As the Crow Flies

Chapter 42

I couldn't sleep for three days. On the fourth morning, along with so many of Daniel's friends, colleagues and undergraduates, I attended his funeral service at Trinity Chapel. I somehow survived that ordeal and the rest of the week, thanks not least to Daphne's organizing everything so calmly and efficiently. Cathy was unable to attend the service as they were still detaining her for observation at Addenbrooke's Hospital.

I stood next to Becky as the choir sang out "Fast Falls the Eventide." My mind drifted as I tried to reconstruct the events of the past three days and make some sort of sense of them. After Daphne had told me that Daniel had taken his own life—whoever selected her to break the news understood the meaning of the word "compassion"—I immediately drove up to Cambridge, having begged her not to tell Becky anything until I knew more of what had actually happened myself. By the time I arrived at Trinity Great Court some two hours later, Daniel's body had already been removed, and they had taken Cathy off to Addenbrooke's, where she was not surprisingly still in a state of shock. The police inspector in charge of the case couldn't have been more considerate. Later, I visited the morgue and identified the body, thanking God that at least Becky hadn't experienced that ice-cold room as the last place she was alone with her son.

"Lord, with me abide . . ."

I told the police that I could think of no reason why Daniel should want to take his own life—that in fact he had just become engaged and I had never known him happier. The inspector then showed me the suicide note: a sheet of foolscap containing a single handwritten paragraph.

"They generally write one, you know," he said.

I didn't know.

I began to read Daniel's neat academic hand:

I must have repeated those twenty-eight words to myself over a hundred times and still I couldn't make any sense out of them. A week later the doctor confirmed in his report to the coroner that Cathy was not pregnant and had certainly not suffered a miscarriage. I returned to those words again and again. Was I missing some subtle inference, or was his final message something I could never hope to comprehend fully?

"When other helpers fail . . ."

A forensic expert later discovered some writing paper in the grate, but it had been burned to a cinder and the black, brittle remains yielded no clue. Then they showed me an envelope that the police believed the charred letter must have been sent in and asked if I could identify the writing. I studied the stiff, thin upright hand that had written the words "Dr. Daniel Trumper" in purple ink.

"No," I lied. The letter had been hand-delivered, the detective told me, some time earlier that afternoon by a man with a brown moustache and a tweed coat. This was all the undergraduate who caught sight of him could remember, except that he seemed to know his way around.

I asked myself what that evil old lady could possibly have written to Daniel that would have caused him to take his own life; I felt sure the discovery that Guy Trentham was his father would not have been sufficient for such a drastic cause of action—especially as I knew that he and Mrs. Trentham had already met and come to an agreement some three years before.

The police found one other letter on Daniel's desk. It was from the Provost of King's College, London, formally offering him a chair in mathematics.

"And comforts flee . . ."

After I had left the mortuary I drove on to Addenbrooke's Hospital, where they allowed me to spend some time at Cathy's bedside. Although her eyes were open, they betrayed no recognition of me: for nearly an hour she simply stared blankly up at the ceiling while I stood there. When I realized there was nothing I could usefully do I left quietly. The senior psychiatrist, Dr. Stephen Atkins, came bustling out of his office and asked if I could spare him a moment.

The dapper little man in a beautifully tailored suit and large bow tie explained that Cathy was suffering from psychogenic amnesia, sometimes known as hysterical amnesia, and that it could be some time before he was able to assess what her rate of recovery might be. I thanked him and added that I would keep in constant touch. I then drove slowly back to London.

"Help of the helpless, O abide with me . . ."

Daphne was waiting for me in my office and made no comment about the lateness of the hour. I tried to thank her for such endless kindness, but explained that I had to be the one who broke the news to Becky. God knows how I carried out that responsibility without mentioning the purple envelope with its tell-tale handwriting, but I did. Had I told Becky the full story I think she would have gone round to Chester Square that night and killed the woman there and then with her bare hands—I might even have assisted her.

They buried him among his own kind. The college chaplain, who must have carried out this particular duty so many times in the past, stopped to compose himself on three separate occasions.

"In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me . . ."

Becky and I visited Addenbrooke's together every day that week, but Dr. Atkins only confirmed that Cathy's condition remained unchanged; she had not yet spoken. Nevertheless, just the thought of her lying there alone needing our love gave us something else to worry about other than ourselves.

When we arrived back in London late on Friday afternoon Arthur Selwyn was pacing up and down outside my office.

"Someone's broken into Cathy's flat, the lock's been forced," he said even before I had a chance to speak.

"But what could a thief possibly hope to find?"

"The police can't fathom that out either. Nothing seems to have been disturbed."

To the puzzle of what Mrs. Trentham could have written to Daniel I added the mystery of what she could possibly want that belonged to Cathy. After checking over the little room myself I was none the wiser.

Becky and I continued to travel up and down to Cambridge every other day, and then midway through the third week Cathy finally spoke, haltingly to start with, then in bursts while grasping my hand. Then suddenly, without warning, she would go silent again. Sometimes she would rub her forefinger against her thumb just below her chin.

This puzzled even Dr. Atkins.

Dr. Atkins had since then, however, been able to hold extensive conversations with Cathy on several occasions and had even started playing word games to probe her memory. It was his opinion that she had blotted out all recollection of anything connected with Daniel Trumper or with her early life in Australia. It was not uncommon in such cases, he assured us, and even gave the particular state of mind a fine Greek name.

"Should I try and get in touch with her tutor at the University of Melbourne? Or even talk to the staff of the Melrose Hotel and see if they can throw any light on the problem?"

"No," he said, straightening his spotted bow tie. "Don't push her too hard and be prepared for that part of her mind to take some considerable time to recover."

I nodded my agreement.

"Back off" seemed to be Dr. Atkins' favorite expression. "And never forget your wife will be suffering the same trauma."

Seven weeks later they allowed us to take Cathy back to Eaton Square where Becky had prepared a room for her. I had already transferred all Cathy's possessions from the little flat, still unsure if anything was missing following the break-in.

Becky had stored all Cathy's clothes neatly away in the wardrobe and drawers while trying to make the room look as lived in as possible. Some time before, I had taken her watercolor of the Cam from above Daniel's desk and rehung it on the staircase between the Courbet and the Sisley. Yet when Cathy first walked up those stairs on the way to her new room, she passed her own painting without the slightest sign of recognition.

I inquired once again of Dr. Atkins if perhaps we should now write to the University of Melbourne and try to find out something about Cathy's past, but he still counseled against such a move, saying that she must be the one who came forward with any information, and then only when she felt able to do so, not as the result of any pressure from outside.

"But how long do you imagine it might be before her memory is fully restored?"

"Anything from fourteen days to fourteen years, from my experience."

I remember returning to Cathy's room that night, sitting on the end of her bed and holding her hand. I noticed with pleasure that a little color had returned to her cheeks. She smiled and asked me for the first time how the "great barrow" was rumbling along.

"We've declared record profits," I told her. "But far more important, everyone wants to see you back at Number 1."

She thought about this for some time. Then quite simply she said, "I wish you were my father."

In February 1951 Nigel Trentham joined the board of Trumper's. He took his place next to Paul Merrick, to whom he gave a thin smile. I couldn't bring myself to look directly at him. He was a few years younger than me but I vainly considered no one round that table would have thought so.

The board meanwhile approved the expenditure of a further half a million pounds "to fill the gap," as Becky referred to the half-acre that had for ten years lain empty in the middle of Chelsea Terrace. "So at last Trumper's can all be housed under one roof," I declared. Trentham made no comment. My fellow directors also agreed to an allocation of one hundred thousand pounds to rebuild the Whitechapel Boys' Club, which was to be renamed the "Dan Salmon Center." I noticed Trentham whispered something in Merrick's ear.

In the event, inflation, strikes and escalating builders' costs caused the final bill for Trumper's to be nearer seven hundred and thirty thousand pounds than the estimated half million. One outcome of this was to make it necessary for the company to offer a further rights issue in order to cover the extra expense. Another was that the building of the boys' club had to be postponed.

The rights issue was once again heavily oversubscribed, which was flattering for me personally, though I feared Mrs. Trentham might be a major buyer of any new stock: I had no way of proving it. This dilution of my equity meant that I had to watch my personal holding in the company fall below forty percent for the first time.

It was a long summer and as each day passed Cathy became a little stronger and Becky a little more communicative. Finally the doctor agreed that Cathy could return to Number 1. She went back to work the following Monday and Becky said it was almost as if she had never been away—except that no one ever mentioned Daniel's name in her presence.

One evening, it must have been about a month later, I returned home from the office to find Cathy pacing up and down the hall. My immediate thoughts were that she must be agonizing over the past. I could not have been more wrong.

"You've got your staffing policy all wrong," she said as I closed the door behind me.

"I beg your pardon, young lady?" I had not even been given enough time to shed my topcoat.

"It's all wrong," she repeated. "The Americans are saving thousands of dollars in their stores with time and motion studies while Trumper's is behaving as if they're still roaming around on the ark."

"Captive audience on the ark," I reminded her.

"Until it stopped raining," she replied. "Charlie, you must realize that the company could be saving at least eighty thousand a year on wages alone. I haven't been idle these last few weeks. In fact, I've put together a report to prove my point." She thrust a cardboard box into my arms and marched out of the room.

For over an hour after dinner I rummaged into the box and read through Cathy's preliminary findings. She had spotted an overmanning situation that we had all missed and characteristically explained in great detail how the situation could be dealt with without offending the unions.

Over breakfast the following morning Cathy continued to explain her findings to me as if I had never been to bed. "Are you still listening, Chairman?" she demanded. She always called me "Chairman" when she was wanted to make a point. A ploy I felt sure she had picked up from Daphne.

"You're all talk," I told her, which caused even Becky to glance over the top of her paper.

"Do you want me to prove I'm right?" Cathy asked.

"Be my guest."

From that day on, whenever I carried out my morning rounds, I would invariably come across Cathy working on a different floor, questioning, watching or simply taking copious notes, often with a stopwatch in her other hand. I never asked her what she was up to and if she ever caught my eye all she would say was, "Good day, Chairman."

At weekends I could hear Cathy typing away in her room for hour after hour. Then, without warning, one morning at breakfast I discovered a thick file waiting for me in the place where I had hoped to find an egg, two rashers of bacon and The Sunday Times.

That afternoon I began reading through what Cathy had prepared for me. By the early evening I had come to the conclusion that the board must implement most of her recommendations without further delay.

I knew exactly what I wanted to do next but felt it needed Dr. Atkins' blessing. I phoned Addenbrooke's that evening and the ward sister kindly entrusted me with his home number. We spent over an hour on the phone. He had no fears for Cathy's future, he assured me, especially since she'd begun to remember little incidents from her past and was now even willing to talk about Daniel.

When I came down to breakfast the following morning I found Cathy sitting at the table waiting for me. She didn't say a word as I munched through my toast and marmalade pretending to be engrossed in the Financial Times.

"All right, I give in," she said.

"Better not," I warned her, without looking up from my paper. "Because you're item number seven on the agenda for next month's board meeting."

"But who's going to present my case?" asked Cathy, sounding anxious.

"Not me, that's for sure," I replied. "And I can't think of anyone else who'd be willing to do so."

For the next fortnight whenever I retired to bed I became aware when passing Cathy's room that the typing had stopped. I was so filled with curiosity that once I even peered through the half-open bedroom door. Cathy stood facing a mirror, by her side was a large white board resting on an easel. The board was covered in a mass of colored pins and dotted arrows.

"Go away," she said, without even turning round. I realized there was nothing for it but to wait until the board was due to meet.

Dr. Atkins had warned me that the ordeal of having to present her case in public might turn out to be too much for the girl and I was to get her home if she began to show any signs of stress. "Be sure you don't push her too far," were his final words.

"I won't let that happen," I promised him.

That Thursday morning the board members were all seated in their places round the table by three minutes to ten. The meeting began on a quiet note, with apologies for absence, followed by the acceptance of the minutes of the last meeting. We somehow still managed to keep Cathy waiting for over an hour, because when we came to item number three on the agenda—a rubber stamp decision to renew the company's insurance policy with the Prudential—Nigel Trentham used the opportunity simply as an excuse to irritate me—hoping, I suspected, that I would eventually lose my temper. I might have done, if he hadn't so obviously wanted me to.

"I think the time has come for a change, Mr. Chairman," he said. "I suggest we transfer our business to Legal and General."

I stared down the left-hand side of the table to focus on the man whose very presence always brought back memories of Guy Trentham and what he might have looked like in late middle age. The younger brother wore a smart well-tailored double-breasted suit that successfully disguised his weight problem. However, there was nothing that could disguise the double chin or balding pate.

"I must point out to the board," I began, "that Trumper's has been with the Prudential for over thirty years. And what is more, they have never let the company down in the past. Just as important, Legal and General are highly unlikely to be able to offer more favorable terms."

"But they're in possession of two percent of the company's stock," Trentham pointed out.

"The Pru still have five percent," I reminded my fellow directors, aware that once again Trentham hadn't done his homework. The argument might have been lobbed backwards and forwards for hours like a Drobny-Fraser tennis match had Daphne not intervened and called for a vote.

Although Trentham lost by seven to three, the altercation served to remind everyone round that table what his long-term purpose must be. For the past eighteen months Trentham had, with the help of his mother's money, been building up his shareholding in the company to a position I estimated to be around fourteen percent. This would have been controllable had I not been painfully aware that the Hardcastle Trust also held a further seventeen percent of our stock—stock which had originally been intended for Daniel but which would on the death of Mrs. Trentham pass automatically to Sir Raymond's next of kin. Although Nigel Trentham lost the vote, he showed no sign of distress as he rearranged his papers, casting an aside to Paul Merrick who was seated on his left. He obviously felt confident that time was on his side.

"Item seven," I said, and leaning over to Jessica I asked if she would invite Miss Ross to join us. When Cathy entered the room every man around that table stood. Even Trentham half rose from his place.

Cathy placed two boards on the easel that had already been set up for her, one full of charts, the other covered in statistics. She turned to face us. I greeted her with a warm smile.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," she said. She paused and checked her notes. "I should like to begin by . . ."

She may have started somewhat hesitantly, but she soon got into her stride as she explained, point by point, why the company's staffing policy was outdated and the steps we should take to rectify the situation as quickly as possible. These included early retirement for men of sixty and women of fifty-five; the leasing of shelf space, even whole floor sections, to recognized brand names, which would produce a guaranteed cash flow without financial risk to Trumper's, as each lessee would be responsible for supplying its own staff; and a larger percentage discount on merchandise for any firms who were hoping to place orders with us for the first time. The presentation took Cathy about forty minutes, and when she concluded it was several moments before anyone round the table spoke.

If her initial presentation was good, her handling of the questions that followed was even better. She dealt with all the banking problems Tim Newman and Paul Merrick could throw at her, as well as the trade union anxieties Arthur Selwyn raised. As for Nigel Trentham, she handled him with a calm efficiency that I was only too painfully aware I could never equal. When Cathy left the boardroom an hour later all the men rose again except Trentham, who stared down at the report in front of him.

As I walked up the path that evening Cathy was on the doorstep waiting to greet me.

"Well?"

"Well?!"

"Don't tease, Charlie," she scolded.

"You were appointed to be our new personnel director," I told her, grinning. For a moment even she was speechless.

"Now you've opened this can of worms, young lady," I added as I walked past her, "the board rather expects you to sort the problem out."

Cathy was so obviously thrilled by my news that I felt for the first time perhaps Daniel's tragic death might be behind us. I phoned Dr. Atkins that evening to tell him not only how Cathy had fared but that, as a result of her presentation, she had been elected to the board. However, what I didn't tell either of them was that I had been forced to agree to another of Trentham's nominations to the board in order to ensure that her appointment went through without a vote being called for.

From the day Cathy arrived at the boardroom table it was clear for all to see that she was a serious contender to succeed me as chairman and no longer simply a bright girl from Becky's fold. However, I was well aware that Cathy's advancement could only be achieved while Trentham remained unable to gain control of fifty-one percent of Trumper's shares. I also realized that the only way he could hope to do that was by making a public bid for the company, which I accepted could well become possible once he got his hands on the money held by Hardcastle Trust. For the first time in my life I wanted Mrs. Trentham to live long enough to allow me to build the company to such a position of strength that even the Trust money would prove inadequate for Nigel Trentham to mount a successful takeover bid.

On 2 June 1953 Queen Elizabeth was crowned, four days after two men from different parts of the Commonwealth conquered Everest. Winston Churchill best summed it up when he said: "Those who have read the history of the first Elizabethan era must surely look forward with anticipation to participating in the second."

Cathy took up the Prime Minister's challenge and threw all her energy into the personnel project the board had entrusted her with, and was able to show a saving of forty-nine thousand pounds in wages during 1953 and a further twenty-one thousand pounds in the first half of 1954. By the end of that fiscal year I felt she knew more about the running of Trumper's at staff level than anyone around that table, myself included.

During 1955 overseas sales began to fall sharply, and as Cathy no longer seemed to be extended and I was keen for her to gain experience of other departments I asked her to sort out the problems of our international department.

