subject. There is no variation on the question of parentage for which I haven't developed an escape route.

The only vague memory I have of my parents is of a man who shouted a lot of the time and of a woman who was so timid she rarely spoke. I also have a feeling she was called Anna. Other than that, both of them remain a blur.

How I envied those children who could immediately tell me about their parents, brothers, sisters, even second cousins or distant aunts. All I knew about myself was that I had been brought up in St. Hilda's Orphanage, Park Hill, Melbourne. Principal: Miss Rachel Benson.

Many of the children from the orphanage did have relations and some received letters, even the occasional visit. The only such person I can ever recall was an elderly, rather severe-looking woman, who wore a long black dress and black lace gloves up to her elbows, and spoke with a strange accent. I have no idea what her relationship to me was, if any.

Miss Benson treated this particular lady with considerable respect and I remember even curtsied when she left, but I never learned her name and when I was old enough to ask who she was Miss Benson claimed she had no idea what I was talking about. Whenever I tried to question Miss Benson about my own upbringing, she would reply mysteriously, "It's best you don't know, child." I can think of no sentence in the English language more likely to ensure that I try even harder to find out the truth about my background.

As the years went by I began to ask what I thought were subtler questions on the subject of my parentage—of the vice-principal, my house matron, kitchen staff, even the janitor—but I always came up against the same blank wall. On my fourteenth birthday I requested an interview with Miss Benson in order to ask her the question direct. Although she had long ago dispensed with "It's best you don't know, child," she now replaced this sentiment with, "In truth, Cathy, I don't know myself." Although I didn't question her further, I didn't believe her, because some of the older members of the staff would from time to time give me strange looks, and on at least two occasions began to whisper behind my back once they thought I was out of earshot.

I had no photographs or mementos of my parents, or even any proof of their past existence, except for a small piece of jewelry which I convinced myself was silver. I remember that it was the man who shouted a lot who had given me the little cross and since then it had always hung from a piece of string around my neck. One night when I was undressing in the dormitory Miss Benson spotted my prize and demanded to know where the pendant had come from; I told her Betsy Compton had swapped it with me for a dozen marbles, a fib that seemed to satisfy her at the time. But from that day onwards I kept my treasure well hidden from anyone's prying eyes.

I must have been one of those rare children who loved going to school from the first day its doors were opened to me. The classroom was a blessed escape from my prison and its warders. Every extra minute I spent at the local school was a minute I didn't have to be at St. Hilda's, and I quickly discovered that the harder I worked the longer the hours I was allowed to remain behind. These became even more expandable when, at the age of eleven, I won a place at Melbourne Church of England Girls' Grammar School, where they had so many extracurricular activities going on, from first thing in the morning until late every evening, that St. Hilda's became little more than the place where I slept and had breakfast.

While at MGS I took up painting, which made it possible for me to spend several hours in the art room without too much supervision or interference; tennis, where by dint of sheer hard work and application I managed to gain a place in the school second six, which produced the bonus of being allowed to practice in the evening until it was dusk; and cricket, for which I had no talent, but as team scorer not only was I required never to leave my place until the last ball had been bowled but every other Saturday I was able to escape on a bus for a fixture against another school. I was one of the few children who enjoyed away matches in preference to home fixtures.

At sixteen I entered the sixth form and began to work even harder: it was explained to Miss Benson that I might possibly win a scholarship to the University of Melbourne—not an everyday occurrence for an inmate from St. Hilda's.

Whenever I received any academic distinction or reprimand—the latter became rarer once I had discovered school—I was made to report to Miss Benson in her study, where she would deliver a few words of encouragement or disapproval, before placing the slip of paper that marked these occurrences in a file which she would then return to a cabinet that stood behind her desk. I always watched her most carefully as she carried out this ritual. First she would remove a key from the top left-hand drawer of her desk, then she would go over to the cabinet, check my file under "QRS," place the credit or misdemeanor inside my entry, lock the cabinet and then replace the key in her desk. It was a routine that never varied.

Another fixed point in Miss Benson's life was her annual holiday, when she would visit "her people" in Adelaide. This took place every September and I looked forward to it as others might a holiday.

Once war had been declared I feared she might not keep to her schedule, especially as we were told we would all have to make sacrifices.

Miss Benson appeared to make no sacrifices despite travel restrictions and cutbacks and departed for Adelaide on exactly the same day that summer as she always had. I waited until five days after the taxi had driven her off to the station before I felt it was safe to carry out my little escapade.

On the sixth night I lay awake until just after one in the morning, not moving a muscle until I was certain all sixteen girls in the dormitory were fast asleep. Then I rose, borrowed a pen torch from the drawer of the girl who slept next to me and headed off across the landing towards the staircase. Had I been spotted en route, I already had an excuse prepared about feeling sick, and as I had rarely entered the sanatorium at any time during my twelve years at St. Hilda's, I felt confident I would be believed.

I crept cautiously down the staircase without having to use the torch: since Miss Benson had departed for Adelaide, I had practiced the routine each morning with my eyes closed. Once I had reached the principal's study, I opened the door and slipped in, only then switching on the pen torch. I tiptoed over to Miss Benson's desk and cautiously pulled open the top lefthand drawer. What I hadn't been prepared for was to be faced with about twenty different keys, some in groups on rings while others were detached but unmarked. I tried to remember the size and shape of the one Miss Benson had used to unlock the filing cabinet, but I couldn't, and with only a pen torch to guide me several trips to the cabinet and back were necessary before I discovered the one that would turn one hundred and eighty degrees.

