As the Crow Flies

Chapter 22

I don't believe anyone could describe me as a snob. However, I do believe that the maxim "There's a place for everything, and everything in its place" applies equally well to human beings.

I was born in Yorkshire at the height of the Victorian empire and I think I can safely say that during that period in our island's history my family played a considerable role.

My father, Sir Raymond Hardcastle, was not only an inventor and industrialist of great imagination and skill, but he also built up one of the nation's most successful companies. At the same time he always treated his workers as if they were all part of the family, and indeed it was this example that he set, whenever he dealt with those less fortunate than himself, that has been the benchmark by which I have attempted to conduct my own life.

I have no brothers and just one elder sister, Amy.

Although there were only a couple of years between us I cannot pretend that we were ever particularly close, perhaps because I was an outgoing, even vivacious child, while she was shy and reserved, to the point of being retiring, particularly whenever it came to contact with members of the opposite sex. Father and I tried to help her find an appropriate spouse, but it was to prove an impossible task, and even he gave up once Amy had passed her fortieth birthday. Instead she has usefully occupied her time since my mother's untimely death taking care of my beloved father in his old age—an arrangement, I might add, that has suited them both admirably.

I, on the other hand, had no problem in finding myself a husband. If I remember correctly, Gerald was the fourth or perhaps even the fifth suitor who went down on bended knee to ask for my hand in marriage. Gerald and I first met when I had been a houseguest at Lord and Lady Fanshaw's country home in Norfolk. The Fanshaws were old friends of my father, and I had been seeing their younger son Anthony for some considerable time. As it turned out, I was warned that he was not going to inherit his father's land or title, so it seemed to me there was little purpose in letting the young man entertain any hopes of a lasting relationship. If I remember correctly, Father was not overwhelmed with my conduct and may even have chastised me at the time, but as I tried to explain to him, at length, although Gerald may not have been the most dashing of my paramours, he did have the distinct advantage of coming from a family that farmed land in three counties, not to mention an estate in Aberdeen.

We were married at St. Mary's, Great Ashton, in July 1895 and our first son, Guy, was conceived a year later; one does like a proper period of time to elapse before one's firstborn takes his place in the world, thus giving no one cause for idle chatter.

My father always treated both my sister and me as equals, although I was often given to believe that I was his favorite. Had it not been for his sense of fair play he would surely have left everything to me, because he simply doted on Guy, whereas in fact Amy will, on my father's demise, inherit half his vast fortune. Heaven knows what possible use she could make of such wealth, her only interests in life being gardening, crochet work and the occasional visit to the Scarborough festival.

But to return to Guy, everyone who came into contact with the boy during those formative years invariably commented on what a handsome child he was, and although I never allowed him to become spoiled, I did consider it nothing less than my duty to ensure that he was given the sort of start in life that would prepare him for the role I felt confident he was bound eventually to play. With that in mind, even before he'd been christened, he was registered with Asgarth Preparatory School, and then Harrow, from where I assumed he would enter the Royal Military Academy. His grandfather spared no expense when it came to his education, and indeed, in the case of his eldest grandson, was generous to a fault.

Five years later I gave birth to a second son, Nigel, who arrived somewhat prematurely, which may account for why he took rather longer to progress than his elder brother. Guy, meanwhile, was going through several private tutors, one or two of whom found him perhaps a little too boisterous. After all, what child doesn't at some time put toads in your bathwater or cut shoelaces in half?

At the age of nine Guy duly proceeded to Asgarth, and from there on to Harrow. The Reverend Prebendary Anthony Wood was his headmaster at the time and I reminded him that Guy was the seventh generation of Trenthams to have attended that school.

While at Harrow Guy excelled both in the combined cadet force―becoming a company sergeant major in his final year―and in the boxing ring, where he beat every one of his opponents with the notable exception of the match against Radley, where he came up against a Nigerian, who I later learned was in his mid-twenties.

It saddened me that during his last term at school Guy was not made a prefect. I understood that he had become involved in so many other activities that it was not considered to be in his own best interests. Although I might have hoped that his exam results would have been a little more satisfactory, I have always considered that he was one of those children who can be described as innately intelligent rather than academically clever. Despite a rather biased housemaster's report that suggested some of the marks Guy had been awarded in his final exams came as a surprise to him, my son still managed to secure his place at Sandhurst.

At the academy Guy proved to be a first-class cadet and also found time to continue with his boxing, becoming the cadet middleweight champion. Two years later, in July 1916, he passed out in the top half of the roll of honor before going on to join his father's old regiment.

Gerald, I should point out, had left the Fusiliers on the death of his father in order that he might return to Berkshire and take over the running of the family estates. He had been a brevet colonel at the time of his forced retirement, and many considered that he was the natural successor to be the Commanding Officer of the Regiment. As it turned out, he was passed over for someone who wasn't even in the first battalion, a certain Danvers Hamilton. Although I had never met the gentleman in question, several brother officers expressed the view that his appointment had been a travesty of justice. However, I had every confidence that Guy would redeem the family honor and in time go on to command the regiment himself.

Although Gerald was not directly involved in the Great War he did nevertheless serve his country during those arduous years by allowing his name to be put forward as a parliamentary candidate for Berkshire West, a constituency that in the middle of the last century his grandfather had represented for the Liberals under Palmerston. He was returned unopposed in three elections and worked for his party diligently from the back benches, having made it clear to all concerned that he had no desire to hold office.