She took on her new position with the same enthusiasm with which she tackled everything, but during the next two years began to clash with Nigel Trentham over a number of issues, including a policy to return the difference to any customer who could prove he had paid less for a standard item when shopping at one of our rivals. Trentham argued that Trumper's customers were not interested in some imagined difference in price that could be compared with a lesser known store, but only in quality and service, to which Cathy replied, "It isn't the customers' responsibility to be concerned with the balance sheet, it's the board's on behalf of our shareholders."

On another occasion Trentham came near to accusing Cathy of being a communist when she suggested a "workers' share participation scheme" which she felt would create company loyalty that only the Japanese had fully understood—a country, she explained, where it was not uncommon for a company to retain ninety-eight percent of its staff from womb to tomb. Even I was unsure about this particular idea, but Becky warned me in private that I was beginning to sound like a "fuddy duddy," which I assumed was some modern term not to be taken as a compliment.

When Legal and General failed to get our insurance business they sold their two percent holding outright to Nigel Trentham. From that moment I became even more anxious that he might eventually get his hands on enough stock to take over the company. He also proposed another nomination to the board which, thanks to Paul Merrick's seconding, was accepted.

"I should have secured that land thirty-five years ago for a mere four thousand pounds," I told Becky.

"As you have reminded us so often in the past, and what's worse," Becky reminded me, "is that Mrs. Trentham is now more dangerous to us dead than alive."

Trumper's took the arrival of Elvis Presley, Teddy boys, stilettos and teenagers all in its stride. "The customers may have changed, but our standards must not be allowed to," I continually reminded the board.

In 1960 the company declared a seven-hundred-and-fifty-seven-thousand-pound net profit, a fourteen percent return on capital, and a year later went on to top this achievement by being granted a Royal Warrant from the monarch. I instructed that the House of Windsor's coat of arms should be hung above the main entrance to remind the public that the Queen shopped at the barrow on a regular basis.

I couldn't pretend that I had ever seen Her Majesty carrying one of our familiar blue bags with its silver motif of a barrow, or spotted her as she traveled up and down the escalators during peak hours, but we still received regular telephone calls from the Palace when they found themselves running short of supplies: which only proved yet again my old granpa's theory that an apple is an apple whoever bites it.

The highlight of 1961 for me was when Becky finally opened the Dan Salmon Centre in Whitechapel Road—another building that had run considerably over cost. However, I didn't regret one penny of the expenditure—despite Merrick's niggling criticism—as I watched the next generation of East End boys and girls swimming, boxing, weightlifting and playing squash, a game I just couldn't get the hang of.

Whenever I went to see West Ham play soccer on a Saturday afternoon, I could always drop into the new club on my way home, and watch the African, West Indian and Asian children—the new East Enders—battle against each other just as determinedly as we had done against the Irish and Eastern European immigrants.

"The old order changeth, yielding place to new; And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world." Tennyson's words, chiseled in the stone on the archway above the center, brought my mind back to Mrs. Trentham, who was never far from my thoughts, especially while her three representatives sat around the boardroom table eager to carry out her bidding. Nigel, who now resided at Chester Square, seemed happy to wait for everything to fall into place before he marshaled his troops ready for the attack.

I continued to pray that Mrs. Trentham would live to a grand old age as I still needed more time to prepare some blocking process to ensure that her son could never take over the company.

It was Daphne who first warned me that Mrs. Trentham had taken to her bed and was receiving regular visits from the family GP. Nigel Trentham still managed to keep a smile on his face during those months of waiting.

Without warning on 7 March 1962 Mrs. Trentham, aged eighty-eight, died.

"Peacefully in her sleep," Daphne informed me.

Chapter 43

Daphne attended Mrs. Trentham's funeral, "Just to be certain that the wretched woman really was buried," she explained to Charlie later, "though it wouldn't surprise me if she found some way of rising from the dead." She went on to warn Charlie that Nigel had been overheard, even before the body had been lowered into the ground, telling everyone that we should expect thunderbolts as soon as the board met again. He only had a few days to wait.

That first Tuesday of the following month Charlie checked around the boardroom table to see that every director was present. He could sense they were all waiting to see who would strike first. Nigel Trentham and his two colleagues wore black ties like some official badge of office, reminding the board of their newly acquired status. In contrast, for the first time in Charlie's memory, Mr. Baverstock wore a garish pastel-colored tie.

Charlie had already worked out that Trentham would wait until item number six—a proposal to expand the banking facilities on the ground floor—before he made any move. The original scheme had been one of Cathy's brainchilds, and soon after returning from one of her monthly trips to the States she had presented a detailed proposal to the board. Although the new department had experienced some teething problems, by the end of its second year it was just about breaking even.

The first half hour was peaceful enough as Charlie took the board through items one to five. But when he called for "item number six. The expansion of—"

"Let's close the bank and cut our losses," were Trentham's opening words even before Charlie had been given the chance to offer an opinion.

"For what reason?" asked Cathy defiantly.

"Because we're not bankers," said Trentham. "We're shopkeepers—or barrow pushers, as our chairman so often likes to remind us. In any case, it would give us a saving on expenditure of nearly thirty thousand pounds a year."

"But the bank is just beginning to pay its way," said Cathy. "We should be thinking of expanding the facilities, not curtailing them. And with profits in mind, who knows how much money cashed on the premises is then spent on the premises?"

"Yes, but look at the amount of extra counter space the banking hall is taking up."

"In return we give our customers a valuable service."

"And lose money hand over fist by not using the space for more profitable lines of business," fired back Trentham.

"Like what, for example?" said Cathy. "Just tell me one other department that would provide a more useful service for our customers and at the same time show a better return on our investment. Do that and I'll be the first to agree we should close down the banking hall."

"We're not a service industry. It's our duty to show a decent return on capital for our shareholders," said Trentham. "I demand a vote on this," he added, not bothering to rebut Cathy's arguments any further.

Trentham lost the vote by six to three and Charlie assumed after such an outcome they would then pass on to item number seven—a proposed staff outing to the film of West Side Story, playing at the Odeon, Leicester Square. However, once Jessica Allen had recorded the names for the minutes, Nigel Trentham rose quickly to his feet and said, "I have an announcement to make, Mr. Chairman."

"Wouldn't it be more appropriate under 'Any other business'?" asked Charlie innocently.

"I will no longer be here when you come to discuss any other business, Mr. Chairman," said Trentham coldly. He proceeded to remove a piece of paper from an inside pocket, unfolded it and began reading from what was obviously a prepared script.

"I feel it is my duty to inform the board," he stated, "that within a few weeks I will be the sole owner of thirty-three percent of Trumper's shares. When we next meet, I shall be insisting that several changes be made to the structure of the company, not least in the composition of those presently seated around this table." He stopped to stare at Cathy before he added, "I intend to leave now, in order that you can discuss more fully the implications of my statement."

He pushed back his chair as Daphne said, "I'm not quite sure I fully understand what you're suggesting, Mr. Trentham."

Trentham hesitated for a moment before he replied, "Then I shall have to explain my position more fully, Lady Wiltshire."

"How kind of you."

"At the next board meeting," he continued unabashed, "I shall allow my name to be proposed and seconded as chairman of Trumper's. Should I fail to be elected, I shall immediately resign from the board and issue a press statement of my intention to make a full takeover bid for the remaining shares in the company. You must all be aware by now that I will have the necessary facility to mount such a challenge. As I only require a further eighteen percent of the stock to become the majority shareholder, I suggest it might be wise for those of you who are currently directors to face up to the inevitable and offer your resignations in order to avoid the embarrassment of being dismissed. I look forward to seeing one or two of you again at next month's board meeting." He and his two colleagues rose and followed him out of the room.

The silence that followed was broken only by another question from Daphne.

"What's the collective noun for a group of shits?"

Everybody laughed, except Baverstock, who said under his breath, "A heap."

"So, now we've been given our battle orders," said Charlie. "Let's hope we all have the stomach for a fight." Turning to Mr. Baverstock he asked, "Can you advise the board on the present position concerning those shares currently held by the Hardcastle Trust?"

The old man raised his head slowly and looked up at Charlie. "No, Mr. Chairman, I cannot. Indeed, I'm sorry to have to inform the board that I, too, must tender my resignation."

"But why?" asked Becky, aghast. "You've always supported us in the past through thick and thin."

"I must apologize, Lady Trumper, but I am not at liberty to disclose my reasons."

"Couldn't you possibly reconsider your position?" Charlie asked.

"No, sir," Baverstock replied firmly.

Charlie immediately closed the meeting, despite everyone trying to talk at once, and quickly followed Baverstock out of the boardroom.

"What made you resign?" Charlie asked. "After all these years?"

"Perhaps we could meet and discuss my reasons tomorrow, Sir Charles?"

"Of course. But just tell me why you felt it necessary to leave us at exactly the time when I most need you."

Mr. Baverstock stopped in his tracks. "Sir Raymond anticipated this might happen," he said quietly. "And instructed me accordingly."

"I don't understand."

"That is why we should meet tomorrow, Sir Charles."

"Do you want me to bring Becky along?"

Mr. Baverstock considered this suggestion for some time before saying, "I think not. If I am to break a confidence for the first time in forty years, I'd prefer to have no other witnesses present."

When Charlie arrived at the offices of Baverstock, Dickens and Cobb the following morning, the senior partner was standing at the door waiting to greet him. Although Charlie had never once been late for an appointment with Mr. Baverstock in the fourteen years they had known each other, he was touched by the old-world courtesy the solicitor always extended to him.

"Good morning, Sir Charles," said Baverstock before guiding his guest along the corridor to his office. Charlie was surprised to be offered a seat near the unlit fire rather than his usual place on the other side of the partner's desk. There wasn't a clerk or secretary in attendance on this occasion to keep a record of the minutes and Charlie also noticed that the phone on Mr. Baverstock's desk had been taken off the hook. He sat back realizing that this was not going to be a short meeting.

"Many years ago when I was a young man," began Baverstock, "and I sat my pupil's exams, I swore to keep a code of confidentiality when dealing with my clients' private affairs. I think I can safely say that I have honored that undertaking throughout my professional life. However, one of my clients, as you well know, was Sir Raymond Hardcastle and he—" There was a knock on the door and a young girl entered, with a tray bearing two cups of hot coffee and a sugar bowl.

"Thank you, Miss Burrows," said Baverstock as one of the cups was placed in front of him. He did not continue with his exposition until the door was closed behind her. "Where was I, old fellow?" Baverstock asked, as he dropped a sugar lump into his cup.

"Your client, Sir Raymond . . ."

"Oh, yes," said Baverstock. "Now, Sir Raymond left a will of which you may well feel you are cognizant. What you could not know, however, is that he attached a letter to that document. It has no legal standing, as it was addressed to me in a personal capacity."

Charlie's coffee lay untouched as he listened intently to what Baverstock had to say. "It is because that letter is not a legal document but a private communication between old friends that I have decided you should be a party to its contents."

Baverstock leaned forward and opened the file that lay on the table in front of him. He removed a single sheet of paper transcribed in a bold, firm hand. "I should like to point out, Sir Charles, before I read this letter to you that it was written at a time when Sir Raymond assumed that his estate would be inherited by Daniel and not by his next of kin."

Mr. Baverstock pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, cleared his throat and began to read:

Baverstock placed the letter back on the table and said, "I fear he knew my little weaknesses every bit as much as his daughter's." Charlie smiled for he appreciated the ethical dilemma with which the old lawyer was so obviously grappling.

"Now, before I make reference to the will itself I must let you into another confidence."

Charlie nodded.

"You are painfully aware, Sir Charles, that Mr. Nigel Trentham is now the next of kin. However, it should not pass unobserved that the will is so worded that Sir Raymond couldn't even bring himself actually to name him as the recipient. I suspect that he hoped that Daniel might produce progeny of his own who would have taken precedence over his grandson.

"The current position is that Mr. Nigel Trentham will, as Sir Raymond's closest living descendant, be entitled to the shares in Trumper's and the residue of the Hardcastle estate—a considerable fortune, which I can confirm would provide him with adequate funds to mount a full takeover bid for your company. However, that was not my purpose in wanting to see you this morning. No, that was because there is one clause in the will you could not have previously been aware of. After taking into account Sir Raymond's letter, I believe it to be nothing less than my duty to inform you of its import."

Baverstock burrowed into his file and retrieved a sheaf of papers, sealed in wax and bound in pink ribbon.

"The first eleven clauses of Sir Raymond's testament took me some considerable time to compose. However, their substance is not relevant to the issue at hand. They relate to minor legacies left by my client to nephews, nieces and cousins who have already received the sums bequeathed.

"Clauses twelve to twenty-one go on to name charities, clubs and academic institutions with which Sir Raymond had long been associated, and they too have received the benefit of his munificence. But it is clause twenty-two that I consider crucial." Baverstock cleared his throat once again before looking down at the will and turning over several pages.

"'The residue of my estate shall pass to Mr. Daniel Trumper of Trinity College, Cambridge, but should he fail to survive my daughter Ethel Trentham then that sum shall be equally divided between his offspring. Should he have no issue, then the estate shall pass to my closest living descendant.' Now to the relevant paragraph, Sir Charles. 'If these circumstances arise I instruct my executors to go to any lengths they feel necessary to find someone entitled to make a claim on my inheritance. In order that this option might be properly executed, I also deem that final payment of the residue of the estate shall not be made until a further two years after my daughter's death.'"

Charlie was about to ask a question when Mr. Baverstock raised his hand.

"It has become clear to me," continued Baverstock, "that Sir Raymond's purpose in including clause twenty-two was simply to give you enough time to marshal your forces and fight any hostile takeover bid Mr. Nigel Trentham might have in mind.

"Sir Raymond also left instructions that, at a suitable time following his daughter's death, an advertisement should be placed in The Times, the Telegraph and the Guardian and any other newspaper I considered appropriate when seeking to discover if there were any other persons who feel they might have some claim on the estate. If this should be the case, they can then do so by making direct contact with this firm. Thirteen such relations have already received the sum of one thousand pounds each, but it is just possible there could be other cousins or distant relatives of whom Sir Raymond was unaware who may still be entitled to make such a claim. This provision simply gave the old man an excuse for the two-year clause. As I understand it, Sir Raymond was quite happy to allocate another thousand pounds to some unknown relative if at the same time it afforded you some breathing space. By the way," said Baverstock, "I have decided to add the Yorkshire Post and the Huddersfield Daily Examiner to the list of newspapers named in the will because of the family connections in that county."

"What a shrewd old buzzard he must have been," said Charlie. "I only wish I'd known him."

"I think I can say with some confidence, Sir Charles, that you would have liked him."

"It was also extremely kind of you to put me in the picture, old fellow."

"Not at all. I feel sure," said Baverstock, "that had he been placed in my position it is no more and certainly no less than Sir Raymond would have done himself."

"If only I'd told Daniel the truth about his father . . ."

"If you save your energies for the quick," said Baverstock, "it is possible Sir Raymond's foresight may still not have been wasted."

On 7 March 1962, the day on which Mrs. Trentham died, Trumper's shares stood at one pound two shillings on the FT Index; only four weeks later they had risen by a further three shillings.

Tim Newman's first piece of advice to Charlie was to cling to every share he still possessed and under no circumstances during the next couple of years to agree to any further rights issues. If between them Charlie and Becky were able to lay their hands on any spare cash, they should purchase shares as and when they came on the market.

The problem with following this particular piece of advice was that every time a substantial block of shares did come on to the market they were immediately taken up by an unknown broker who so obviously had instructions to purchase stock whatever the price. Charlie's stockbroker managed to get his hands on a few shares but only from those unwilling to trade on the open market. Charlie was loath to pay over the odds, as he had never forgotten how close he had come to bankruptcy when he last extended his credit. By the end of the year Trumper's shares stood at one pound seventeen shillings. There were even fewer sellers left in the marketplace after the Financial Times had warned their readers of a possible takeover battle for the company and gone on to predict it would take place within the next eighteen months.

"That damned paper seems to be as well briefed as any member of the board," Daphne complained to Charlie at their next meeting, adding that she no longer bothered with the minutes of the past meeting as she could always read an excellent summary of what had taken place on the front page of the Financial Times, which appeared to have been dictated to them verbatim. As she delivered these words her eyes never left Paul Merrick.

The paper's latest story was inaccurate in only one small detail, as the battle for Trumper's was no longer taking place in the boardroom. As soon as it became known that a two-year holding clause existed in Sir Raymond's will Nigel Trentham and his nominees had stopped attending the monthly meetings.

Trentham's absence particularly annoyed Cathy, as quarter after quarter the new in-house bank began to show increased profits. She found herself addressing her opinions to three empty chairs though she too suspected Merrick was reporting back every detail to Chester Square. As if to compound matters, in 1963 Charlie informed the shareholders at their AGM that the company would be declaring another record profit for the year.

"You may have spent a lifetime building up Trumper's only to hand it over on a plate to the Trenthams," Tim Newman reflected.

"There's certainly no need for Mrs. Trentham to be turning in her grave," admitted Charlie. "Ironic, after all she managed during her life that it's only by her death that she's been given the chance to deliver the coup de grace".