I pulled open the top drawer of the filing cabinet as slowly as I could but the runners still seemed to rumble like thunder. I stopped, and held my breath as I waited to hear if there was any movement coming from the house. I even looked under the door to be sure no light was suddenly switched on. Once I felt confident I hadn't disturbed anyone I leafed through the names in the "QRS" box file: Roberts, Rose, Ross . . . I pulled out my personal folder and carried the heavy bundle back to the principal's desk. I sat down in Miss Benson's chair and, with the help of the torch, began to check each page carefully. As I was fifteen and had now been at St. Hilda's for around twelve years, my file was necessarily thick. I was reminded of misdemeanors as long ago as wetting my bed, and several credits for painting, including the rare double credit for one of my watercolors that still hung in the dining room. Yet however much I searched through that folder there was no trace of anything about me before the age of three. I began to wonder if this was a general rule that applied to everyone who had come to live at St. Hilda's. I took a quick glance at the details of Jennie Rose's record. To my dismay, I found the names of both her father (Ted, deceased) and her mother (Susan). An attached note explained that Mrs. Rose had three other children to bring up and since the death of her husband from a heart attack had been quite unable to cope with a fourth child.

I locked the cabinet, returned the key to the top left-hand drawer of Miss Benson's desk, switched off the pen torch, left the study and walked quickly up the stairs to my dormitory. I put the pen torch back in its rightful place and slipped into bed. I began to wonder what I could possibly do next to try and find out who I was and where I'd come from.

It was as if my parents had never existed, and I had somehow started life aged three. As the only alternative was virgin birth and I didn't accept that even for the Blessed Mary, my desire to know the truth became irrepressible. I must eventually have fallen asleep, because all I remember after that is being woken by the school bell the following morning.

When I was awarded my place at the University of Melbourne I felt like a long-term prisoner who has finally been released. For the first time, I was given a room of my own and was no longer expected to wear a uniform—not that the range of clothes I could afford was going to set the Melbourne fashion houses afire. I remember working even longer hours at university than I had done at school, as I was apprehensive that if I didn't pass my first year general papers, they would send me back to spend the rest of my days at St. Hilda's.

In my second year I specialized in the history of art and English while continuing with painting as a hobby, but I had no idea what career I wanted to pursue after leaving university. My tutor suggested I should consider teaching, but that sounded to me rather like an extension of St. Hilda's, with me ending up as Miss Benson.

I didn't have many boyfriends before going to university, because the boys at St. Hilda's were kept in a separate wing of the house and we were not allowed to talk to them before nine in the morning and after five o'clock at night. Until the age of fifteen I thought kissing made you pregnant so I was determined not to make that mistake, especially after my experience of growing up with no family of my own.

My first real boyfriend was Mel Nicholls, who was captain of the university football team. Having finally succeeded in getting me into bed he told me that I was the only girl in his life and, more important, the first. After I had admitted it was true for me too and lay back on the pillow Mel leaned over and began to take an interest in the only thing I was still wearing.

"I've never seen anything quite like that before," he said, taking my little piece of jewelry between his fingers.

"Another first."

"Not quite." He laughed. "Because I've seen one very similar."

"What do you mean?"

"It's a medal," he explained. "My father won three or four of them himself but none of them's made of silver."

Looking back on it now, I consider that this particular piece of information was well worth losing my virginity for.

In the library of the University of Melbourne there is a large selection of books covering the First World War, biased not unnaturally towards Gallipoli and the Far East campaign rather than the D Day landings and El Alamein. However, tucked away among the pages of heroic deeds performed by Australian infantrymen was a chapter on British gallantry awards, complete with several colored plates.

I discovered that there were VCs, DSOs, DSCs, CBEs, OBEs—the variations seemed endless until finally on page four hundred and nine I found what I was searching for: the Military Cross, a ribbon of white watered silk and purple horizontal stripes and a medal forged in silver with the imperial crown on each of its four arms. It was awarded to officers below the rank of major "for conspicuous gallantry when under fire." I began to hypothesize that my father was a war hero who had died at an early age from terrible wounds. At least that would have explained his perpetual shouting as something that had been brought on by so much suffering.

My next piece of detective work came when I visited an antiques shop in Melbourne. The man behind the counter simply studied the medal, then offered me five pounds for it. I didn't bother to explain why I wouldn't have parted with my prize had he offered me five hundred pounds, but at least he was able to inform me that the only real medal dealer in Australia was a Mr. Frank Jennings, of Number 47 Mafeking Street, Sydney.

At that time I considered Sydney to be the other side of the globe, and I certainly couldn't afford to make such a long journey on my tiny grant. So I had to wait patiently until the summer term when I applied to be scorer for the university cricket team. They turned me down on account of my sex. Women couldn't really be expected to understand the game fully, it was explained to me by a youth who used to sit behind me in lectures so that he could copy my notes. This left me with no choice but to spend hours of practice on my ground strokes and almost as many on my overhead smash until I was selected for the ladies' second tennis team. Not a major achievement but there was only one match on the calendar that interested me: Sydney (A).

On the morning we arrived in Sydney I went straight to Mafeking Street and was struck by how many young men who passed me on the street were in uniform. Mr. Jennings himself studied the medal with considerably more interest than the dealer from Melbourne had shown.