When, early in 1964, the shares rose yet again—this time to over two pounds—Charlie was informed by Tim Newman that Nigel Trentham was still in the marketplace with instructions to buy.

"But where's he getting hold of all the extra cash that would be needed to bankroll such an operation—when he's still not yet got his hands on his grandfather's money?"

"I picked up a hint from a former colleague," replied Tim Newman, "that a leading merchant bank has granted him a large overdraft facility in anticipation of his gaining control of the Hardcastle Trust. Only wish you had a grandfather who'd left you a fortune," he added.

"I did," said Charlie.

Nigel Trentham chose Charlie's sixty-fourth birthday to announce to the world that he would be making a full bid for Trumper's shares at a price of two pound four shillings, a mere six weeks before he was entitled to lay claim to his inheritance. Charlie still felt confident that with the help of friends and institutions like the Prudential—as well as some shareholders who were waiting for the price to rise even higher—he could still lay his hands on almost forty percent of the stock. Tim Newman estimated that Trentham must now have at least twenty percent, but once he was able to add the Trust's seventeen percent he might then be in possession of as much as forty-two to forty-three. Picking up the extra eight or nine percent required to gain control should not prove too hard for him, Newman warned Charlie.

That night Daphne threw a birthday party in Charlie's honor at her home in Eaton Square. No one mentioned the name of "Trentham" until the port had been passed round for a second time, when a slightly maudlin Charlie recited the relevant clause in Sir Raymond's will, which he explained had been put there with the sole purpose of trying to save him.

"I give you Sir Raymond Hardcastle," said Charlie, raising his glass. "A good man to have on your team."

"Sir Raymond," the guests echoed, all raising their glasses, with the exception of Daphne.

"What's the problem, old gel?" asked Percy. "Port not up to scratch?"

"No, as usual it's you lot who aren't. You've all totally failed to work out what Sir Raymond expected of you."

"What are you on about, old gel?"

"I should have thought it was obvious for anyone to see, especially you, Charlie," she said, turning from her husband to the guest of honor.

"I'm with Percy—I haven't a clue what you're on about."

By now everyone round the table had fallen silent, while they concentrated on what Daphne had to say.

"It's quite simple really," continued Daphne. "Sir Raymond obviously didn't consider it likely that Mrs. Trentham would outlive Daniel."

"So?" said Charlie.

"And I also doubt if he thought for one moment that Daniel would have any children before she died."

"Possibly not," said Charlie.

"And we are all painfully aware that Nigel Trentham was a last resort—otherwise Sir Raymond would happily have named him in his will as the next beneficiary and not have been willing to pass his fortune on to an offspring of Guy Trentham, whom he had never even met. He also wouldn't have added the words: 'should he have no issue, then the estate shall pass to my closest living descendant.'"

"Where's all this leading?" asked Becky.

"Back to the clause Charlie has just recited. 'Please go to any lengths you feel necessary to find someone entitled to make a claim on my inheritance."' Daphne read from the jottings she had scribbled in ballpoint on her damask tablecloth. "Are those the correct words, Mr. Baverstock?" she asked.

"They are, Lady Wiltshire, but I still don't see—"

"Because you're as blind as Charlie," said Daphne. "Thank God one of us is still sober. Mr. Baverstock, please remind us all of Sir Raymond's instructions for placing the advertisement."

Mr. Baverstock touched his lips with his napkin, folded the linen square neatly and placed it in front of him. "An advertisement should be placed in The Times, the Telegraph and the Guardian and any other newspaper I consider relevant and appropriate."

"That you consider 'relevant and appropriate,'" said Daphne, slowly enunciating each word. "As broad a hint as you might hope from a sober man, I would have thought." Every eye was now fixed on Daphne and no one attempted to interrupt her. "Can't you see those are the crucial words?" she asked. "Because if Guy Trentham did have any other children, you certainly wouldn't find them by advertising in the London Times, the Telegraph, the Guardian, the Yorkshire Post or for that matter the Huddersfield Daily Examiner."

Charlie dropped his slice of birthday cake back onto his plate and looked across at Mr. Baverstock. "Good heavens, she's right, you know."

"She certainly may not be wrong," admitted Baverstock, shuffling uneasily in his chair. "And I apologize for my lack of imagination, because as Lady Wiltshire rightly points out I've been a blind fool by not following my master's instructions when he advised me to use my common sense. He so obviously worked out that Guy might well have fathered other children and that such offspring were most unlikely to be found in England."

"Well done, Mr. Baverstock," said Daphne. "I do believe I should have gone to university and read for the bar."

Mr. Baverstock felt unable to correct her on this occasion.

"There may still be time," said Charlie. "After all, there's another six weeks left before the inheritance has to be handed over, so let's get straight back to work. By the way, thank you," he added, bowing towards Daphne.

Charlie rose from his chair and headed towards the nearest phone. "The first thing I'm going to need is the sharpest lawyer in Australia." Charlie checked his watch. "And preferably one who doesn't mind getting up early in the morning."

Mr. Baverstock cleared his throat.

During the next two weeks large box advertisements appeared in every newspaper on the Australian continent with a circulation of over fifty thousand. Each reply was quickly followed up with an interview by a firm of solicitors in Sydney that Mr. Baverstock had been happy to recommend. Every evening Charlie was telephoned by Trevor Roberts, the senior partner, who remained on the end of the line for several hours when Charlie would learn the latest news that had been gathered from their offices in Sydney, Melbourne, Perth, Brisbane and Adelaide. However, after three weeks of sorting out the cranks from the genuine inquirers Roberts came up with only three candidates who fulfilled all the necessary criteria. However, once they had been interviewed by a partner of the firm they also failed to prove any direct relationship with any member of the Trentham family.

Roberts had discovered that there were seventeen Trenthams on the national register, most of them from Tasmania, but none of those could show any direct lineage with Guy Trentham or his mother, although one old lady from Hobart who had emigrated from Ripon after the war was able to present a legitimate claim for a thousand pounds, as it turned out she was a third cousin of Sir Raymond.

Charlie thanked Mr. Roberts for his continued diligence but told him not to let up, as he didn't care how many staff were allocated to the job night or day.

At the final board meeting to be called before Nigel Trentham officially came into his inheritance, Charlie briefed his colleagues on the latest news from Australia.

"Doesn't sound too hopeful to me," said Newman. "After all, if there is another Trentham around he or she must be well over thirty, and surely would have made a claim by now."

"Agreed, but Australia's an awfully big place and they might even have left the country."

"Never give up, do you?" remarked Daphne.

"Be that as it may," said Arthur Selwyn, "I feel the time is long overdue for us to try and come to some agreement with Trentham, if there is to be a responsible takeover of the company. In the interests of Trumper's and its customers, I would like to see if it is at all possible for the principals involved to come to some amicable arrangement—"

"Amicable arrangement!" said Charlie. "The only arrangement Trentham would agree to is that he sits in this chair with a built-in majority on the board while I am left twiddling my thumbs in a retirement home."

"That may well be the case," said Selwyn. "But I must point out, Chairman, that we still have a duty to our shareholders."

"He's right," said Daphne. "You'll have to try, Charlie, for the long-term good of the company you founded." She added quietly, "However much it hurts."

Becky nodded her agreement and Charlie turned to ask Jessica to make an appointment with Trentham at his earliest convenience. Jessica returned a few minutes later to let the board know that Nigel Trentham had no interest in seeing any of them before the March board meeting, when he would be happy to accept their resignations in person.

"Seventh of March: two years to the day since the death of his mother," Charlie reminded the board.

"And Mr. Roberts is holding for you on the other line," Jessica reported.

Charlie rose and strode out of the room. The moment he reached the phone he grabbed at it as a drowning sailor might a lifeline. "Roberts, what have you got for me?"

"Guy Trentham!"

"But he's already buried in a grave in Ashurst."

"But not before his body was removed from a jail in Melbourne."

"A jail? I thought he died of tuberculosis."

"I don't think you can die of tuberculosis while you're hanging from the end of a six-foot rope, Sir Charles."

"Hanged?"

"For the murder of his wife, Anna Helen," said the solicitor.

"But did they have any children?"

"There's no way of knowing the answer to that."

"Why the hell not?"

"It's against the law for the prison service to release the names of the next of kin to anyone."

"But why, for heaven's sake?"

"For their own protection."

"But this could only be to their benefit."

"They've heard that one before. Indeed, I have had it pointed out to me that in this particular case we've already advertised for claimants from one coast to the other. What's worse, if any of Trentham's offspring had changed their name, for understandable reasons, we've little chance of tracing him or her at all. But be assured I'm still working flat out on it, Sir Charles."

"Get me an interview with the chief of police."

"It won't make any difference, Sir Charles. He won't—" began Roberts, but Charlie had already hung up.

"You're mad," said Becky, as she helped her husband pack a suitcase an hour later.

"True," agreed Charlie. "But this may well be the last chance I have of keeping control of the company, and I'm not willing to do it on the end of a phone, let alone twelve thousand miles away. I have to be there myself, so at least I know it's me who's failed and not a third party."

"But what exactly are you hoping to find when you get there?"

Charlie looked across at his wife as he fastened his suitcase. "I suspect only Mrs. Trentham knows the answer to that."

Chapter 44

When thirty-four hours later on a warm, sunlit evening, Flight 012 touched down at Kingsford Smith Airport in Sydney, Charlie felt what he most needed was a good night's sleep. After he had checked through customs he was met by a tall young man dressed in a light beige suit who stepped forward and introduced himself as Trevor Roberts, the lawyer who had been recommended by Baverstock. Roberts had thick, rusty-colored hair and an even redder complexion. He was of a solid build and looked as if he might still spend his Saturday afternoons in a different type of court. He immediately took over Charlie's laden trolley and pushed it smartly towards the exit marked "car park."

"No need to check this lot into a hotel," said Roberts as he held the door open for Charlie. "Just leave everything in the car."

"Is this good legal advice you're giving me?" asked Charlie, already out of breath trying to keep up with the young man.

"It certainly is, Sir Charles, because we've no time to waste." He brought the trolley to a halt at the curbside and a chauffeur heaved the bags into the boot while Charlie and Mr. Roberts climbed into the back. "The British Governor-General has invited you for drinks at six at his residence, but I also need you to be on the last flight to Melbourne tonight. As we only have six days left, we can't afford to waste any of them being in the wrong city."

Charlie knew he was going to like Mr. Roberts from the moment the Australian passed over a thick file. Charlie began to listen attentively to the young lawyer as he went over the proposed schedule for the next three days while the car traveled on towards the outskirts of the city. Charlie continued to pay attention to everything he had to say, only occasionally asking for something to be repeated or gone over in greater detail as he tried to accustom himself to the difference in style between Mr. Roberts and any solicitor he had dealt with in England. When he had asked Mr. Baverstock to find him the sharpest young lawyer in Sydney, Charlie hadn't imagined that he would select someone in quite such a different mold from his old friend.

As the car sped along the highway towards the Governor-General's residence Roberts, with several files balanced on his knees, continued with his detailed briefing. "We're only attending this cocktail party with the Governor-General," he explained, "in case during the next few days we need some help in opening heavy doors. Then we're off to Melbourne because every time someone from my office comes up with anything that might be described as a lead it always seems to end up on the Chief Commissioner of Police's desk in that city. I've made an appointment for you to see the new chief in the morning, but as I warned you the commissioner's not proving to be at all cooperative with my people."

"Why's that?"

"He's recently been appointed to the job, and is now desperately trying to prove that everyone will be treated impartially—except poms."

"So what's his problem?"

"Like all second-generation Australians he hates the British, or at least he has to pretend he does." Roberts grinned. "In fact, I think there's only one group of people he dislikes more."

"Criminals?"

"No, lawyers," replied Roberts. "So now you'll realize why the odds are stacked against us."

"Have you managed to get anything out of him at all?"

"Not a lot. Most of what he has been willing to reveal was already on public record, namely that on 27 July 1926 Guy Trentham, in a fit of temper, killed his wife by stabbing her several times while she was taking a bath. He then held her under the water so as to be sure that she didn't survive—page sixteen in your file. We also know that on 23 April 1927 he was hanged for the crime, despite several appeals for clemency to the Governor-General. What we've been quite unable to discover is if he was survived by any children. The Melbourne Age was the one newspaper that carried a report of the trial, and they made no mention of a child. However, that's hardly surprising, as the judge would have ruled against any such reference in court unless it threw some light on the crime."

"But what about the wife's maiden name? Surely that's a better route to take."

"You're not going to like this, Sir Charles," said Roberts.

"Try me."

"Her name was Smith—Anna Helen Smith—that's why we concentrated what little time we had on Trentham."

"But you've still come up with no firm leads?"

"I'm afraid not," said Roberts. "If there was a child in Australia at the time bearing the name of 'Trentham' we certainly haven't been able to trace him. My staff have interviewed every Trentham that's shown up on the national register, including one from Coorabulka which has a population of eleven and takes three days to reach by car and foot."

"Despite your valiant efforts, Roberts, my guess is there might still be some stones we need to look under."

"Possibly," said Roberts. "I even began to wonder if perhaps Trentham had changed his name when he first came to Australia, but the chief of police was able to confirm that the file he holds in Melbourne is under the name of Guy Francis Trentham."

"So if the name's unchanged then surely any child would be traceable?"

"Not necessarily. I dealt with a case quite recently in which I had a client whose husband was sent to jail for manslaughter. She reverted to her maiden name, which she also gave to her only child, and was able to show me a foolproof system for then having the original name expunged from the records. Also, remember that in this case we're dealing with a child who could have been born any time between 1923 and 1925, and the removal of just one piece of paper could well have been enough to eliminate any connection he or she might have with Guy Trentham. If that's the case, finding such a child in a country the size of Australia would be like searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack."

"But I've only got six days," said Charlie plaintively.

"Don't remind me," said Roberts, as the car drove through the gates of the Governor-General's residence at Government House, dropping its speed to a more sedate pace as they continued up the drive. "I've allocated one hour for this party, no more," the young lawyer warned. "All I want out of the Governor-General is a promise that he'll telephone the chief of police in Melbourne before our meeting tomorrow, to ask him to be as cooperative as possible. But when I say we must leave, Sir Charles, I mean we must leave."

"Understood," said Charlie, feeling like a private back on parade in Edinburgh.

"By the way," said Roberts, "the Governor-General is Sir Oliver Williams. Sixty-one, former guards officer, comes from some place called Tunbridge Wells."

Two minutes later they were striding into the grand ballroom of Government House.

"So glad you could make it, Sir Charles," said a tall, elegantly dressed man who wore a double-breasted striped suit and a guards tie.

"Thank you, Sir Oliver."

"And how was the journey over, old chap?"

"Five stops for refueling and not one airport that knew how to brew a decent cup of tea."

"Then you'll need one of these," suggested Sir Oliver, handing Charlie a large whisky that he removed deftly from a passing tray. "And to think," continued the diplomat, "they're predicting that our grandchildren will be able to fly the entire journey from London to Sydney nonstop in less than a day. Still, yours was a lot less unpleasant an experience than the early settlers had to endure."

"A small compensation." Charlie couldn't think of a more appropriate reply as he considered what a contrast Mr. Baverstock's nominee in Australia was to the Queen's representative.

"Now, do tell me what brings you to Sydney," continued the Governor-General. "Are we to anticipate that the second 'biggest barrow in the world' is about to be pushed round to this side of the globe?"

"No, Sir Oliver. You'll be saved that. I'm here on a brief private visit, trying to sort out some family business."

"Well, if there's anything I can do to assist you," said his host, taking a gin from another passing tray, "just let me know."

"That's kind of you, Sir Oliver, because I do need your help over one small matter."

"And what might that be?" asked his host, at the same moment allowing his eyes to wander over Charlie's shoulder in the direction of some late arrivals.

"You could call the chief of police in Melbourne and ask him to be as cooperative as possible when I visit him tomorrow morning."

"Consider the call made, old fellow," said Sir Oliver as he leaned forward to shake the hand of an Arab sheikh. "And don't forget, Sir Charles, if there's anything I can do to help and I mean anything just let me know. Ah, Monsieur L'Ambassadeur, comment allez vous?"

Charlie suddenly felt exhausted. He spent the rest of the hour just trying to remain on his feet while talking to diplomats, politicians and businessmen, all of whom seemed well acquainted with the biggest barrow in the world. Eventually a firm touch on his elbow from Roberts signaled that the proprieties had been observed and he must now leave for the airport.

On the flight to Melbourne Charlie was just about able to stay awake, even if his eyes weren't always open. In answer to a question from Roberts he confirmed that the Governor-General had agreed to telephone the chief of police the following morning. "But I'm not certain he appreciated how important it was."

"I see," said Roberts. "Then I'll be back in touch with his office first thing tomorrow. Sir Oliver's not renowned for remembering promises he makes at cocktail parties. 'If there's anything I can do to assist you, old chap, and I mean anything'"—which even managed to elicit a sleepy grin from Charlie.

At Melbourne Airport another car was waiting for them. Charlie was whisked away, and this time he did fall asleep and didn't wake again until they drew up outside the Windsor Hotel some twenty minutes later. The manager showed his guest to the Prince Edward suite and as soon as he had been left on his own Charlie quickly undressed, had a shower and climbed into bed. A few minutes later he fell into a heavy sleep. However, he still woke around four the next morning.

Propped uncomfortably up in bed supported by foam rubber pillows that wouldn't stay in one place, Charlie spent the next three hours going through Roberts' files. The man might not have looked or sounded like Baverstock but the same stamp of thoroughness was evident on every page. By the time Charlie let the last file drop to the floor he had to accept that Roberts' firm had covered every angle and followed up every lead; his only hope now rested with a cantankerous Melbourne policeman.

Charlie had a cold shower at seven and a hot breakfast just after eight. Although his only appointment that day was at ten o'clock he was pacing round his suite long before Roberts was due to pick him up at nine-thirty, aware that if nothing came out of this meeting he might as well pack his bags and fly back to England that afternoon. At least that would give Becky the satisfaction of being proved right.

At nine twenty-nine Roberts knocked on his door; Charlie wondered how long the young lawyer had been standing outside in the corridor waiting. Roberts reported that he had already telephoned the Governor-General's office and that Sir Oliver had promised to call the chief of police within the hour.

"Good. Now tell me everything you know about the man."

"Mike Cooper is forty-seven, efficient, prickly and brash. Climbed up through the ranks but still finds it necessary to prove himself to everyone, especially when he's in the presence of a lawyer, perhaps because crime statistics for Melbourne have risen at an even faster rate than our test averages against England."

"You said yesterday he was second generation. So where does he hail from?"

Roberts checked his file. "His father emigrated to Australia at the turn of the century from somewhere called Deptford."

"Deptford?" repeated Charlie with a grin. "That's almost home territory." He checked his watch. "Shall we be off? I think I'm more than ready to meet Mr. Cooper."

When twenty minutes later Roberts held open the door of the police headquarters for his client, they were greeted with a large formal photograph of a man in his late forties that made Charlie feel every day of his sixty-four years.

After Roberts had supplied the officer on duty with their names they were kept waiting for only a few minutes before Charlie was ushered through to the chiefs office.

The policeman's lips formed a reluctant smile when he shook hands with Charlie. "I am not sure there's a lot I can do to help you, Sir Charles," began Cooper, motioning him to take a seat. "Despite your Governor-General taking the trouble to call me." He ignored Roberts, who remained standing a few feet behind his client.

"I know that accent," said Charlie, not taking the offered chair.

"I beg your pardon?" replied Cooper, who also remained standing.

"Half a crown to a pound says your father hails from London."

"Yes, you're right."

"And the East End of that city would be my bet."

"Deptford," said the chief.

"I knew it the moment you opened your mouth," said Charlie, now sinking back into a leather chair. "I come from Whitechapel myself. So where was he born?"

"Bishop's Way," said the chief. "Just off—"

"Just a stone's throw away from my part of the world," said Charlie, in a thick cockney accent.

Roberts had not yet uttered a word, let alone given a professional opinion.

"Tottenham supporter, I suppose," said Charlie.

"The Gunners," said Cooper firmly.

"What a load of rubbish," said Charlie. "Arsenal are the only team I know who read the names of the crowd to the players."

The chief laughed. "I agree," he said. "I've almost given up hope for them this season. So who do you support?"

"I'm a West Ham man myself."

"And you were hoping I'd cooperate with you?"

Charlie laughed. "Well, we did let you beat us in the Cup."

"In 1923," said Cooper, laughing.

"We've got long memories down at Upton Park."

"Well, I never expected you to have an accent like that, Sir Charles."

"Call me Charlie, all my friends do. And another thing, Mike, do you want him out of the way?" Charlie cocked a thumb at Trevor Roberts, who still hadn't been offered a seat.

"Might help," said the chief.

"Wait outside for me, Roberts," said Charlie, not even bothering to glance in the direction of his lawyer.

"Yes, Sir Charles." Roberts turned and started walking towards the door.

Once they were alone Charlie leaned across the desk and said, "Soddin' lawyers, they're all the same. Overpaid toffee-nosed brussels sprouts, charge the earth and then expect you to do all the work."

Cooper laughed. "Especially when you're a grasshopper," he confided.

Charlie laughed. "Haven't heard a copper described that way since I left Whitechapel." The older man leaned forward. "This is between you and me, Mike. Two East End boys together. Can you tell me anything about Guy Francis Trentham that he doesn't know?" Charlie pointed his thumb towards the door.

"I'm afraid there isn't a lot Roberts hasn't already dug up, to be fair to him, Sir Charles."

"Charlie."

"Charlie. Look, you already know that Trentham murdered his wife and you must be aware by now that he was later hanged for the crime."

"Yes, but what I need to know, Mike, is, were there any children?" Charlie held his breath as the policeman seemed to hesitate.

Cooper looked down at a charge sheet that lay on the desk in front of him. "It says here, wife deceased, one daughter."

Charlie tried not to leap out of his chair. "Don't suppose that piece of paper tells you her name?"

"Margaret Ethel Trentham," said the chief.

Charlie knew he didn't have to recheck the name in the files that Roberts had left with him overnight. There hadn't been a Margaret Ethel Trentham mentioned in any of them. He could recall the names of the three Trenthams born in Australia between 1924 and 1925, and all of those were boys.

"Date of birth?" he hazarded.

"No clue, Charlie," said Cooper. "It wasn't the girl who was being charged." He pushed the piece of paper over the desk, so that his visitor could read everything he had already been told. "They didn't bother too much with those sort of details in the twenties."

"Anything else in that file you think might 'elp an East End boy not on his 'ome ground?" asked Charlie, only hoping he wasn't overdoing it.

Cooper studied the papers in the Trentham file for some time before he offered an opinion. "There are two entries on our records that might just be of some use to you. The first was penciled in by my predecessor and there's an even earlier entry from the chief before him, which I suppose just might be of interest."

"I'm all ears, Mike."

"Chief Parker was paid a visit on 24 April 1927 by a Mrs. Ethel Trentham, the deceased's mother."

"Good God," said Charlie, unable to hide his surprise. "But why?"

"No reason given, nor any record of what was said at that meeting either. Sorry."

"And the second entry?"

"That concerns another visitor from England inquiring after Guy Trentham. This time on 23 August 1947"—the police chief looked down at the file again to check the name—"a Mr. Daniel Trentham."

Charlie went cold as he gripped the arms of his chair.

"You all right?" asked Cooper, sounding genuinely concerned.

"Fine," said Charlie. "it's only the effects of jet lag. Any reason given for Daniel Trentham's visit?"

"According to the attached note, he claimed to be the deceased's son," said the chief. Charlie tried not to show any emotion. The policeman sat back in his chair. "So now you know every bit as much about the case as I do."

"You've been very 'elpful, Mike," said Charlie as he pushed himself up to his feet before leaning across to shake hands. "And if you should ever find yourself back in Deptford, look me up. I'd be only too happy to take you to see a real football team."

Cooper smiled and continued to trade stories with Charlie as the two men made their way out of his office to the lift. Once they were on the ground floor the policeman accompanied him to the steps of police headquarters, where Charlie shook hands with the chief once again before joining Trevor Roberts in the car.

"Right, Roberts, it seems we've got ourselves some work to do."

"May I be permitted to ask one question before we begin, Sir Charles?"

"Be my guest."

"What happened to your accent?"

"I only save that for special people, Mr. Roberts. The Queen, Winston Churchill and when I'm serving a customer on the barrow. Today I felt it necessary to add Melbourne's chief of police to my list."

"I can't begin to think what you said about me and my profession."

"I told him you were an overpaid, toffee-nosed boy scout who expected me to do all the work."

"And did he offer an opinion?"

"Thought I might have been a little too restrained."

"That's not hard to believe," said Roberts. "But were you able to prise any fresh information out of him?"

"I certainly was," said Charlie. "It seems Guy Trentham had a daughter."

"A daughter?" repeated Roberts, unable to hide his excitement. "But did Cooper let you know her name, or anything about her?"

"Margaret Ethel, but our only other clue is that Mrs. Trentham, Guy's mother, paid a visit to Melbourne in 1927. Cooper didn't know why."

"Good heavens," said Roberts. "You've achieved more in twenty minutes than I achieved in twenty days."

"Ah, but I had the advantage of birth," said Charlie with a grin. "Now where would an English lady have rested her genteel head in this city around that time?"

"Not my hometown," admitted Roberts. "But my partner Neil Mitchell should be able to tell us. His family settled in Melbourne over a hundred years ago."

"So what are we waiting for?"

Neil Mitchell frowned when his colleague put the same question to him. "I haven't a clue," he admitted, "but my mother's sure to know." He picked up his phone and started dialing. "She's Scottish, so she'll try and charge us for the information." Charlie and Trevor Roberts stood in front of Mitchell's desk and waited, one patiently, one impatiently. After a few preliminaries expected of a son, he put his question and listened carefully to her reply.

"Thank you, Mother, invaluable as always," he said. "See you at the weekend," he added before putting down the phone.

"Well?" said Charlie.

"The Victoria Country Club apparently was the only place someone from Mrs. Trentham's background would have dreamed of staying in the twenties," Mitchell said. "In those days Melbourne only had two decent hotels and the other one was strictly for visiting businessmen."

"Does the place still exist?" asked Roberts.

"Yes, but it's badly run-down nowadays. What I imagine Sir Charles would describe as 'seedy.'"

"Then telephone ahead and let them know you want a table for lunch in the name of Sir Charles Trumper. And stress 'Sir Charles.'"

"Certainly, Sir Charles," said Roberts. "And which accent will we be using on this occasion?"

"Can't tell you that until I've weighed up the opposition," said Charlie as they made their way back to the car.

"Ironic when you think about it," said Roberts, as the car headed out onto the freeway.

"Ironic?"

"Yes," said Roberts. "If Mrs. Trentham went to all this trouble to remove her granddaughter's very existence from the records, she must have required the services of a first-class lawyer to assist her."

"So?"

"So there must be a file buried somewhere in this city that would tell us everything we need to know."

"Possibly, but one thing's for certain: we don't have enough time to discover whose filing cabinet it's hidden in."

When they arrived at the Victoria Country Club they found the manager standing in the hallway waiting to greet them. He led his distinguished guest through to a quiet table in the alcove. Charlie was only disappointed to find how young he was.

Charlie chose the most expensive items from the a la carte section of the menu, then selected a 1957 bottle of Chambertin. Within moments he was receiving attention from every waiter in the room.

"And what are you up to this time, Sir Charles?" asked Roberts, who had satisfied himself with the set menu.

"Patience, young man," Charlie said in mock disdain as he tried to cut into an overcooked, tough piece of lamb with a blunt knife. He eventually gave in, and ordered a vanilla ice cream, confident they couldn't do much harm to that. When finally the coffee was served, the oldest waiter in the room came slowly over to offer them both a cigar.

"A Monte Cristo, please," said Charlie, removing a pound note from his wallet and placing it on the table in front of him. A large old humidor was opened for his inspection. "Worked here for a long time, have you?" Charlie added.

"Forty years last month," said the waiter, as another pound note landed on top of the first.

"Good memory?"

"I like to think so, sir," said the waiter, staring at the two banknotes.

"Remember someone called Mrs. Trentham? English, strait-laced, might have stayed for a couple of weeks or more round 1927," said Charlie, pushing the notes towards the old man.

"Remember her?" said the waiter. "I'll never forget her. I was a trainee in those days and she did nothing except grumble the whole time about the food and the service. Wouldn't drink anything but water, said she didn't trust Australian wines and refused to spend good money on the French ones—that's why I always ended up having to serve on her table. End of the month, she ups and offs without a word and didn't even leave me a tip. You bet I remember her."

"That sounds like Mrs. Trentham all right," said Charlie. "But did you ever find out why she came to Australia in the first place?" He removed a third pound note from his wallet and placed it on top of the others.

"I've no idea, sir," said the waiter sadly. "She never talked to anyone from morning to night, and I'm not sure even Mr. Sinclair-Smith would know the answer to that question."

"Mr. Sinclair-Smith?"

The waiter motioned over his shoulder to the far corner of the room where a gray-haired gentleman sat alone, a napkin tucked into his collar. He was busy attacking a large piece of Stilton. "The present owner," the waiter explained. "His father was the only person Mrs. Trentham ever spoke civilly to."

"Thank you," said Charlie. "You've been most helpful." The waiter pocketed the three banknotes. "Would you be kind enough to ask the manager if I could have a word with him?"

"Certainly, sir," said the old waiter, who closed the humidor and scurried away.

"The manager is far too young to remember—"

"Just keep your eyes open, Mr. Roberts, and possibly you might just learn a trick or two they failed to teach you in the business contracts class at law school," said Charlie as he clipped the end of his cigar.

The manager arrived at their table. "You asked to see me, Sir Charles?"

"I wonder if Mr. Sinclair-Smith would care to join me for a liqueur?" said Charlie, passing the young man one of his cards.

"I'll have a word with him immediately, sir," said the manager who at once turned and walked towards the other table.

"It's back to the lobby for you, Roberts," said Charlie, "as I suspect that my conduct over the next half hour might just offend your professional ethics." He glanced across the room, where the old man was now studying his card.

Roberts sighed, rose from his chair and left.

A large smile appeared on Mr. Sinclair-Smith's pudgy lips. He pushed himself up out of his chair and waddled over to join his English visitor.

"Sinclair-Smith," he said in a high-pitched English accent before offering a limp hand.

"Good of you to join me, old chap," said Charlie. "I know a fellow countryman when I see one. Can I interest you in a brandy?" The waiter scurried away.

"How kind of you, Sir Charles. I can only hope that my humble establishment has provided you with a reasonable cuisine."

"Excellent," said Charlie. "But then you were recommended," he said as he exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.

"Recommended?" said Sinclair-Smith, trying not to sound too surprised. "May I ask by whom?"

"My ancient aunt, Mrs. Ethel Trentham."

"Mrs. Trentham? Good heavens, Mrs. Trentham, we haven't seen the dear lady since my late father's time."

Charlie frowned as the old waiter returned with two large brandies.

"I do hope she's keeping well, Sir Charles."

"Never better," said Charlie. "And she wished to be remembered to you."

"How kind of her," replied Sinclair-Smith, swirling the brandy round in his balloon. "And what a remarkable memory, because I was only a young man at the time and had just started working in the hotel. She must now be . . ."

"Over ninety," said Charlie. "And do you know the family still has no idea why she ever came to Melbourne in the first place," he added.

"Nor me," said Sinclair-Smith as he sipped his brandy.

"You never spoke to her?"

"No, never," said Sinclair-Smith. "Although my father and your aunt had many long conversations, he never once confided in me what passed between them."

Charlie tried not to show his frustration at this piece of information. "Well, if you don't know what she was up to," he said, "I don't suppose there's anyone alive who does."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that," said Sinclair-Smith. "Slade would know—that is, if he hasn't gone completely ga-ga."

"Slade?"

"Yes, a Yorkshireman who worked at the club under my father, in the days when we still had a resident chauffeur. In fact, the whole time Mrs. Trentham stayed at the club she always insisted on using Slade. Said no one else should drive her."

"Is he still around?" asked Charlie as he blew out another large cloud of smoke.

"Good heavens no," said Sinclair-Smith. "Retired years ago. Not even sure he's still alive."

"Do you get back to the old country much nowadays?" inquired Charlie, convinced that he had extracted every piece of relevant information that could be gained from this particular source.

"No, unfortunately what with . . ."

For the next twenty minutes, Charlie settled back and enjoyed his cigar as he listened to Sinclair-Smith on everything from the demise of the Empire to the parlous state of English cricket. Eventually Charlie called for the bill, at which the owner took his leave and slipped discreetly away.

The old waiter shuffled back the moment he saw another pound note appear on the tablecloth.

"Something you needed, sir?"

"Does the name 'Slade' mean anything to you?"

"Old Walter Slade, the club's chauffeur?"

"That's the man."

"Retired years ago."

"I know that much, but is he still alive?"

"No idea," said the waiter. "Last I heard of him he lived somewhere out in the Ballarat area."

"Thank you," said Charlie, as he stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, removed another pound note and left to join Roberts in the lobby.

"Telephone your office immediately," he instructed his solicitor. "Ask them to track down a Walter Slade who may be living at somewhere called Ballarat."

Roberts hurried off in the direction of the telephone sign, while Charlie paced up and down the corridor praying the old man was still alive. His solicitor returned a few minutes later. "Am I allowed to know what you're up to this time, Sir Charles?" he asked as he passed over a piece of paper with Walter Slade's address printed out in capital letters.

"No good, that's for sure," said Charlie, as he took in the information. "Don't need you for this one, young man, but I will require the car. See you back at the office and I can't be sure when." He gave a small wave as he pushed through the swing doors leaving a bemused Roberts standing on his own in the lobby.

Charlie handed over the slip of paper to the chauffeur who studied the address. "But it's nearly a hundred miles," said the man, looking over his shoulder.

"Then we haven't a moment to waste, have we?"