"It's a miniature MC all right," he told me, peering at my little prize through a magnifying glass. "It would have been worn on a dress uniform for guest nights in the regimental mess. These three initials engraved down the edge of one of the arms, barely discernible to the naked eye, ought to give us a clue as to who was awarded the decoration."

I stared through Mr. Jennings' magnifying glass at something I had never been aware of until then, but I could now clearly see the initials "G.F.T."

"Is there any way of finding out who 'G.F.T.' actually is?"

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Jennings, turning to a shelf behind him, from which he removed a leather-bound book and flicked through its pages until he came to Godfrey S. Thomas and George Victor Taylor, but could find no trace of anyone with the initials "G.F.T."

"Sorry, but I can't help you on this one," he said. "Your particular medal can't have been awarded to an Australian, otherwise it would be catalogued right here." He tapped the leather cover. "You'll have to write to the War Office in London if you want any further information. They still keep on file the names of every member of the armed forces awarded any decoration for gallantry."

I thanked him for his help but not before he had offered me ten pounds for the medal. I smiled and returned to join the tennis team for my match against Sydney University. I lost 6–0, 6–1, being quite unable to concentrate on anything except G.F.T. I wasn't selected for the university tennis team again that season.

The next day I followed Mr. Jennings' advice and wrote to the War Office in London. I didn't get a letter back from them for several months, which was hardly surprising as everyone knew they had other things on their mind in 1944. However, a buff envelope eventually came and when opened informed me that the holder of my medal could have been either Graham Frank Turnbull of the Duke of Wellington's regiment or Guy Francis Trentham of the Royal Fusiliers.

So was my real name Turnbull or Trentham?

That same evening I wrote to the British High Commissioner's office in Canberra asking whom I should contact for information regarding the two regiments referred to in the letter. I received a reply a couple of weeks later. With the new leads I had acquired I dispatched two more letters to England: one to Halifax, the other to London. I then sat back again, and resigned myself to another long wait. When you have already spent eighteen years of your life trying to discover your true identity another few months doesn't seem all that important. In any case, now that I had begun my final year at university I was up to my eyes in work.

The Duke of Wellington's were the first to reply, and they informed me that Lieutenant Graham Frank Turnbull had been killed at Passchendaele on 6 November 1917. As I was born in 1924 that let Lieutenant Turnbull off the hook. I prayed for Guy Francis Trentham.

It was several weeks later that I received a reply from the Royal Fusiliers to inform me that Captain Guy Francis Trentham had been awarded the MC on 18 July 1918, following the second battle of the Marne. Fuller details could be obtained from the regimental museum library at their headquarters in London, but this had to be done in person as they had no authority to release information about members of the regiment by post.

As I had no way of getting to England I immediately began a new line of investigation, only this time I drew a complete blank. I took a whole morning off in order to search for the name of "Trentham" in the birth records of the Melbourne city registry on Queen Street. I found there was not one Trentham listed. There were several Rosses but none came anywhere near my date of birth. I began to realize that someone had gone to considerable lengths to make sure I was unable to trace my roots. But why?

Suddenly my sole purpose in life switched to how I could get myself to England, despite the fact that I had no money and the war had only recently ended. I checked every graduate and undergraduate course that was on offer, and all that my tutor considered it might be worth applying for was a scholarship to the Slade School of Art in London, which offered three places each year to students from Commonwealth countries. I began to put in hours that even I hadn't realized existed, and was rewarded by a place on the shortlist of six for a final interview to be held in Canberra.

Although I became extremely nervous on the train journey to the Australian capital, I felt the interview went well and indeed the examiners told me that my papers on the history of art were of particular merit, even if my practical work was not of the same high standard.

An envelope marked The Slade was dropped in my cubbyhole a month later. I ripped it open in anticipation and extracted a letter that began:

The only worthwhile thing that came out of all the extra work I had put in was that I sailed through my finals and was awarded with a first-class honors degree when the graduation results were announced. But I was still no nearer to getting myself to England.

In desperation I telephoned the British High Commission and was put through to the labor attaché. A lady came on the line and informed me that with my qualifications there would be several teaching posts on offer. She added that I would have to sign a three-year contract and be responsible for my own travel arrangements—nicely worded, I considered, as I still wasn't able to afford the trip to Sydney, let alone the United Kingdom. In any case, I felt I would only need to spend about a month in England to track down Guy Francis Trentham.

The only other jobs that were available, the lady explained the second time I called, were known as "slave traders." These consisted of positions in hotels, hospitals or old people's homes, where you were virtually unpaid for one year in return for your passage to England and back. As I still had no plans for any particular career and realized this was virtually the only chance I might ever have of getting myself to England and finding someone I was related to, I called into the labor attaché's department and signed on the dotted line. Most of my friends at university thought I had taken leave of my senses, but then they had no idea of my real purpose in wanting to visit Britain.

The boat we sailed to Southampton on couldn't have been much of an improvement on the one the first Australian immigrants took coming the other way some one hundred and seventy years before. They put three of us "slave traders" to a cabin no larger than my room on the university campus, and if the ship listed more than ten degrees Pam and Maureen ended up in my bunk. We had all signed on to work at the Melrose Hotel in Earl's Court, which we were assured was in central London. After a journey of some six weeks we were met at the dockside by a clapped-out army lorry which took us up to the capital and deposited us on the steps of the Melrose Hotel.