The driver switched on the engine and swung out of the country club forecourt. He drove past the Melbourne Cricket Ground where Charlie could see someone was 2 for 147. It annoyed him that on his first trip to Australia he didn't even have enough time to drop in and see the test match. The journey on the north highway lasted for another hour and a half, which gave Charlie easily enough time to consider what approach he would use on Mr. Slade, assuming he wasn't, to quote Sinclair-Smith, "completely ga-ga." After they had sped past the sign for Ballarat, the driver pulled into a petrol station. Once the attendant had filled the tank he gave the driver some directions and it took another fifteen minutes before they came to a halt outside a small terraced house on a run-down estate.

Charlie jumped out of the car, marched up a short, weed-covered path and knocked on the front door. He waited for some time before an old lady wearing a pinafore and a pastel-colored dress that nearly reached the ground answered his call.

"Mrs. Slade?" asked Charlie.

"Yes," she replied, peering up at him suspiciously.

"Would it be possible to have a word with your husband?"

"Why?" asked the old lady. "You from the social services?"

"No, I'm from England," said Charlie. "And I've brought your husband a small bequest from my aunt Mrs. Ethel Trentham, who has recently died."

"Oh, how kind of you," said Mrs. Slade. "Do come in." She guided Charlie through to the kitchen, where he found an old man, dressed in a cardigan, clean check shirt and baggy trousers, dozing in a chair in front of the fireplace.

"There's a man come all the way from England, specially to see you, Walter."

"What's that?" said the man, raising his bony fingers to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

"A man come from England," repeated his wife. "With a present from that Mrs. Trentham."

"I'm too old to drive her now." His tired eyes blinked at Charlie.

"No, Walter, You don't understand. He's a relative come all the way from England with a gift. You see, she died."

"Died?"

Both of them were now staring quizzically at Charlie as he quickly took out his wallet and removed every note he possessed before handing the money over to Mrs. Slade.

She began to count the notes slowly as Walter Slade continued to stare at Charlie, making him feel distinctly uneasy as he stood on their spotless stone floor.

"Eighty-five pounds, Walter," she told him, passing the money over to her husband.

"Why so much?" he asked. "And after so long?"

"You did her a great service," said Charlie, "and she simply wished to repay you."

The old man began to look more suspiciously at Charlie.

"She paid me at the time," he said.

"I realize that," said Charlie, "but—"

"And I've kept my mouth shut," he said.

"That's just another reason why she had cause to be grateful to you," said Charlie.

"Are you saying that you came all the way from England, just to give me eighty-five pounds?" said Mr. Slade. "Doesn't make any sense to me, lad." He suddenly sounded a lot more awake.

"No, no," said Charlie, feeling that he was losing the initiative. "I've had a dozen other bequests to deliver before coming out here, but you weren't that easy to find."

"I'm not surprised. I've stopped driving these twenty years."

"You're from Yorkshire, aren't you?" said Charlie with a grin. "I'd know that accent anywhere."

"Aye, lad, and you're from London. Which means you're not to be trusted. So why did you really come to see me? Because it wasn't to give us eighty-five pounds, that's for sure."

"I can't find the little girl who was with Mrs. Trentham when you drove her," said Charlie, risking everything. "You see, she's been left a large inheritance."

"Fancy that, Walter," said Mrs. Slade.

Walter Slade's face registered nothing.

"And it's my duty somehow to locate her and then inform the lady of her good fortune."

Slade's face remained impassive as Charlie battled on. "And I thought you'd be the one person who might be able to help."

"No, I won't," Slade replied. "What's more you can have your money back," he added, throwing the notes at Charlie's feet. "And don't bother to show your face round these parts again, with your phony trumped-up stories about fortunes. Show the gentleman the door, Elsie."

Mrs. Slade bent down and carefully picked up the scattered notes before passing them up to Charlie. When she had handed over the last one, she silently led the stranger back towards the front door.

"I do apologize, Mrs. Slade," said Charlie. "I had no intention of offending your husband."

"I know, sir," said Mrs. Slade. "But then Walter has always been so proud. Heaven knows, we could have done with the money." Charlie smiled as he stuffed the bundle of notes into the old lady's pinafore and quickly put a finger up to his lips. "If you don't tell him, I won't," he said. He gave a slight bow before turning to walk back down the little path towards the car.

"I never saw no little girl," she said in a voice that barely carried. Charlie froze on the spot. "But Walter once took a snooty lady up to that orphanage on Park Hill in Melbourne. I know because I was walking out with the gardener at the time, and he told me."

Charlie turned to thank her, but she had already closed the door and disappeared back into the house.

Charlie climbed into the car, penniless and with just one name to cling to, aware that the old man could undoubtedly have solved the entire mystery for him. Otherwise he would have said "No, I can't" and not "No, I won't" when he had asked for his help.

He cursed his stupidity several times on the long journey back to the city.

"Roberts, is there an orphanage in Melbourne?" were Charlie's opening words as he strode into the lawyer's office.

"St. Hilda's," said Neil Mitchell, before his partner could consider the question. "Yes, it's up on Park Hill somewhere. Why?"

"That's the one," said Charlie, checking his watch. "It's about seven o'clock in the morning London time and I'm shattered, so I'm off to my hotel to try and grab some sleep. In the meantime I need a few questions answered. To start with, I want to know everything that can possibly be found out about St. Hilda's, starting with the names of every member of staff who worked there between 1923 and 1927, from the head honcho down to the scullery maid. And if anyone's still around from that period find them because I want to see them—and within the next twenty-four hours."

Two of the staff in Mitchell's office had begun scribbling furiously as they tried to take down every word Sir Charles said.

"I also want to know the name of every child registered at that orphanage between 1923 and 1927. Remember, we're looking for a girl who couldn't have been more than two years old, and may have been called Margaret Ethel. And when you've found the answers to all those questions wake me whatever time it is."

Chapter 45

Trevor Roberts arrived back at Charlie's hotel a few minutes before eight the following morning to find his client tucking into a large breakfast of eggs, tomato, mushrooms and bacon. Although Roberts looked unshaven and tired, he was the bearer of news.

"We've been in touch with the principal of St. Hilda's, a Mrs. Culver, and she couldn't have been more cooperative." Charlie smiled. "It turns out that nineteen children were registered with the orphanage between 1923 and 1927. Eight boys and eleven girls. Of the eleven girls we now know that nine of them didn't have a mother or father alive at the time. Of those nine we have managed to contact seven, five of whom have a relative still alive who could vouch for who their father was, one whose parents were killed in a car crash and the other who is an aboriginal. The last two, however, are proving more difficult to track down, so I thought you might like to visit St. Hilda's and study the files yourself."

"What about the staff at the orphanage?"

"Only a cook survives from around that period, and she says there never was a child at St. Hilda's called Trentham or any name like that, and she can't even remember a Margaret or an Ethel. So our last hope may prove to be a Miss Benson."

"Miss Benson?"

"Yes, she was the principal at the time and is now a resident at an exclusive old people's home called Maple Lodge on the other side of the city."

"Not bad, Mr. Roberts," said Charlie. "But how did you manage to get Mrs. Culver to be so cooperative at such short notice?"

"I resorted to methods that I suspect are more familiar to the Whitechapel school of law than Harvard, Sir Charles."

Charlie looked at him quizzically.

"It seems that St. Hilda's is currently organizing an appeal for a minibus—"

"A minibus?"

"So badly needed by the orphanage for trips—"

"And so you hinted that I—"

"—might be possible to help with a wheel or two if they in return felt able to cooperate. Precisely."

"You're a quick learner, Roberts, I'll give you that."

"And as there's no more time to be wasted, we ought to leave for St. Hilda's immediately so you can go over those files."

"But our best bet must surely be Miss Benson."

"I agree with you, Sir Charles. And I've planned for us to pay her a visit this afternoon, just as soon as you've finished at St. Hilda's. By the way, when Miss Benson was principal, she was known as 'The Dragon' not only by the children but also by the staff, so there's no reason to expect she'll be any more cooperative than Walter Slade."

When Charlie arrived at the orphanage he was greeted at the front door by the principal. Mrs. Culver wore a smart green dress that looked as if it might have been freshly pressed. She had obviously decided to treat her potential benefactor as if he were Nelson Rockefeller because all that was lacking was a red carpet as Charlie was ushered through to her study.

Two young lawyers who had been going assiduously through files all night and learning all there was to know about dormitory times, exacts, kitchen duties, credits and misdemeanors stood as Charlie and Trevor Roberts entered the room.

"Any further progress with those two names?" asked Roberts.

"Oh, yes, down to two. Isn't this exciting?" said Mrs. Culver, as she bustled round the room moving anything that seemed to be out of place. "I was wondering . . ."

"We have no proof as yet," said a bleary-eyed young man, "but one of them seems to fit the bill perfectly. We can come up with no information on the girl before the age of two. What's more important, she was registered with St. Hilda's at precisely the same time as Captain Trentham was awaiting execution."

"And the cook also remembers from the days when she was a scullery maid," said Mrs. Culver, jumping in, "that the girl came in the middle of the night, accompanied by a well-dressed, severe looking lady who had a lah-de-dah accent who then—"

"Enter Mrs. Trentham," said Charlie. "Only the girl's name is obviously not Trentham."

The young assistant checked the notes that lay spread across the table in front of him. "No, sir," he said. "This particular girl was registered under the name of Miss Cathy Ross."

Charlie felt his legs give way as Roberts and Mrs. Culver rushed forward to help him into the only comfortable chair in the room. Mrs. Culver loosened his tie and undid his collar.

"Are you feeling all right, Sir Charles?" she asked. "I must say you don't look too—"

"Right in front of my eyes all the time," said Charlie. "Blind as a bat is how Daphne would rightly describe me."

"I'm not sure I understand," said Roberts.

"I'm not sure I do myself as yet." Charlie turned back to face the anxious messenger responsible for delivering the news.

"Did she leave St. Hilda's to take up a place at Melbourne University?" he asked.

This time the assistant double-checked his notes. "Yes, sir. She signed on for the class of '42, leaving in '46."

"Where she studied history of art and English."

The assistant's eyes again scanned the papers in front of him. "That's correct, sir," he said, unable to hide his surprise.

"And did she play tennis, by any chance?"

"The occasional match for the university second six."

"But could she paint?" asked Charlie.

The assistant continued to leaf through the files.

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Culver, "and very good she was too, Sir Charles. We still have an example of her work hanging in the dining room, a woodland scene influenced by Sisley, I suspect. Indeed, I would go as far as to say—"

"May I be allowed to see the picture, Mrs. Culver?"

"Of course, Sir Charles." The principal removed a key from the top right hand drawer of her desk and said, "Please follow me."

Charlie rose unsteadily to his feet and accompanied Mrs. Culver as she marched out of her study and down a long corridor towards the dining room, the door of which she proceeded to unlock. Trevor Roberts, striding behind Charlie, continued to look puzzled, but refrained from asking any questions.

As they entered the dining room Charlie stopped in his tracks and said, "I could spot a Ross at twenty paces."

"I beg your pardon, Sir Charles?"

"It's not important, Mrs. Culver," Charlie said as he stood in front of the picture and stared at a woodland scene of dappled browns and greens.

"Beautiful, isn't it, Sir Charles? A real understanding of the use of color. I would go as far as to say—"

"I wonder, Mrs. Culver, if you would consider that picture to be a fair exchange for a minibus?"

"A very fair exchange," said Mrs. Culver without hesitation. "In fact I feel sure . . ."

"And would it be too much to ask that you write on the back of the picture, 'Painted by Miss Cathy Ross,' along with the dates that she resided at St. Hilda's?"

"Delighted, Sir Charles." Mrs. Culver stepped forward and lifted the picture off its hook, then turned the frame round for all to see. What Sir Charles had requested, although faded with age, was already written and clearly legible to the naked eye.

"I do apologize, Mrs. Culver," said Charlie. "By now I should know better of you." He removed his wallet from an inside pocket, signed a blank check and passed it over to Mrs. Culver.

"But how much . . . ?" began the astonished principal.

"Whatever it costs," was all Charlie replied, having finally found a way of rendering Mrs. Culver speechless.

The three of them resumed to the principal's study where a pot of tea was waiting. One of the assistants set about making two copies of everything in Cathy's file while Roberts rang ahead to the nursing home where Miss Benson resided to warn the matron to expect them within the hour. Once both tasks had been completed Charlie thanked Mrs. Culver for her kindness and bade her farewell. Although she had remained silent for some time she somehow managed, "Thank you, Sir Charles. Thank you."

Charlie clung tightly to the picture as he walked out of the orphanage and back down the path. Once he was in the car again he instructed the driver to guard the package with his life.

"Certainly, sir. And where to now?"

"Maple Lodge Residential Home on the north side," instructed Roberts, who had climbed into the other side. "I do hope you're going to explain to me what happened back there at St Hilda's. Because I am, as the Good Book would have it, 'sore amazed.'"

"I'll tell you as much as I know myself," said Charlie. He began to explain how he had first met Cathy almost fifteen years before at a housewarming party in his home at Eaton Square. He continued with his story uninterrupted until he had arrived at the point when Miss Ross had been appointed a director of Trumper's and how since Daniel's suicide she had been unable to tell them much about her background because she still hadn't fully recovered her memory of those events that had taken place before she came to England. The lawyer's opening response to this information took Charlie by surprise.

"You can be sure it wasn't a coincidence that Miss Ross visited England in the first place, or for that matter that she applied for a job at Trumper's."

"What are you getting at?" said Charlie.

"She must have left Australia with the sole purpose of trying to find out about her father, believing him still to be alive, perhaps even living in England. That must have been her original motivation to visit London, where she undoubtedly discovered some connection between his and your family. And if you can find that link between her father, her going to England and Trumper's, you will then have your proof—proof that Cathy Ross is in fact Margaret Ethel Trentham."

"But I have no idea what that link could be," said Charlie. "And now that Cathy remembers so little of her early life in Australia I may never be able to find out."

"Well, let's hope Miss Benson can point us in the right direction," said Roberts. "Although, as I warned you earlier, no one who knew her at St. Hilda's has a good word to say for the woman."

"If Walter Slade's anything to go by, it won't be that easy to get the time of day out of her. It's becoming obvious that Mrs. Trentham cast a spell over everyone she came into contact with."

"I agree," said the lawyer. "That's why I didn't reveal to Mrs. Campbell, the matron of Maple Lodge, our reason for wanting to visit the home. I couldn't see any point in warning Miss Benson of our impending arrival. It would only give her enough time to have all her answers well prepared."

Charlie grunted his approval. "But have you come up with any ideas as to what approach we should take with her?" he asked, Because I certainly made a balls-up of my meeting with Walter Slade."

"No, I haven't. We'll just have to play it by ear and hope she'll prove to be cooperative. Though heaven knows which accent you will be required to call on this time, Sir Charles."

Moments later they were driven between two massive wrought-iron gates and on down a long shaded drive which led to a large turn-of-the-century mansion set in several acres of private grounds.

"This can't come cheap," said Charlie.

"Agreed," said Roberts. "And unfortunately they don't look as if they're in need of a minibus."

The car drew up outside a heavy oak door. Trevor Roberts jumped out and waited until Charlie had joined him before pressing the bell.

They did not have long to wait before a young nurse answered their call, then promptly escorted them down a highly polished tiled corridor to the matron's office.

Mrs. Campbell was dressed in the familiar starched blue uniform, white collar and cuffs associated with her profession. She welcomed Charlie and Trevor Roberts in a deep Scottish burr, and had it not been for the uninterrupted sunshine coming through the windows, Charlie might have been forgiven for thinking that the matron of Maple Lodge Residential Home was unaware that she had ever left Scotland.

After the introductions had been completed Mrs. Campbell asked how she could be of help.

"I was hoping you might allow us to have a word with one of your residents."

"Yes, of course, Sir Charles. May I inquire who it is you wish to see?" she asked.

"A Miss Benson," explained Charlie. "You see—"

"Oh, Sir Charles, haven't you heard?"

"Heard?" said Charlie.

"Yes. Miss Benson's been dead this past week. In fact, we buried her on Thursday."

For a second time that day Charlie's legs gave way and Trevor Roberts had quickly to take his client by the elbow and guided him to the nearest chair.

"Oh, I am sorry," said the matron. "I had no idea you were such a close friend." Charlie didn't say anything. "And have you come all the way from London especially to see her?"

"Yes, he did," said Trevor Roberts. "Has Miss Benson had any other visitors from England recently?"

"No," said the matron without hesitation. "She received very few callers towards the end. One or two from Adelaide but never one from Britain," she added with an edge to her voice.

"And did she ever mention to you anyone called Cathy Ross or Margaret Trentham?"

Mrs. Campbell thought deeply for a moment. "No," she said eventually. "At least, not to my recollection."

"Then I think perhaps we should leave, Sir Charles, as there's no point in taking up any more of Mrs. Campbell's time."

"I agree," said Charlie quietly. "And thank you, Matron." Roberts helped him to his feet and Mrs. Campbell accompanied them both back along the corridor towards the front door.

"Will you be returning to Britain shortly, Sir Charles?" she asked.

"Yes, probably tomorrow."

"Would it be a terrible inconvenience if I were to ask you to post a letter for me once you are back in London?"

"It would be my pleasure," said Charlie.

"I wouldn't have bothered you with this task in normal circumstances," said the matron, "but as it directly concerns Miss Benson . . ."