The housekeeper allocated our accommodation and I ganged up with Pam and Maureen again. I was surprised to discover that we were expected to share a room of roughly the same size as the cabin in which we had suffered together on board ship. At least this time we didn't fall out of bed unexpectedly.

It was over two weeks before they gave me enough time off to visit Kensington Post Office and check through the London telephone directory. There wasn't a Trentham to be found.

"Could be ex-directory," the girl behind the counter explained. "Which means they won't take your call in any case."

"Or there just isn't a Trentham living in London," I said, and accepted that the regimental museum was now my only hope.

I thought I had worked hard at the University of Melbourne, but the hours they expected us to do at the Melrose would have brought a combat soldier to his knees. All the same, I was damned if I was going to admit as much, especially after Pam and Maureen gave up the struggle within a month, cabled their parents in Sydney for some money and returned to Australia on the first available boat. At least it meant I ended up with a room to myself until the next boatload arrived. To be honest I wish I could have packed up and gone home with them, but I hadn't anyone in Australia to whom I could cable back for more than about ten pounds.

The first full day I had off and wasn't totally exhausted, I took a train to Hounslow. When I left the station the ticket collector directed me to the Royal Fusiliers' Depot, where the museum was situated now.

After walking about a mile I eventually reached the building I was looking for. It seemed to be uninhabited except for a single receptionist. He was dressed in khaki uniform, with three stripes on both arms. He sat dozing behind a counter. I walked noisily over and pretended not to wake him.

"Can I 'elp you, young lady?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"I hope so."

"Austral fan?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"I fought alongside your chaps in North Africa," he explained. "Damned great bunch of soldiers, I can tell you. So 'ow can I help you, miss?"

"I wrote to you from Melbourne," I said, producing a handwritten copy of the letter. "About the holder of this medal." I slipped the piece of string over my head and handed my prize to him. "His name was Guy Francis Trentham."

"Miniature MC," said the sergeant without hesitation as he held the medal in his hand. "Guy Francis Trentham, you say?"

"That's right."

"Good. So let's look 'im up in the great book, 1914–1918, yes?"

I nodded.

He went over to a massive bookshelf weighed down by heavy volumes and removed a large leather-bound book. He placed it on the counter with a thud, sending dust in every direction. On the cover were the words, printed in gold, "Royal Fusiliers, Decorations, 1914–1918".

"Let's have a butcher's, then," he said as he started to flick through the pages. I waited impatiently. "There's our man," he announced triumphantly. "Guy Francis Trentham, Captain." He swung the book round so that I could study the entry more carefully. I was so excited it was several moments before I could take the words in.

Captain Trentham's citation went on for twenty two lines and I asked if I might be allowed to copy out the details in full.

"Of course, miss," he said. "Be my guest." He handed over a large sheet of ruled paper and a blunt army-issue pencil. I began to write:

Having written out every word of the citation in my neatest hand, I closed the heavy cover and turned the book back round to face the sergeant.

"Trentham," he said. "If I remember correctly, miss, 'e still 'as 'is picture up on the wall." The sergeant picked up some crutches, maneuvered himself from behind the counter and limped slowly to the far corner of the museum. I hadn't realized until that moment that the poor man only had one leg. "Over 'ere, miss," he said. "Follow me."

My palms began to sweat and I felt a little sick at the thought of discovering what my father looked like. I wondered if I might resemble him in any way.

The sergeant hobbled straight past the VCs before we came to a row of MCs. They were all lined up, old sepia pictures, badly framed. His finger ran along them—Stevens, Thomas, Tubbs. "That's strange. I could have sworn 'is photo was there. Well, I'll be damned. Must 'ave got lost when we moved from the Tower."

"Could his picture be anywhere else?"

"Not to my knowledge, miss," he said. "I must 'ave imagined it all along, but I'd swear I'd seen 'is photo when the museum was at the Tower. Well, I'll be damned," he repeated.

I asked him if he could supply me with any more details of Captain Trentham and what might have happened to him since 1918. He hobbled back to the counter and looked up his name in the regimental handbook. "Commissioned 1915, promoted to first lieutenant 1916, captain 1917, India 1920–1922, resigned 'is commission August 1922. Since then nothing known of 'im, miss."

"So he could still be alive?"

"Certainly could, miss. He'd only be fifty, fifty-five, most."

I checked my watch, thanked him and ran quickly out of the building, suddenly aware of how much time I had spent at the museum and fearful that I might miss the train back to London and wouldn't be in time to clock on for my five o'clock shift.

After I had settled in a corner of a dingy third-class compartment I read over the citation again. It pleased me to think that my father had been a First World War hero; but I still couldn't fathom out why Miss Benson had been so unwilling to tell me anything about him. Why had he gone to Australia? Had he changed his name to Ross? I felt I would have to return to Melbourne if I was ever going to find out exactly what had happened to Guy Francis Trentham. Had I possessed the money to pay for my return fare, I would have gone back that night, but as I had to work out my contract at the hotel for another nine months before they would advance me enough cash to cover the one-way ticket home I settled down to complete my sentence.

London in 1947 was an exciting city for a twenty-three-year-old so despite the dreary work there were many compensations. Whenever I had any time off I would visit an art gallery, a museum or go to a cinema with one of the girls from the hotel. On a couple of occasions I even accompanied a group of friends to a dance at the Mecca ballroom just off the Strand. One particular night I remember a rather good-looking bloke from the RAF asked me for a dance and, just moments after we had started going round the hall, he tried to kiss me. When I pushed him away he became even more determined and only a firm kick on his ankle followed by a short dash across the dance floor made it possible for me to escape. A few minutes later I found myself out on the pavement and heading back to the hotel on my own.

As I strolled through Chelsea in the general direction of Earl's Court I stopped from time to time to admire the unattainable goods on display in every shop window. I particularly craved a long blue silk shawl draped over the shoulders of an elegant slim mannequin. I stopped window-shopping for a moment and glanced up at the name over the door: "Trumper's." There was something familiar about the name but I couldn't think what. I walked slowly back to the hotel but the only Trumper I could recall was the legendary Australian cricketer who had died before I was born. Then in the middle of the night it came back to me. Trumper, C. was the corporal mentioned in the citation written about my father. I jumped out of bed, opened the bottom drawer of my little desk and checked the words I had copied out during my visit to the Royal Fusiliers Museum.

The name was not one I'd come across since arriving in England, so I wondered if the shopkeeper might be related in some way to the corporal and therefore might help me find him. I decided to return to the museum in Hounslow on my next day off and see if my one-legged friend could be of any further assistance.

"Nice to see you again, miss," he said as I walked up to the counter. I was touched that he remembered me.

"More information you're after?"

"You're right," I told him. "Corporal Trumper, he's not the . . . ?"

"Charlie Trumper, the 'onest trader. Certainly is, miss; but now 'e's Sir Charles and owns that large group of shops in Chelsea Terrace."

"I thought so."

"I was about to tell you all about 'im when you ran off last time, miss." He grinned. "Could 'ave saved you a train journey and about six months of your time."

The following evening, instead of going to see Greta Garbo at the Gate Cinema in Notting Hill, I sat on an old bench on the far side of Chelsea Terrace and just stared at a row of windows. Sir Charles seemed to own almost every shop on the street. I could only wonder why he had allowed such a large empty space to remain right in the middle of the block.

My next problem was how I could possibly get to see him. The only idea that occurred to me was that I might take my medal into Number 1 for a valuation and then pray.

During the next week I was on the day shift at the hotel so I was unable to return to Number 1 Chelsea Terrace before the following Monday afternoon, when I presented the girl on the front counter with my MC and asked if the medal could be valued. She considered my tiny offering, then called for someone else to examine it more carefully. A tall, studious-looking man spent some time checking the piece before he offered an opinion. "A miniature MC," he declared, "sometimes known as a dress MC because it would be worn on a mess or dinner jacket for regimental nights, value approximately ten pounds." He hesitated for a moment. "But of course Spinks at 5 King Street SW1 would be able to give you a more accurate assessment should you require it."

"Thank you," I said, having learned nothing new and finding myself quite unable to think of any way I might phrase a question about Sir Charles Trumper's war record.

"Anything else I can help you with?" he asked as I remained rooted to the spot.

"How do you get a job here?" I bleated out, feeling rather stupid.

"Just write in, giving us all the details of your qualifications and past experience and we'll be back in touch with you within a few days."

"Thank you," I said and left without another word.

I sat down that evening and drafted a long handwritten letter, seeing out my qualifications as an art historian. They appeared a bit slender to me when I looked at them on paper.

The next morning I rewrote the letter on the hotel's finest stationery before addressing the envelope to "Job Inquiries" as I had no name as a contact other than Trumper's Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, London SW7.

The following afternoon I hand-delivered the missive to a girl on the front desk of the auction house, never really expecting to receive a reply. In any case, I wasn't actually sure what I would do if they did offer me a job, as I planned on returning to Melbourne in a few months and I still couldn't imagine how working at Trumper's would ever lead to my meeting Sir Charles.

Ten days later I received a letter from the personnel officer, saying they would like to interview me. I spent four pounds fifteen shillings of my hard-earned wages on a new dress that I could ill afford and arrived over an hour early for the interview. I ended up having to walk round the block several times. During that hour I discovered that Sir Charles really did seem to sell everything any human being could desire, as long as you had enough money to pay for it.

At last the hour was up and I marched in and presented myself at the front counter. I was taken up some stairs to an office on the top floor. The lady who interviewed me said she couldn't understand what I was doing stuck in a hotel as a chambermaid with my qualifications, until I explained to her that hotel work was the only job available to those who couldn't afford to pay their passage over to England.

She smiled before warning me that if I wanted to work at Number 1 everyone started on the front desk. If they proved to be any good they were promoted fairly quickly.

"I started on the front desk at Sotheby's," my interviewer went on to explain. I wanted to ask her how long she'd lasted.

"I'd love to come and work at Trumper's," I told her, "but I'm afraid I still have two months of my contract to complete before I can leave the Melrose Hotel."

"Then we'll have to wait for you," she replied without hesitation. "You can start at the front desk on first of September, Miss Ross. I will confirm all the arrangements in writing by the end of the week."

I was so excited by her offer that I quite forgot why I'd applied for the job in the first place: until my interviewer sent her promised letter and I was able to decipher her signature scribbled across the foot of the page.