Both men stopped in their tracks and stared down at the prim Scottish lady. She also came to a halt and held her hands together in front of her.

"It's not simply that I wish to save the postage, you understand, Sir Charles, which is what most folk would accuse my clan of. In fact, the exact opposite is the case, for my only desire is to make a speedy refund to Miss Benson's benefactors."

"Miss Benson's benefactors?" said Charlie and Roberts in unison.

"Aye," the matron said, standing her full height of five feet and half an inch. "We are not in the habit at Maple Lodge of charging residents who have died, Mr. Roberts. After all, as I'm sure you would agree, that would be dishonest."

"Of course it would be, Matron."

"And so, although we insist on three months' payment in advance, we also refund any sums left over when a resident has passed away. After any outstanding bills have been covered, you understand."

"I understand," said Charlie as he stared down at the lady, a look of hope in his eyes.

"So if you will be kind enough to wait just a wee moment, I'll be away and retrieve the letter from my office." She turned and headed back to her room a few yards farther down the corridor.

"Start praying," said Charlie.

"I already have," said Roberts.

Mrs. Campbell returned a few moments later holding an envelope, which she handed over for Charlie's safekeeping. In a bold copperplate hand were written the words: "The Manager, Coutts and Company, The Strand, London WC2."

"I do hope you won't find my request too much of an imposition, Sir Charles."

"It's a greater pleasure than you may ever realize, Mrs. Campbell," Charlie assured her, as he bade the matron farewell.

Once they were back in the car, Roberts said, "It would be quite unethical of me to advise you as to whether you should or should not open that letter, Sir Charles. However—"

But Charlie had already ripped open the envelope and was pulling out its contents.

A check for ninety-two pounds was attached to a detailed, itemized bill for the years 1953 to 1964: in full and final settlement for the account of Miss Rachel Benson.

"God bless the Scots and their puritan upbringing," said Charlie, when he saw to whom the check had been made out.

Chapter 46

"If you were quick, Sir Charles, you could still catch the earlier flight," said Trevor Roberts as the car pulled into the hotel forecourt.

"Then I'll be quick," said Charlie, "as I'd like to be back in London as soon as possible."

"Right, I'll check you out, then phone the airport to see if they can change your reservation."

"Good. Although I've a couple of days to spare there are still some loose ends I'd like to tidy up at the London end."

Charlie had jumped out of the car even before the driver could reach the door to open it for him. He made a dash for his room and quickly threw all his possessions into a suitcase. He was back in the lobby twelve minutes later, had settled the bill and was making a dash towards the hotel entrance within fifteen. The driver was not only standing by the car waiting for him but the boot was already open.

Once the third door had been closed, the chauffeur immediately accelerated out of the hotel forecourt and swung the car into the fast lane, as he headed towards the freeway.

"Passport and ticket?" said Roberts.

Charlie smiled and removed them both from an inside pocket like a child having his prep list checked.

"Good, now let's hope we can still reach the airport in time."

"You've done wonders," said Charlie.

"Thank you, Sir Charles," said Roberts. "But you must understand that despite your gathering a considerable amount of evidence to substantiate your case, most of it remains at best circumstantial. Although you and I may be convinced that Cathy Ross is in fact Margaret Ethel Trentham, with Miss Benson in her grave and Miss Ross unable to recall all the relevant details of her past there's no way of predicting whether a court would find in your favor."

"I hear what you're saying," said Charlie. "But at least I now have something to bargain with. A week ago I had nothing."

"True. And having watched you operate over the past few days I'm bound to say that I'd give you odds of better than fifty-fifty. But whatever you do, don't let that picture out of your sight: it's as convincing as any fingerprint. And see that at all times you keep Mrs. Campbell's letter in a safe place until you've been able to make a copy. Also be sure that the original plus the accompanying cheque are then posted on to Coutts. We don't want you arrested for stealing ninety-two pounds. Now, is there anything else I can do for you at this end?"

"Yes, you could try to get a written statement out of Walter Slade admitting that he took Mrs. Trentham and a little girl called Margaret to St. Hilda's, and that she left without her charge. You might also attempt to pin Slade down to a date."

"That might not prove easy after your encounter," suggested Roberts.

"Well, at least have a go. Then see if you can find out if Miss Benson was in receipt of any other payments from Mrs. Trentham before 1953 and if so the amounts and dates. I suspect she's been receiving a banker's order every quarter for over thirty-five years, which would explain why she was able to end her days in such comparative luxury."

"Agreed, but once again it's entirely circumstantial and there's certainly no way that any bank would allow me to delve into Miss Benson's private account."

"I accept that," said Charlie. "But Mrs. Culver should be able to let you know what Miss Benson was earning while she was principal and if she appeared to live beyond her salary. After all, you can always find out what else St. Hilda's needs other than a minibus."

Roberts began to make notes as Charlie rattled out a series of further suggestions.

"If you were able to wrap up Slade and prove there were any previous payments made to Miss Benson, I would then be in a far stronger position to ask Nigel Trentham to explain why his mother was willing to keep on doling out money to someone who was principal of an orphanage situated on the other side of the globe if it wasn't for his elder brother's offspring."

"I'll do what I can," promised Roberts. "if I come up with anything I'll contact you in London on your return."

"Thank you," said Charlie. "Now, is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, Sir Charles. Would you be good enough to pass on my kindest regards to Uncle Ernest?"

"Uncle Ernest?"

"Yes, Ernest Baverstock."

"Kindest regards be damned. I shall report him to the Law Society for nepotism."

"I must advise you that there is no case to answer, Sir Charles, as nepotism is not yet a crime. Though to be honest it's my mother who's to blame. You see, she produced three sons—all lawyers, and the other two are now representing you in Perth and Brisbane."

The car drew up to the curb alongside the Qantas terminal. The driver jumped out and removed the suitcases from the boot as Charlie ran off in the direction of the ticket counter, with Roberts a yard behind carrying Cathy's picture.

"Yes, you can still make the early flight to London," the girl at the check-in desk assured Charlie. "But please be quick as we'll be closing the gates in a few minutes' time." Charlie breathed a sigh of relief and turned to say goodbye to Trevor Roberts as the driver arrived with his suitcase and placed it on the weighing machine.

"Damn," said Charlie. "Can you lend me ten pounds?"

Roberts removed the notes from his wallet and Charlie quickly passed them on to the driver, who touched his cap and resumed to the car.

"How do I ever begin to thank you?" he said as he shook Trevor Roberts by the hand.

"Thank Uncle Ernest, not me," said Roberts. "He talked me into dropping everything to take on this case."

Twenty minutes later Charlie was climbing up the steps of Qantas Flight 102 ready for the first stage of his journey back to London.

As the plane lifted off ten minutes after schedule, Charlie settled back and tried, with the knowledge he had gained in the last three days, to begin fitting the pieces together. He accepted Roberts' theory that it was no coincidence that Cathy had come to work at Trumper's. She must have discovered some connection between them and the Trenthams, even if Charlie couldn't work out exactly what that connection was or her reason for not telling either of them in the first place. Telling them . . . ? What right did he have to comment? If only he had told Daniel, the boy might still be alive today. Because one thing was certain: Cathy could not have realized that Daniel was her half-brother, although he now feared that Mrs. Trentham must have found out, then let her grandson know the awful truth.

"Evil woman," said Charlie to himself.

"I beg your pardon," said the middle-aged lady who was seated on his left.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Charlie. "I wasn't referring to you." He returned to his reverie. Mrs. Trentham must have somehow stumbled on that truth. But how? Did Cathy go to see her as well? Or was it simply the announcement of their engagement in The Times that alerted Mrs. Trentham to an illegal liaison that Cathy and Daniel could not have been aware of themselves? Whatever the reason, Charlie realized that his chances of piecing together the complete story were now fairly remote, with Daniel and Mrs. Trentham in their graves and Cathy still unable to recall much of what had happened to her before she arrived in England.

It was ironic, thought Charlie, that so much of what he had discovered in Australia had all the time been lodged in a file at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, marked "Cathy Ross, job application." But not the missing link. "Find that," Roberts had said, "and you will be able to show the connection between Cathy Ross and Guy Trentham." Charlie nodded in agreement.

Lately Cathy had been able to recollect some memories from her past, but still nothing significant when it came to recalling her early days in Australia. Dr. Atkins continued to advise Charlie not to press her, as he was delighted with her progress, especially over her willingness to talk quite openly about Daniel. But if he were to save Trumper's he surely had to press her now? He decided that one of the first calls he should make the moment the plane touched down on English soil would have to be to Dr. Atkins.

"This is your captain speaking," said a voice over the intercom. "I'm sorry to have to inform you that we have encountered a slight technical problem. Those of you seated on the right-hand side of the aircraft will be able to see that I have turned off one of the starboard engines. I can assure you that there is no need for any anxiety, as we still have three engines working at their full capacity and in any case this aircraft is capable of completing any leg of the journey on just one." Charlie was pleased to learn this piece of news. "However," continued the cam fain, "it is company policy, with your safety in mind, that when any such fault arises we should land at the nearest airport, in order that repairs can be carried out immediately." Charlie frowned. "As we have not yet reached the halfway point on our outward leg of the journey to Singapore, I am advised by air traffic control that we must return to Melbourne at once." A chorus of groans went up throughout the aircraft.

Charlie made some hasty calculations about how much time he had to spare before he needed to be back in London, then he remembered that the aircraft he had been originally booked on was still due out of Melbourne at eight-twenty that night.

He flicked open his seat belt, retrieved Cathy's picture from the rack above him and moved across to the nearest available first-class seat to the cabin door, his mind now fully concentrated on the problems of getting himself rebooked on the BOAC carrier bound for London.

Qantas Flight 102 touched down at Melbourne Airport at seven minutes past seven. Charlie was the first off the aircraft, running as fast as he could, but having to lug Cathy's picture under one arm slowed him down and made it possible for several other passengers, who obviously had the same idea, to overtake him. However, once he'd reached the booking counter Charlie still managed to be eleventh in the queue. One by one the line shortened as those ahead of him were allocated seats. But by the time Charlie reached the front they could only offer him a standby. Despite pleading desperately with a BOAC official he could make no headway: there were several other passengers who felt it was every bit as important for them to be in London.

He walked slowly back to the Qantas desk to be informed that Flight 102 had been grounded for engine repairs and would not be taking off again until the following morning. At eight-forty he watched the BOAC Comet that he had been originally booked on lift off the tarmac without him.

All the passengers were found beds for the night at one of the local airport hotels before having their tickets transferred to a ten-twenty flight the following morning.

Charlie was up, dressed and back at the airport two hours before the plane was due to take off, and when the flight was finally called he was the first on board. If all went to schedule, he worked out, the plane would still touch down at Heathrow early on Friday morning, giving him a clear day and a half to spare before Sir Raymond's two-year deadline was up.

He breathed first sigh of relief when the plane took off, his second as the flight passed the halfway mark to Singapore, and his third when they had landed at Changi airport a few minutes ahead of time.

Charlie left the plane, but only to stretch his legs. He was strapped back into his seat and ready for take-off an hour later. The second stage from Singapore to Bangkok landed at Don Muang Airport only thirty minutes behind schedule, but the plane then sat parked in a queue on the runway for a further hour. It was later explained that they were short-staffed at air traffic control. Despite the delay, Charlie was not unduly worried, but that didn't stop him from checking his half hunter every few minutes. They took off an hour behind schedule.

When the aircraft landed at Palam Airport in New Delhi, he began another hour of strolling around the duty-free shop while the plane was being refueled. He became bored by seeing the same watches, perfume and jewelry being sold to innocent transit passengers at prices he knew still had a fifty percent markup on them. When the hour had passed and there had been no further announcements about reboarding, Charlie walked over to the inquiry desk to discover what was causing the holdup.

"There seems to be some problem with the relief crew on this section of the flight," he was told by the young woman behind the General Inquiries sign. "They haven't completed their twenty-four hours' rest period, as stipulated by IATA regulations."

"So how long have they had?"

"Twenty hours," replied the girl, looking embarrassed.

"So that means we're stuck here for another four hours?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Where is the nearest phone?" Charlie asked, making no attempt to hide his irritation.

"In the far corner, sir," said the girl, pointing to her right.

Charlie joined yet another queue and when he reached the front managed to get through to the operator twice, to be connected to London once but to speak with Becky never. By the time he eventually climbed back onto the aircraft, having achieved nothing, he was exhausted.

"This is Captain Parkhouse. We are sorry for the delay in this flight's taking off," said the pilot in a soothing voice. "I can only hope that the holdup has not caused you too much inconvenience. Please fasten your seat belts and prepare for takeoff. Flight attendants, place cabin doors to automatic."

The four jets rumbled into action and the plane inched forward before building up momentum as it sped along the tarmac. Then, quite suddenly, Charlie was thrown forward as the brakes were locked in place and the plane came to a screeching halt a few hundred yards from the end of the runway.

"This is your captain speaking. I am sorry to have to tell you that the hydraulic pumps that lift the undercarriage up and down at takeoff and landing are indicating red on the control panel and I am not willing to risk a takeoff at this time. We shall therefore have to taxi back to our stand and ask the local engineers to fix the problem as quickly as possible. Thank you for being so understanding."

It was the word "local" that worried Charlie.

Once they had disembarked from the plane, Charlie ran from airline counter to airline counter trying to find out if there were any flights bound for anywhere in Europe due out of New Delhi that night. He quickly discovered that the only flight due out that night was destined for Sydney. He began to pray for the speed and efficiency of Indian engineers.

Charlie sat in a smoke-filled waiting lounge, leafing through magazine after magazine, sipping soft drink after soft drink, as he waited for any information he could garner on the fate of Flight 102. The first news he picked up was that the chief engineer had been sent for.

"Sent for?" said Charlie. "What does that mean?"

"We have sent a car for him," explained a smiling airport official in a clipped staccato accent.

"Sent a car?" said Charlie. "But why isn't he at the airport where he's needed?"

"It's his day off."

"And haven't you got any other engineers?"

"Not for a job this big," admitted the harassed official.

Charlie slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. "And where does the chief engineer live?"

"Somewhere in New Delhi," came back the reply. "But don't you worry yourself, sir, we should have him back within the hour."

The trouble with this country, thought Charlie, is they tell you exactly what they think you want to hear.

For some reason the same official was unable to explain later why it had taken two hours to locate the chief engineer, a further hour to bring him back to the airport and yet another fifty minutes before he discovered the job would require a full team of three qualified engineers, who had themselves recently signed off for the evening.

A rickety old bus delivered all the passengers from Flight 102 to the Taj Mahal Hotel in the center of the city where Charlie sat on his bed and spent most of the night once more attempting to make contact with Becky. When he eventually succeeded in reaching her he was cut off even before he had time to explain where he was. He didn't bother to try and sleep.

When the bus dropped them back at the airport the following morning the Indian airport official was there to greet them, his large smile still in place.

"The plane will take off on time," he promised.

On time, thought Charlie; in normal circumstances he would have laughed.

The plane did take off an hour later and when Charlie inquired of the purser at what hour they expected to land at Heathrow he was told at some time Saturday midmorning: it was hard to be precise.

When the aircraft made a further unscheduled landing at Leonardo da Vinci on Saturday morning Charlie telephoned Becky from the airport. He didn't even give her time to speak. "I'm in Rome," he said, "and I'll need Stan to pick me up from Heathrow. As I can't be sure what time I'll arrive, tell him to go out to the airport right now and sit tight. Got that?"

"Yes," said Becky.

"And I'll also need Baverstock back in his office, so if he's already disappeared off to the country for the weekend ask him to drop everything and return to London."

"You sound a little harassed, dear."

"Sorry," said Charlie. "It's not been the easiest of journeys."

With the picture under one arm and no interest as to what was wrong with the aircraft this time or where his suitcase might end up, he took the first European flight available that afternoon for London, and once it had taken off checked his watch every ten minutes. When the pilot crossed the English Channel at eight o'clock that evening, Charlie felt confident that four hours would still be ample time for him to register Cathy's claim so long as Becky had cracked down Baverstock.

As the plane began to circle London in a familiar holding pattern Charlie looked out of the little oval window and seared down at the snakelike Thames.

It was another twenty minutes before the lights of the runway glared up in two straight lines at Charlie, followed by a puff of smoke as the wheels couched the ground and the plane taxied to its alloted gate. The doors of the aircraft were finally opened at eight twenty-nine.

Charlie grabbed the picture and ran all the way to passport control and on through customs.

He didn't stop until he saw a telephone box, but as he hadn't any coins to make a local call he told the operator his name and asked to transfer the charge. A moment later he was put through.

"Becky, I'm at Heathrow. Where's Baverstock?"

"On his way back from Tewkesbury. Expects to be in his office around nine-thirty, latest ten."

"Good, then I'll come straight home. I should be with you in about forty minutes."

Charlie slammed down the phone, checked his watch and realized that he hadn't left himself enough time to phone Dr. Atkins. He ran out onto the pavement, suddenly aware of the chill breeze. Stan was waiting by the car for him. Over the years the former sergeant major had become accustomed to Charlie's impatience and drove him smoothly through the outskirts of London ignoring the speed limit until they reached Chiswick after which only a motorbike could have been stopped for speeding. Despite the teeming rain he had his boss back at Eaton Square by nine-sixteen.