Chapter 40

Cathy had worked on the front desk of Trumper's Auction House for just eleven days when Simon Matthews asked her to help him prepare the catalogue for the Italian sale. He was the first to spot how, as the auction house's premier line of defense, she handled the myriad inquiries that were thrown at her without constantly having to seek a second opinion. She worked just as hard for Trumper's as she had done at the Melrose Hotel, but with a difference: she now enjoyed what she was doing.

For the first time in her life Cathy felt she was part of a family, because Rebecca Trumper was invariably relaxed and friendly with her staff, treating them all as equals. Her salary was far more generous than the bare minimum she had received from her previous employer, and the room they gave her above the butcher's shop at Number 135 was palatial in comparison with her hideaway at the back of the hotel.

Trying to find out more about her father began to seem less important to Cathy as she set about proving she was worth her place at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace. Her primary task in preparing the catalogue for the Italian sale was to check the history of every one of the fifty-nine pictures that were to come under the hammer. To this end she traveled right across London from library to library and telephoned gallery after gallery in her quest to track down every attribution. In the end only one picture completely baffled her, that of the Virgin Mary and Child, which bore no signature and had no history attached except that it had originally come from the private collection of Sir Charles Trumper and was now owned by a Mrs. Kitty Bennett.

Cathy asked Simon Matthews if he could give any lead on the picture and was told by her head of department that he felt it might have come from the school of Bronzino.

Simon, who was in charge of the auction, went on to suggest that she should check through the press cuttings books.

"Almost everything you need to know about the Trumpers is in there somewhere."

"And where will I find them?"

"On the fourth floor in that funny little room at the end of the passage."

When she eventually found the cubicle that housed the files she had to brush off a layer of dust and even remove the odd cobweb as she browsed through the annual offerings. She sat on the floor, her legs tucked beneath her, as she continued to turn the pages, becoming more and more engrossed in the rise of Charles Trumper from his days when he owned his first barrow in Whitechapel to the proposed plans for Trumper's of Chelsea. Although the press references were sketchy in those early years, it was a small article in the Evening Standard that stopped Cathy in her tracks. The page had yellowed with age and on the top right-hand corner, barely discernible, was printed the date: 8 September 1922.

Cathy's eyes moved on to a second piece, dated some three weeks later.

Cathy read the two pieces over and again. Could she really be the daughter of a man who had tried to rob Sir Charles and had been responsible for the death of his second child? And where did the painting fit in? Just how had Mrs. Bennett come into possession of it? More important, why had Lady Trumper taken such an interest in a seemingly unimportant oil by an unknown artist?

Unable to answer any of these questions, Cathy closed the cuttings book and pushed it back to the bottom of the pile. After she had washed her hands she wanted to return downstairs and ask Lady Trumper all her questions one by one, but knew that wasn't possible.

When the catalogue had been completed and on sale for over a week Lady Trumper asked to see Cathy in her office. Cathy only hoped that some frightful mistake hadn't been unearthed, or someone hadn't come across an attribution for the painting of the Virgin Mary and Child that she should have discovered in time to be credited in the catalogue.

As Cathy stepped into the office Becky said, "My congratulations."

"Thank you," said Cathy, not quite sure what she was being praised for.

"Your catalogue has been a sell-out and we're having to rush through a reprint."

"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 Trumpers created even in their absence. The guests all enjoyed a sumptuous meal of avocado soup followed by wild duck which they learned 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 turned 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 my favorite," said a voice from behind her. Cathy turned 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 blowed, 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 turn 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.

The three of them chatted about life at Cambridge until the Marchioness of Wiltshire banged a spoon on the table, to attract everyone's attention, then made a seemingly impromptu speech. When she finally called for a toast they all stood and raised their glasses to Trumper's. The marchioness then presented Sir Charles with a silver cigar case in the form of a scale model of Trumper's and from the expression on his face it obviously brought their host considerable delight. After a witty, and Cathy suspected not impromptu, speech, Sir Charles resumed his place.

"I ought to be going," Cathy said a few minutes later. "I have an early start in the morning. It was nice to have met you, Daniel," she added, sounding suddenly formal. They shook hands like strangers.

"Talk to you soon," he said as Cathy went over to thank her hosts for what she told them had been a memorable evening. She left on her own, but not before she had checked that Simon was deep in conversation with a fair-haired young man who had recently come to work in rugs and carpets.

She walked slowly back from Eaton Square to Chelsea Terrace, savoring every moment of the evening, and was upstairs in her little flat above Number 135 a few minutes after midnight, feeling not unlike Cinderella.

As she began to undress, Cathy mused over how much she had enjoyed the party, especially Daniel's company and the joy of seeing so many of her favorite artists. She wondered if . . . Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing.

As the time was now well past midnight she picked up the receiver assuming the caller must have dialed a wrong number.

"Said I'd talk to you soon," said a voice.

"Go to bed, you chump."

"I'm already in bed. Talk to you again in the morning," he added. She heard a click.

Daniel telephoned a little after eight the following morning.

"I've only just got out of the bath," she told him.

"Then you must be looking like Michelle. I'd better come over and select a towel for you."

"I already have a towel safely wrapped round me, thank you."

"Pity," said Daniel. "I'm rather good at drying up. But failing that," he added before she could reply, "would you join me at Trinity on Saturday? They're holding a college feast. We only have a couple a term, so if you turn the invitation down there's no hope of seeing me again for another three months."

"In which case I'll accept. But only because I haven't had a feast since I left school."