Charlie was about halfway through telling a silent Becky all he had discovered in Australia when Baverstock phoned to say he was back at his office in High Holborn. Charlie thanked him, passed on his nephew's best wishes and then apologized for ruining his weekend.

"You won't have ruined it if your news is positive," said Baverstock.

"Guy Trentham had another child," said Charlie.

"I didn't imagine that you'd dragged me back from Tewkesbury to tell me the latest test score from Melbourne," said Baverstock. "Male or female?"

"Female."

"Legitimate or illegitimate?"

"Legitimate."

"Then she can register her claim with the estate at any time before midnight."

"She has to register her claim with you in person?"

"That is what the will stipulates," said Baverstock. "However, if she's still in Australia she can register with Trevor Roberts, as I've given him—"

"No, she's in England and I'll have her in your office by midnight."

"Good. By the way, what's her name?" asked Baverstock. "Just so that I can prepare the paperwork."

"Cathy Ross," said Charlie. "But ask your nephew to explain everything as I haven't a moment to spare," he added, replacing the receiver before Baverstock could react. He ran out into the hall searching for Becky.

"Where's Cathy?" he shouted, as Becky appeared at the top of the stairs.

"She went to a concert at the Festival Hall. Mozart, I think she said, with some new beau from the City."

"Right, let's go," said Charlie.

"Go?"

"Yes, go," said Charlie at the top of his voice. He had already reached the door and climbed into the back seat of the car before he realized there was no driver.

He jumped out and was on his way back to the house as Becky came rushing out in the opposite direction.

"Where's Stan?"

"Probably having some supper in the kitchen."

"Right," said Charlie, passing over his own keys. "You drive, I'll talk—"

"But where are we off to?"

"The Festival Hall."

"Funny," Becky said, "after all these years and I had no idea you cared for Mozart." As she took her seat behind the wheel Charlie ran round to join her in the front. She pulled out and moved deftly through the evening traffic as Charlie continued to explain the full implications of his discoveries in Australia and how imperative it was that they find Cathy before midnight. Becky listened intently but made no attempt to interrupt her husband's flow.

By the time Charlie asked her if she had any questions they were crossing Westminster Bridge, but Becky still remained silent.

Charlie waited for a few moments before he demanded, "Have you nothing to say?"

"Yes," said Becky. "Don't let's make the same mistake with Cathy as we did with Daniel."

"Namely?"

"Fail to tell her the whole truth."

"I'll have to speak to Dr. Atkins before I can even consider taking that risk," said Charlie. "But our more immediate problem is to make sure she registers in time."

"Not to mention the even more immediate problem of where you expect me to leave the car," said Becky as they swung left into Belvedere Road and on towards the entrance of the Royal Festival Hall with its double yellow lines and "No Parking" signs.

"Right outside the front door," said Charlie, which Becky obeyed without question.

As soon as the car had come to a halt Charlie jumped out, ran across the pavement and pushed through the glass doors.

"What time does the concert end?" he asked the first uniformed official he spotted.

"Ten thirty-five, sir, but you can't leave your car there."

"And where's the manager's office?"

"Fifth floor, turn right, second door on the left as you get out of the lift. But . . ."

"Thank you," shouted Charlie, already running past him towards the lift. Becky had just about caught up with her husband by the time the light above the lift indicated G.

"Your car, sir " said the doorman, but the lift doors were already closing on the gesticulating official.

When the lift doors slid apart at the fifth floor Charlie jumped out, looked right and saw a door to his left marked "Manager." He knocked once before charging in, to find two men dressed in dinner jackets enjoying a cigarette and listening to the concert over an intercom. They turned to see who had interrupted them.

"Good evening, Sir Charles," said the taller of the two as he rose, stubbed out his cigarette, and stepped forward. "Jackson. I'm the theater manager. Can I help you in any way?"

"I only hope so, Mr. Jackson," said Charlie. "I have to get a young lady out of your concert hall as quickly as possible. It's an emergency."

"Do you know her seat number?"

"No idea." Charlie looked towards his wife, who only shook her head.

"Then follow me," said the manager, who strode straight out of the door and back towards the lift. When the doors reopened the first official Charlie had come across was now standing in front of them.

"Any problems, Ron?"

"Only that this gentleman's left his car bang outside the front door, sir."

"Then keep an eye on it, will you, Ron?" The manager pressed the third-floor button and, turning to Becky, asked, "What was the young lady wearing?"

"A burgundy dress with a white cape," said Becky urgently.

"Well done, madam," said the manager. He stepped out of the lift and led them quickly through to a side entrance adjoining the ceremonial box. Once inside Mr. Jackson removed a small picture of the Queen opening the building in 1957 and flicked back a disguised shutter so that he could observe the audience through a one-way mirror. "A security precaution in case there's ever any trouble," he explained. The manager then unhooked two pairs of opera glasses from their little stands under the balcony and handed one each to Charlie and Becky.

"It you can locate where the lady is seated, one of my staff will discreetly pull her out." He turned to listen to the strains of the final movement for a few seconds before adding, "You've got about ten minutes before the concert ends, twelve at the most. There are no encores planned for tonight."

"You take the stalls, Becky, and I'll cover the dress circle." Charlie began to focus the little opera glasses on the audience seated below them.

They both covered the one thousand, nine hundred seats, first quickly then slowly up and down each row. Neither could spot Cathy in the stalls or dress circle.

"Try the boxes on the other side, Sir Charles," suggested the manager.

Two pairs of glasses swung over to the far side of the cheater. There was still no sign of Cathy, so Charlie and Becky turned their attention back to the main auditorium, once again scanning quickly over the seats.

The conductor brought his baton down for the final time at ten thirty-two and the applause followed in waves as Charlie and Becky searched the standing throng until the lights eventually went up and the audience began to make their way out of the theater.

"You keep on looking, Becky. I'll go out front and see if I can spot them as they're leaving." He dashed out of the ceremonial box and down the stairs followed by Jackson, nearly knocking over a man who was leaving the box below them. Charlie turned to apologize.

"Hello, Charlie, I didn't know you liked Mozart," a voice said.

"I never used to but suddenly he's top of the pops," said Charlie, unable to mask his delight.

"Of course," said the manager. "The one place you couldn't see was the box below ours."

"May I introduce—"

"We haven't time for that," said Charlie. "Just follow me." He grabbed Cathy by the arm. "Mr. Jackson, would you behind enough to ask my wife to explain to this gentleman why I need Cathy. You can have her back after midnight," said Charlie, smiling at the bemused young man. "And thank you, Mr. Jackson."

He checked his watch: ten-forty. "We still have enough time."

"Enough time for what, Charlie?" said Cathy as she found herself being pulled across the foyer and out onto Belvedere Road. The uniformed man was now standing to attention by the car.

"Thank you, Ron," said Charlie as he tried to open the front door. "Damn, Becky's locked it," he said. He turned to watch a cab as it came off the waiting rank. He hailed it.

"I say, old fellow," said a man standing in the front of the taxi queue, "I think you'll find that's my cab."

"She's just about to give birth," said Charlie as he opened the door and pushed the wafer-thin Cathy into the back of the taxi.

"Oh, jolly good luck," said the man, taking a pace backwards.

"Where to, guvn'r?" asked the cabbie.

"Number 110 High Holborn and don't hang about " said Charlie.

"I think we're more likely to find a solicitor than a gynecologist at that particular address," suggested Cathy. "And I do hope you've a worthwhile explanation as to why I'm missing dinner with the one man who's asked me out on a date in weeks."

"Not right now," Charlie confessed. "All I need you to do for the moment is sign a document before midnight, then I promise the explanations will follow."

The taxi pulled up outside the solicitor's office a few minutes after eleven. Charlie stepped out of the cab to find Baverstock was standing by the door waiting to greet them.

"That'll be eight and six, guvn'r."

"Oh, God," said Charlie, "I haven't got any money."

"That's the way he treats all his girls," said Cathy as she passed the cabbie a ten-shilling note.

They both followed Baverstock through to his office where a set of documents was already laid out on his desk. "Since you called I have had a long conversation with my nephew in Australia," said Baverstock, facing Charlie. "So I think I'm well acquainted with everything that took place while you were over there."

"Which is more than I am," said Cathy, sounding bewildered.

"All in good time," said Charlie. "Explanations later." He turned back to Baverstock. "So what happens now?"

"Miss Ross must sign here, here and here," the solicitor said without further explanation, indicating a space between two penciled crosses at the bottom of three separate sheets of paper. "As you are in no way related to the beneficiary or a beneficiary yourself, Sir Charles, you may care to act as the witness to Miss Ross' signature."

Charlie nodded, placed a pair of opera glasses beside the contract and took a pen from his inside pocket.

"You've always taught me in the past, Charlie, to read documents carefully before putting my signature to them."

"Forget everything I've taught you in the past, my girl, and just sign where Mr. Baverstock is pointing."

Cathy signed all three documents without another word.

"Thank you, Miss Ross," said Mr. Baverstock. "And now if you could both bear with me for one moment, I must inform Mr. Birkenshaw of what has taken place."

"Birkenshaw?" said Charlie.

"Mr. Trentham's solicitor. I must obviously let him know immediately that his client is not the only person who has registered a claim to the Hardcastle estate."

Cathy, looking even more bewildered, turned to Charlie.

"Later," said Charlie. "I promise."

Baverstock dialed the seven digits of a Chelsea number.

No one spoke as they waited for the telephone to be answered. Eventually Mr. Baverstock heard a sleepy voice say, "Kensington 7192."

"Good evening, Birkenshaw, Baverstock here. Sorry to have to bother you at this time of night. Indeed, I wouldn't have done so if I hadn't considered the circumstances fully warranted such an intrusion on your privacy. But may I first ask what time you make it?"

"Have I heard you correctly?" said Birkenshaw, his voice now sounding more alert. "You've telephoned me in the middle of the night to ask what the time is?"

"Precisely," said Baverstock. "You see, I need to confirm that it is still before the witching hour. So do be a good fellow and tell me what time you make it."

"I make it eleven-seventeen, but I fail to understand—"

"I make it eleven-sixteen," said Baverstock, "but on the matter of time I am happy to bow to your superior judgment. The purpose of this call, by the way," he continued, "is to let you know that a second person who appears to be a more direct descendant of Sir Raymond than your client has laid claim to the Hardcastle estate."

"What's her name?"

"I suspect you already know that," replied the old laborer before he replaced the telephone. "Damn," he said, looking across at Charlie, "I should have recorded the conversation."

"Why?"

"Because Birkenshaw is never going to admit that he said 'her.'"

Chapter 47

"Are you saying that Guy Trentham was my father?" asked Cathy. "But how . . . ?"

After waking up Dr. Atkins, a man more used to being disturbed during the night, Charlie felt able to explain to Cathy what he had discovered during his visit to Australia, and how everything had been borne out by the information she had supplied to Becky when she first applied for a job at Trumper's. Baverstock listened intently, nodding from time to time, while regularly checking the copious notes he had made following a long conversation with his nephew in Sydney.

Cathy listened to everything Charlie had to report and although she now had some recollections of her life in Australia, she was still fairly vague about her days at the University of Melbourne and could remember almost nothing of St. Hilda's. The name "Miss Benson" just didn't register at all.

"I've tried so hard to recall more details of what happened before I came to England, but nothing much comes back despite the fact that I can remember almost everything that took place after I landed at Southampton. Dr. Atkins isn't that optimistic, is he?"

"There are no rules, is all he keeps reminding me."

Charlie stood up, walked across the room and turned Cathy's painting round, a look of hope appearing on his face, but she just shook her head as she stared at the woodland scene.

"I agree I must have painted it at some time, but I've no idea where or when."

Around four the following morning Charlie phoned for a taxi to take them back to Eaton Square, having agreed with Baverstock that he should set up a face-to-face meeting with the other side as soon as it could be arranged. When they returned home Cathy was so exhausted that she went straight to bed, but as Charlie's time clock didn't allow him to sleep he closeted himself in the study and continued his mental search for the missing link, only too aware of the legal battle that lay ahead of him even if he succeeded.

The following day he and Cathy traveled up to Cambridge together and spent a fraught afternoon in Dr. Atkins' little office at Addenbrooke's. For his part the consultant seemed far more interested in the file on Cathy that had been supplied by Mrs. Culver than the fact she might in some way be related to Mrs. Trentham and therefore eligible to inherit the Hardcastle Trust.

He took her slowly through each item in the file art classes, credits, misdemeanors, tennis matches, Melbourne Church of England Girls' Grammar School, Universiy of Melbourne but he always met with the same response: deep thought, but only vague recollections. He tried word associations Melbourne, Miss Benson, cricket, ship, hotel to which he received the replies, Australia, Hedges, scorer, Southampton, long hours.

"Scorer" was the only word that interested Dr. Atkins, but pressed further, Cathy's only memories of Australia remained a sketchy description of a grammar school, some clear recollections of the university and a boy called Mel Nicholls, followed by a long trip on a ship to London. She could even tell them the names of Pam and Maureen, who had traveled over with her, but not where they came from.

Cathy went into great detail when the subject turned to the Melrose Hotel and Charlie was able to confirm the accuracy of Cathy's recollection of her early life at Trumper's.

The description of her first meeting with Daniel, down to his changing the place cards at the Trumpers' housewarming party, brought tears to Charlie's eyes. But on the subject of her parentage and the names of Margaret Ethel Trentham and Miss Rachel Benson, she still had nothing to offer.

By six o'clock Cathy was drained. Dr. Atkins took Charlie on one side and warned him that in his opinion it was most unlikely that she would remember much more of what took place in her life before she arrived in London. Perhaps minor incidents might come back to her from time to time, but nothing of any real significance.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't much help to you, was I?" said Cathy as Charlie drove her back to London.

He took her hand. "We're not beaten yet," he promised her, although he was beginning to feel that Trevor Roberts' odds of fifty-fifty of proving that Cathy was the rightful claimant to the Hardcastle Trust were looking distinctly optimistic.

Becky was there to welcome them home and the three of them had a quiet supper together. Charlie made no reference to what had taken place at Cambridge earlier in the day until after Cathy had retired to her room. When Becky heard how Cathy had responded to Dr. Atkins' examination she insisted that from now on the girl was to be left in peace.

"I lost Daniel because of that woman," she told her husband. "I'm not willing to lose Cathy as well. If you're going to continue your fight for Trumper's you must do it without involving her."

Charlie nodded his agreement though he wanted to shout out: how am I expected to save everything I've built up from being taken away from me by yet another Trentham without being allowed to push Cathy to the brink?

Just before he switched out the bedroom light the phone rang. It was Trevor Roberts calling from Sydney, but his news did not advance their cause. Walter Slade had refused to release any new information on Ethel Trentham and wouldn't even sign a document confirming he had known her. Charlie once again cursed himself for the crass way he had handled the interview with the old Yorkshireman.

"And the bank?" he asked, not sounding too hopeful.

"The Commercial Bank of Australia say they wouldn't allow access to the details of Miss Benson's private account unless we could prove a crime had been committed. What Mrs. Trentham did to Cathy might well be described as evil, but I fear it wasn't strictly criminal."

"It hasn't been a good day for either of us," admitted Charlie.

"Never forget that the other side doesn't know that."

"True, but how much do they know?"

"My uncle told me about Birkenshaw's slip of the tongue with 'her,' so my bet is they know almost as much as we do. When you confront them, better assume they do, while at the same time never stop looking for that missing link."

After Charlie had put down the phone, he lay awake for some time and didn't move again until he could hear Becky breathing deeply. Then he slid out of bed, donned his dressing gown and crept down to his study. He opened a notebook and began to write out every fact he had gathered during the last few days in the hope that it might just trigger some memory. The following morning Cathy found him slumped, head on his desk, sound asleep.

"I don't deserve you, Charlie," she whispered, kissing him on the forehead. He stirred and raised his eyes.

"We're winning," he said sleepily and even managed a smile, but he realized from the expression on her face that she didn't believe him.

Becky joined them for breakfast an hour later and talked of everything except the face-to-face meeting that had been arranged to take place in Mr. Baverstock's rooms that afternoon.

As Charlie stood up to leave the table, Cathy said, quite unexpectedly, "I'd like to be present at the showdown."

"Do you think that's wise?" asked Becky, glancing anxiously towards her husband.

"Perhaps not," said Cathy. "But I'm still certain I want to be there, not just learn about the outcome later, second-hand."

"Good girl," said Charlie. "The meeting will be at three in Baverstock's office, when we will get the chance to present our case. Trentham's lawyer will be joining us at four. I'll pick you up at two-thirty, but if you want to change your mind before then, it won't worry me in the slightest."

Becky turned to see how Cathy had reacted to this suggestion and was disappointed.

When Charlie marched into his office at exactly eight-thirty, Daphne and Arthur Selwyn were already waiting for him as instructed.

"Coffee for three and please, no interruptions," Charlie told Jessica, placing his night's work on the desk in front of him.

"So where do we start?" asked Daphne, and for the next hour and a half they rehearsed questions, statements and tactics that could be used when dealing with Trentham and Birkenshaw, trying to anticipate every situation that might arise.

By the time a light lunch was sent in just before twelve they all felt drained; no one spoke for some time.

"It's important for you to remember that you're dealing with a different Trentham this time," said Arthur Selwyn eventually, as he dropped a sugar lump into his coffee.

"They're all as bad as each other as far as I'm concerned," said Charlie.

"Perhaps Nigel's every bit as resolute as his brother, but I don't believe for one moment that he has his mother's cunning or Guy's ability to think on his feet."

"Just what are you getting at, Arthur?" asked Daphne.

"When you all meet this afternoon Charlie must keep Trentham talking as much as possible, because I've noticed over the years during board meetings that he often says one sentence too many and simply ends up defeating his own case. I'll never forget the time he was against the staff having their own canteen because of the loss of revenue it was bound to incur, until Cathy pointed out that the food came out of the same kitchen as the restaurant and we actually ended up making a small profit on what would otherwise have been thrown away."

Charlie considered this statement as he took another bite out of his sandwich.

"Wonder what his advisers are telling him are my weak points."

"Your temper," said Daphne. "You've always lived on a short fuse. So don't give them the chance to light it."

At one o'clock Daphne and Arthur Selwyn left Charlie in peace. After the door had closed behind them Charlie removed his jacket, went over to the sofa, lay down and for the next hour slept soundly. At two o'clock Jessica woke him. He smiled up at her, feeling fully refreshed: another legacy from the war.

He returned to his desk and read through his notes once again before leaving his office to walk three doors down the corridor and pick up Cathy. He quite expected her to have changed her mind but she already had her coat on and was sitting waiting for him. They drove over to Baverstock's office, arriving a full hour before Trentham and Birkenshaw were due to put in an appearance.

The old lawyer listened carefully to Charlie as he presented his case, occasionally nodding or making further notes, though from the expression on his face Charlie had no way of knowing what he really felt.

When Charlie had come to the end of his monologue Baverstock put his fountain pen down on the desk and leaned back in his chair. For some time he didn't speak.

"I am impressed by the logic of your argument, Sir Charles," he said eventually, as he leaned forward and placed the palms of his hands on the desk in front of him. "And indeed with the evidence you have gathered. However, I'm bound to say that without the corroboration of your main witness and also with no written affidavits from either Walter Slade or Miss Benson Mr. Birkenshaw will be quick to point out that your claim is based almost entirely on circumstantial evidence.

"Nonetheless," he continued, "we shall have to see what the other side has to offer. I find it hard to believe following my conversation with Birkenshaw on Saturday night that your findings will come as a complete revelation to his client."

The clock on his mantelpiece struck a discreet four chimes; Baverstock checked his pocket watch. There was no sign of the other side and soon the old solicitor started drumming his fingers on the desk. Charlie began to wonder if this was simply tactics on behalf of his adversary.

Nigel Trentham and his lawyer finally appeared at twelve minutes past four; neither of them seemed to feel it was necessary to apologize for their lateness.

Charlie stood up when Mr. Baverstock introduced him to Victor Birkenshaw, a tall, thin man, not yet fifty, prematurely balding with what little hair he had left combed over the top of his head in thin gray strands. The only characteristic he seemed to have in common with Baverstock was that their clothes appeared to have come from the same tailor. Birkenshaw sat down in one of the two vacant seats opposite the old lawyer without acknowledging that Cathy was even in the room. He removed a pen from his top pocket, took out a pad from his briefcase and rested it on his knee.

"My client, Mr. Nigel Trentham, has come to lay claim to his inheritance as the rightful heir to the Hardcastle Trust," he began, "as clearly stated in Sir Raymond's last will and testament."

"Your client," said Baverstock, picking up Birkenshaw's rather formal approach, "may I remind you, is not named in Sir Raymond's will, and a dispute has now arisen as to who is the rightful next of kin. Please don't forget that Sir Raymond insisted that I call this meeting, should the need arise, in order to adjudicate on his behalf."

"My client," came back Birkenshaw, "is the second son of the late Gerald and Margaret Ethel Trentham and the grandson of Sir Raymond Hardcastle. Therefore, following the death of Guy Trentham, his elder brother, he must surely be the legitimate heir."

"Under the terms of the will, I am bound to accept your client's claim," agreed Baverstock, "unless it can be shown that Guy Trentham is survived by a child or children. We already know that Guy was the father of Daniel Trumper—"

"That has never been proven to my client's satisfaction," said Birkenshaw, busily writing down Baverstock's words.

"It was proven sufficiently to Sir Raymond's satisfaction for him to name Daniel in his will in preference to your client. And following the meeting between Mrs. Trentham and her grandson we have every reason to believe that she also was in no doubt as to who Daniel's father was. Otherwise why did she bother to come to an extensive agreement with him?"

"This is all conjecture," said Birkenshaw. "Only one fact is certain: the gentleman in question is no longer with us, and as far as anyone knows produced no children of his own." He still did not look in Cathy's direction while she sat listening silently as the ball was tossed back and forth between the two professionals.

"We were happy to accept that without question," said Charlie, intervening for the first time. "But what we didn't know until recently was that Guy Trentham had a second child called Margaret Ethel."

"What proof do you have for such an outrageous claim?" said Birkenshaw, sitting bolt upright.

"The proof is in the bank statement that I sent round to your home on Sunday morning."

"A statement, I might say," said Birkenshaw, "that should not have been opened by anyone other than my client." He glanced towards Nigel Trentham, who was busy lighting a cigarette.

"I agree," said Charlie, his voice rising. "But I thought I'd take a leaf out of Mrs. Trentham's book for a change."

Baverstock winced, fearing his friend might be on the verge of losing his temper.

"Whoever the girl was," continued Charlie, "she somehow managed to get her name onto police files as Guy Trentham's only surviving child and to paint a picture that remained on the dining room wall of a Melbourne orphanage for over twenty years. A painting, I might add, that could not be reproduced by anyone other than the person who originally created it. Better than a fingerprint, wouldn't you say? Or is that also conjecture?"

"The only thing the painting proves," retorted Birkenshaw, "is that Miss Ross resided at an orphanage in Melbourne at some time between 1927 and 1946. However, I'm given to understand that she is quite unable to recall any details of her life at that orphanage, or indeed anything about its principal. Is that not the case, Miss Ross?" He turned to face Cathy directly for the first time.

She nodded her reluctant agreement, but still didn't speak.

"Some witness," said Birkenshaw, not attempting to disguise the sarcasm. "She can't even support the story you are putting forward on her behalf. Her name is Cathy Ross, that much we do know, despite your so-called evidence there's nothing to link her with Sir Raymond Hardcastle."

"There are several people who can support her 'story,' as you call it," said Charlie, jumping back in. Baverstock raised an eyebrow, as no evidence had been placed before him to corroborate such a statement, even if he did want to believe what Sir Charles was saying.

"Knowing that she was brought up in an orphanage in Melbourne doesn't add up to corroboration," said Birkenshaw, pushing back a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. "I repeat, even if we were to accept all your wild claims about some imagined meeting between Mrs. Trentham and Miss Benson, that still doesn't prove Miss Ross is of the same blood as Guy Trentham."

"Perhaps you'd like to check her blood group for yourself?" said Charlie. This time Mr. Baverstock raised both eyebrows: the subject of blood groups had never been referred to by either party before.

"A blood group, I might add, Sir Charles, that is shared by half the world's population." Birkenshaw tugged the lapels of his jacket.

"Oh, so you've already checked it?" said Charlie with a look of triumph. "So there must be some doubt in your mind."

"There's no doubt in my mind as to who is the rightful heir to the Hardcastle estate," Birkenshaw said before turning to face Baverstock. "How long are we expected to drag out this farce?" His question was followed by an exasperated sigh.

"As long as it takes for someone to convince me who is the rightful heir to Sir Raymond's estate," said Baverstock, his voice remaining cold and authoritative.

"What more do you want?" Birkenshaw asked. "My client has nothing to hide, whereas Miss Ross seems to have nothing to offer."

"Then perhaps you could explain, Birkenshaw, to my satisfaction," said Baverstock, "why Mrs. Ethel Trentham made regular payments over several years to a Miss Benson, the principal of St. Hilda's Orphanage in Melbourne, where I think we all now accept Miss Ross lived between 1927 and 1946?"

"I didn't have the privilege of representing Mrs. Trentham, or indeed Miss Benson, so I'm in no position to offer an opinion. Nor, sir, for that matter, are you . . ."

"Perhaps your client is aware of the reason for those payments and would care to offer an opinion," interjected Charlie. They both turned to Nigel Trentham, who calmly stubbed out the remains of his cigarette but still made no attempt to speak.

"There's no reason why my client should be expected to answer any such hypothetical question," Birkenshaw suggested.

"But if your client is so unwilling to speak for himself," said Baverstock, "it makes it all the more difficult for me to accept that he has nothing to hide."

"That, sir, is unworthy of you," said Birkenshaw. "You of all people are well aware that when a client is represented by a lawyer it is understood he may not necessarily wish to speak. In fact, it was not even obligatory for Mr. Trentham to attend this meeting."

"This isn't a court of law," said Baverstock sharply. "In any case, I suspect Mr. Trentham's grandfather would not have approved of such tactics."

"Are you denying my client his legal rights?"

"Certainly not. However, if because of his unwillingness to offer any opinion I feel unable to come to a decision myself I may have to recommend to both parties that this matter be settled in a court of law, as stated clearly in clause twenty-seven of Sir Raymond's will."

Yet another clause that he didn't know about, Charlie reflected ruefully.

"But such a case might take years just to reach the courts," Birkenshaw pointed out. "Furthermore, it could end up in vast expenses to both sides. I cannot believe that would have been Sir Raymond's purpose."

"That may be so," said Baverstock. "But at least it would ensure that your client was given the opportunity to explain those quarterly payments to a jury—that is, if he knew anything about them."

For the first time Birkenshaw seemed to hesitate but Trentham still didn't speak. He just sat there, drawing on a second cigarette.

"A jury might also consider Miss Ross to be nothing more than an opportunist," suggested Birkenshaw, changing tack. "An opportunist who, having stumbled upon rather a good tale, managed to get herself over to England where she then made the facts fit in neatly with her own circumstances."

"Very neatly indeed," said Charlie. "Didn't she do well at the age of three to get herself registered at an orphanage in Melbourne? At exactly the same time as Guy Trentham was locked up in the local jail—"

"Coincidence," said Birkenshaw.

"—having been left there by Mrs. Trentham, who then makes out a quarterly payment to the principal of that orphanage which mysteriously ceases the moment Miss Benson dies. That must have been some secret she was keeping."

"Once again circumstantial and, what's more, inadmissible," said Birkenshaw.

Nigel Trentham leaned forward and was about to make a comment when his lawyer placed his right hand firmly on his arm. "We shall not fall for those sort of bully-boy tactics, Sir Charles, that I suspect are more commonplace in the Whitechapel Road than in Lincoln's Inn."

Charlie leaped out of his chair, his fist clenched, and took a pace towards Birkenshaw.

"Calm yourself, Sir Charles," said Baverstock sharply.

Charlie reluctantly came to a halt a couple of feet in front of Birkenshaw, who did not flinch. After a moment's hesitation he recalled Daphne's advice and returned to his chair. Trentham's lawyer continued to stare defiantly at him.

"As I was saying," said Birkenshaw, "my client has nothing to hide. And he will certainly not find it necessary to resort to physical violence to prove his case."

Charlie unclenched his fist but did not lower his voice: "I do hope your client will resort to answering leading counsel when he inquires as to why his mother continued to pay large sums of money to someone from the other side of the world whom she, so you claim, never met. And why a Mr. Walter Slade, a chauffeur with the Victoria Country Club, took Mrs. Trentham to St. Hilda's on 20 April 1927 accompanied by a little girl of Cathy's age called Margaret, but left without her. And I'll bet if we ask a judge to delve into Miss Benson's bank account, we'll find that those payments go back to within a day of when Miss Ross was registered at St. Hilda's. After all, we already know that the banker's order was canceled the week Miss Benson died."

Once again Baverstock appeared horrified by Charlie's reckless nerve, and raised a hand in the hope that he might stop any further outbursts.

Birkenshaw in contrast couldn't resist a wry smile. "Sir Charles, in default of your being represented by a lawyer, I really should remind you of one or two home truths. For a start, let me make one point abundantly clear: my client has assured me that he had never heard of Miss Benson until yesterday. In any case, no English judge has the jurisdiction to delve into an Australian bank account unless they have reason to believe a crime has been committed in both countries. What is more, Sir Charles, two of your key wimesses are sadly in their graves while the third, Mr. Walter Slade, will not be making any trips to London. What is more, you won't be able to subpoena him.

"So now let us turn to your claim, Sir Charles, that a jury would be surprised if my client did not appear in the witness box to answer on behalf of his mother. I suspect they would be even more staggered to learn that the principal witness in this case, the claimant, was also unwilling to take the stand to answer on her own behalf because she has little or no recollection of what actually took place at the time in question. I do not believe that you could find a counsel in the land who would be willing to put Miss Ross through such an ordeal if the only words she is likely to utter in reply to every question put to her in the witness box were, 'Sorry, I can't remember.' Or is it possible that she simply has nothing credible to say? Let me assure you, Sir Charles, we would be only too happy to go to court, because you would be laughed out of it."

Charlie could tell from the look on Baverstock's face that he was beaten. He glanced sadly across at Cathy, whose expression had not changed for the past hour.

Baverstock slowly removed his spectacles and made great play of cleaning them with a handkerchief he had taken out of his top pocket. Eventually he spoke: "I confess, Sir Charles, that I cannot see any good reason to take up the courts' time with this case. In fact, I believe it would be irresponsible of me to do so, unless of course Miss Ross is able to produce some fresh evidence of her identity that has so far not been considered or at least can corroborate all the statements you have made on her behalf." He turned to Cathy. "Miss Ross, is there anything you would like to say at this juncture?"

All four men turned their attention to Cathy, who was sitting quietly, rubbing a thumb against the inside of her forefinger, just below her chin. "I apologize, Miss Ross," said Baverstock. "I didn't realize that you had been trying to gain my attention."

"No, no, it is I who should apologize, Mr. Baverstock," said Cathy. "I always do that when I'm nervous. It reminds me of the piece of jewelry that my father gave me when I was a child."

"The piece of jewelry your father gave you?" said Mr. Baverstock quietly, not sure that he had heard her correctly.

"Yes," said Cathy. She undid the top button of her blouse and took out the miniature medal that hung from the end of a piece of string.

"Your father gave you that?" said Charlie.

"Oh, yes," said Cathy. "It's the only tangible memory I have of him."

"May I see the necklace, please?" asked Baverstock.

"Certainly," said Cathy, slipping the thin gold chain over her head and passing the medal to Charlie. He examined the miniature for some time before handing it on to Mr. Baverstock.

"Although I'm no expert on medals I think it's a miniature MC," said Charlie.

"Wasn't Guy Trentham awarded the MC?" asked Baverstock.

"Yes, he was," said Birkenshaw, "and he also went to Harrow, but simply wearing their old school tie doesn't prove my client was his brother. In fact, it doesn't prove anything and certainly couldn't be produced as evidence in a court of law. After all, there must be hundreds of MCs still around. Indeed, Miss Ross could have picked up such a medal in any junk shop in London once she'd planned to make the facts surrounding Guy Trentham fit in with her background. You can't really expect us to fall for that old trick, Sir Charles."

"I can assure you, Mr. Birkenshaw, that this particular medal was given to me by my father," said Cathy, looking directly at the lawyer. "He may not have been entitled to wear it, but I will never forget him placing it around my neck."

"That can't possibly be my brother's MC," said Nigel Trentham, speaking for the first time. "What's more, I can prove it."

"You can prove what?" asked Baverstock.

"Are you certain?" began Birkenshaw, but this time it was Trentham who placed a hand firmly on his lawyer's arm.

"I will prove to your satisfaction, Mr. Baverstock," continued Trentham, "that the medal you now have in front of you could not have been the MC won by my brother."

"And just how do you propose to do that?" asked Baverstock.

"Because Guy's medal was unique. After he had been awarded his MC my mother sent the original to Spinks and at her request they engraved Guy's initials down the edge of one of the arms. Those initials can only be seen under a magnifying glass. I know, because the medal he was presented with on the Marne still stands on the mantelpiece of my home in Chester Square. If a miniature had ever existed my mother would have had his initials engraved on it in exactly the same way."

No one spoke as Baverstock opened a drawer in his desk and took out an ivory-handled magnifying glass that he nominally used to decipher illegible handwriting. He held up the medal to the light and studied the edges of the little silver arms one by one.

"You're quite right," admitted Baverstock, as he looked back up at Trentham. "Your case is proven." He passed both the medal and the magnifying glass over to Mr. Birkenshaw, who in turn studied the MC for some time before resuming the medal to Cathy with a slight bow of the head. He turned to his client and asked, "Were your brother's initials 'G.F.T.'?"

"Yes, that's right. Guy Francis Trentham."

"Then I can only wish that you had kept your mouth shut."