The following Friday Cathy traveled up to Cambridge by train to find Daniel standing on the platform waiting for her. Although Trinity High Table has been known to intimidate the most confident of guests, Cathy felt quite at ease as she sat among the dons. Nevertheless she couldn't help wondering how so many survived to old age if they ate and drank like this regularly.

"Man cannot live by bread alone," was Daniel's only explanation during the seven-course meal. She imagined that the orgy must have ended when they were invited back to the master's lodge only to find she was being offered even more savories, accompanied by a port decanter that circled endlessly and never seemed to settle or empty. She eventually escaped, but not before the clock on Trinity tower had struck midnight. Daniel escorted her to a guest room on the far side of the Great Court and suggested that they might attend matins at King's the following morning.

"I'm so glad you didn't recommend I make an appearance at breakfast," said Cathy as Daniel gave her a kiss on the cheek before saying good night.

The little guest room that Daniel had booked Cathy into was even smaller than her digs above 135, but she fell asleep the moment she placed her head on the pillow and was woken only by a peal of bells that she assumed must be coming from King's College Chapel.

Daniel and Cathy reached the chapel door only moments before the choristers began their crocodile procession down the nave. The singing seemed even more moving than on the gramophone record that Cathy possessed, with only the choristers' pictures on the sleeve to hint what the real experience might be like.

Once the blessing had been given Daniel suggested a walk along the Backs "to get rid of any leftover cobwebs." He took her hand, not releasing it again until they had returned to Trinity an hour later for a modest lunch.

During the afternoon he showed her round the Fitzwilliam Museum, where Cathy was mesmerized by Goya's Devil Eating His Children. "Bit like Trinity High Table," suggested Daniel before they walked over to Queens, where they listened to a student string quartet give a recital of a Bach fugue. By the time they left, the Bights along Silver Street had started flickering.

"No supper, please," begged Cathy in mock protest as they strolled back across the Mathematical Bridge.

Daniel chuckled and, after they had collected her case from Trinity, drove her slowly back to London in his little MG.

"Thank you for a wonderful weekend," said Cathy once Daniel had parked outside 135. "In fact, 'wonderful' is quite inadequate to describe the last two days."

Daniel kissed her gently on the cheek. "Let's do it again next weekend," he suggested.

"Not a hope," said Cathy. "That is, if you meant it when you claimed you liked thin women."

"All right, let's try the whole thing without the food and perhaps even have a game of tennis this time. It may be the only way I'll ever find out the standard of the Melbourne University second six."

Cathy laughed. "And would you also thank your mother for that superb party last Monday? It's been a truly memorable week."

"I would, but you'll probably see her before I do."

"Aren't you staying overnight with your parents?"

"No. I must get back to Cambridge—got supervisions to give at nine tomorrow."

"But I could have taken the train."

"And I would have had two hours less of your company," he said as he waved goodbye.

Chapter 41

The first time they slept together, in his uncomfortable single bed in his comfortable little room, Cathy knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Daniel. She just wished he wasn't the son of Sir Charles Trumper.

She begged him not to tell his parents that they were seeing each other so regularly. She was determined to prove herself at Trumper's, she explained, and didn't want any favors because she was going out with the boss's son.

When Daniel spotted the little cross that hung around Cathy's neck she immediately told him its history.

After the silver sale, her coup over the man in the yellow tie and later her tipoff to the journalist from the Telegraph, she began to feel more confident about letting the Trumpers know she had fallen in love with their only child.

On the Monday following the silver sale, Becky invited Cathy to join the management board of the auction house, which up until then had consisted of only Simon, Peter Fellowes—the head of research—and Becky herself.

Becky also asked Cathy to prepare the catalogue for the autumn Impressionist sale and take on several other responsibilities, including overall supervision of the front counter. "Next stop, a place on the main board," teased Simon.

She phoned Daniel to tell him the news later that morning.

"Does that mean we can at last stop fooling my parents?"

When Daniel's father telephoned him some weeks later to say he and his mother wanted to come down to Cambridge, as they needed to discuss something "rather important" with him, Daniel invited them both to have tea in his rooms on the following Sunday, warning them he too had something "rather important" to tell them.

Daniel and Cathy spoke to each other on the telephone every day that week and she began to wonder if it might not be wise at least to warn Daniel's parents that she would also be present when they came to tea. Daniel wouldn't hear of it, claiming that it was not often he had the chance of stealing a march on his father and he had no intention of letting the moment pass without the full satisfaction of seeing their surprised faces.

"And I'll let you into another secret," said Daniel. "I've applied for a post of professor of mathematics at King's College, London."

"That's some sacrifice you're making, Dr. Trumper," said Cathy, "because once you come to live in London I'm never going to be able to feed you the way they do at Trinity."

"Good news. That can only mean fewer visits to my tailor."

The tea that Daniel held in his rooms could not have been a happier occasion, Cathy felt, although at first Becky seemed on edge and, if anything, became even more anxious following an unexplained telephone call from someone called Mr. Baverstock.

Sir Charles' delight at the news that she and Daniel planned to be married during the Easter vacation was so obviously genuine and Becky was positively overjoyed at the whole idea of having Cathy as a daughter-in-law. Charlie surprised Cathy when he suddenly changed the subject and inquired who had painted the watercolor that hung above Daniel's desk.

"Cathy," Daniel told him. "An artist in the family at last."

"You can paint as well, young lady?" Charlie asked in disbelief.

"She certainly can," said Daniel, looking towards the watercolor. "My engagement present," he explained. "What's more, it's the only original Cathy has painted since she came to England, so it's priceless."

"Will you paint one for me?" asked Charlie, after he had studied the little watercolor more carefully.

"I'd be delighted to," Cathy replied. "But where would you hang it? In the garage?"

After tea the four of them all walked along the Backs and Cathy was disappointed that Daniel's parents seemed quite anxious to return to London and felt unable to join them for evening chapel.

When they had returned from evensong they made love in Daniel's little bed and Cathy warned him that Easter might not be a moment too soon.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I think my period's already a week overdue."

Daniel was so overjoyed by the news he wanted to phone his parents immediately and share his excitement with them.

"Don't be silly," said Cathy. "Nothing's confirmed yet. I only hope that your mother and father won't be too appalled when they find out."

"Appalled? They're hardly in a position to be. They didn't even get married until the week after I was born."

"How do you know that?"

"Checked the date on my birth certificate in Somerset House against the date of their marriage certificate. Fairly simple really. It seems, to begin with, no one was willing to admit I belonged to anyone."

That one statement convinced Cathy that she must finally clear up any possibility of her being related to Mrs. Trentham before they were married. Although Daniel had taken her mind off the problem of her parentage for over a year, she couldn't face the Trumpers thinking at some later date that she had set out to deceive them or worse, was somehow related to the woman they loathed above all others. Now that Cathy had unwittingly discovered where Mrs. Trentham lived she resolved to write a letter to the lady just as soon as she was back in London.

She scribbled out a rough copy on Sunday evening and rose early the following morning to pen a final draft:

Cathy dropped the envelope in the postbox on the corner of Chelsea Terrace before going in to work. After years of hoping to find someone to whom she was related, Cathy found it ironic that she now wanted that same person to deny her.

The announcement of Cathy's engagement to Daniel Trumper was on the court and social page of The Times the following morning. Everyone at Number 1 seemed delighted by the news. Simon toasted Cathy's health with champagne during the lunch break and told everyone, "It's a Trumper plot to be certain we don't lose her to Sotheby's or Christie's." Everyone clapped except Simon, who whispered in her ear, "And you're exactly the right person to put us in the same league." Funny how some people think of possibilities for you, Cathy thought, even before you consider them for yourself.

On Thursday morning Cathy picked up off the front doormat a purple envelope with her name written in spidery handwriting. She nervously opened the letter to find it contained two sheets of thick paper of the same color. The contents perplexed her, but at the same time brought her considerable relief.

Cathy was delighted to discover that Guy Trentham had died two years before she was born. That meant it was quite impossible for her to be related to the man who had caused her future parents-in-law so much distress. The MC must somehow have got into the hands of whoever her father was, she concluded; on balance she felt she ought, however reluctantly, to return the medal to Mrs. Trentham without delay.

After the revelations of Mrs. Trentham's letter, Cathy was doubtful that she would ever be able to find out who her parents were, as she had no immediate plans to return to Australia now that Daniel was so much part of her future. In any case, she had begun to feel that further pursuit of her father had become somewhat pointless.

As Cathy had already told Daniel on the day they met that she had no idea who her parents were, she traveled down to Cambridge that Friday evening with a clear conscience. She was also relieved that her period had at last begun. As the train bumped over the points on its journey to the university city, Cathy could never remember feeling so happy. She fingered the little cross that hung around her neck, now hanging from a gold chain Daniel had given her on her birthday. She was sad to be wearing the memento for the last time: she had already made the decision to send the medal back to Mrs. Trentham following her weekend with Daniel.

The train drew into Cambridge Station only a few minutes after its scheduled time of arrival.

Cathy picked up her small suitcase and strolled out onto the pavement, expecting to find Daniel parked and waiting for her in his MG: he had never once been late since the day they had met. She was disappointed to find no sign of him or his car, and even more surprised when twenty minutes later he still hadn't shown up. She walked back onto the station concourse and placed two pennies in the telephone box before dialing the number that went straight through to Daniel's room. The ringing tone went on and on, but she didn't need to press Button A because no one answered.

Puzzled by not being able to locate him, Cathy left the station once again and asked one of the drivers from the rank to take her to Trinity College.

When the taxi drove into New Court Cathy was even more bemused to discover Daniel's MG was parked in its usual space. She paid the fare and walked across the court to the now familiar staircase.

Cathy felt the least she could do was tease Daniel for failing to pick her up. Was this to be the sort of treatment she could expect once they were married?

Was she now on the same level as any undergraduate who turned up without his weekly essay? She climbed the worn stone steps up to his room and knocked quietly on the door in case he still had a pupil with him. As there was no answer after a second knock, she pushed open the heavy wooden door, having decided that she would just have to wait around until he resumed.

Her scream must have been heard by every resident on staircase B.

The first undergraduate to arrive on the scene found the prostrate body of a young woman lying face down in the middle of the floor. The student fell to his knees, dropped the books he had been carrying by her side and proceeded to be sick all over her. He took a deep breath, turned round as quickly as he could and began to crawl back out of the study past an overturned chair. He was unable to look up again at the sight that had met him when he had first entered the room.

Dr. Trumper continued to swing gently from a beam in the center of the room.