After Guy had received the King's commission, he was despatched to Aldershot as a second lieutenant, where he continued with his training in preparation for joining the regiment on the Western Front. On being awarded his second pip in less than a year he was transferred to Edinburgh and seconded to the fifth battalion a few weeks before they were ordered to sail for France.

Nigel, meanwhile, had just entered Harrow and was attempting to follow in his brother's footsteps—I fear, however, not with quite the same obvious flair. In fact during one of those interminable holidays they will give children nowadays he complained to me of being bullied. I told the boy to buckle down and remember that we were at war. I also pointed out that I could never recall Guy making a fuss on that particular score.

I watched my two sons closely during that long summer of 1917 and cannot pretend that Guy found Nigel an amiable companion while he was at home on leave; in fact he barely tolerated his company. I kept telling Nigel that he had to strive to gain his elder brother's respect, but this only resulted in Nigel running off to hide in the garden for hours on end.

During his leave that summer I advised Guy to visit his grandfather in Yorkshire and even found a first edition of Songs of Innocence to present him with which I knew my father had long wanted to add to his collection. Guy returned a week later and confirmed that securing a William Blake the old man did not have had indeed put Grandpa "in good salts."

Naturally, like any mother, during that particular inspiring period in our history I became anxious that Guy should be seen to acquit himself well in the face of the enemy, and eventually, God willing, return home in one piece. As it turned out, I think I can safely say that no mother, however proud, could have asked for more of a son.

Guy was promoted to the rank of captain at a very young age, and following the second battle of the Marne, was awarded the Military Cross. Others who read the citation felt he had been a touch unlucky not to have been put forward for the VC. I have resisted pointing out to them that any such recommendation would have had to be countersigned by his commanding officer in the field, and as he was a certain Danvers Hamilton the injustice was readily explicable.

Soon after the Armistice was signed Guy returned home to serve a tour of duty at the regimental barracks in Hounslow. While he was on leave I asked Spinks to engrave both of his MCs, dress and miniature, with the initials G.F.T. Meanwhile, his brother Nigel was, after some influence being exercised by Gerald, finally accepted as a cadet at the Royal Military Academy.

During the time Guy was back in London, I feel certain he sowed a few wild oats—what young man of that age doesn't. But he well understood that marriage before the age of thirty could only harm his chances of promotion.

Although he brought several young ladies down to Ashurst on the weekends, I knew none of them was serious and anyway, I already had my eye on a particular girl from the next village who had been known to the family for some considerable time. Despite being without a title she could trace her family back to the Norman Conquest. More important, they could walk on their own land from Ashurst to Hastings.

It thus came as a particularly unpleasant shock for me when Guy turned up one weekend accompanied by a girl called Rebecca Salmon, who, I found it hard to believe, was at that time sharing rooms with the Harcourt-Brownes' daughter.

As I have already made abundantly clear, I am not a snob. But Miss Salmon is, I fear, the type of girl who always manages to bring out the worst in me. Don't misunderstand me. I have nothing against anyone simply because they wish to be educated. In fact I'm basically in favor of such goings-on—in sensible proportions—but at the same time that doesn't allow one to assume one automatically has a right to a place in society. You see, I just can't abide anyone who pretends to be something that they obviously are not, and I sensed even before meeting Miss Salmon that she was coming down to Ashurst with one purpose in mind.

We all understood that Guy was having a fling while he was based in London—after all, Miss Salmon was that type of girl. Indeed, when the following weekend I had Guy to myself for a few moments I was able to warn him never to allow the likes of Miss Salmon to get her hooks into him; he must realize he would be a marvelous catch for someone from her background.

Guy laughed at such a suggestion and assured me that he had no long-term plans for the baker's daughter. In any case, he reminded me, he would be departing to serve with the colors in Poona before too long, so marriage was out of the question. He must have sensed, however, that my fears were still not fully assuaged, because after a further thought he added, "it may interest you to know, Mother, that Miss Salmon is presently walking out with a sergeant from the regiment with whom she has an understanding."

In fact two weeks later Guy appeared at Ashurst with a Miss Victoria Berkeley, a far more suitable choice whose mother I had known for years; indeed, if the girl hadn't had four other sisters and an impoverished archdeacon for a father, she might in time have suited admirably.

To be fair, after that single unfortunate occasion Guy never mentioned the name of Rebecca Salmon in my presence again, and as he sailed for India a few months later, I assumed I had heard the last of the wretched girl.

When Nigel eventually left Sandhurst he didn't follow Guy into the regiment, as it had become abundantly clear during his two-year period at the academy that he was not cut out to be a soldier. However, Gerald was able to secure him a position with a firm of stock-brokers in the City where one of his cousins was the senior partner. I have to admit that the reports that filtered back to me from time to time were not encouraging, but once I had mentioned to Gerald's cousin that I would eventually be needing someone to manage his grandfather's portfolio, Nigel started to progress slowly up the firm's ladder.

It must have been about six months later that Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton dropped Gerald that note through the letter box at 19 Chester Square. The moment Gerald told me that Hamilton wanted a private word with him, I sensed trouble. Over the years I had come in contact with many of Gerald's brother officers so I knew exactly how to handle them. Gerald, on the other hand, is quite naive when it comes to matters of a personal nature, invariably giving the other fellow the benefit of the doubt. I immediately checked my husband's whip commitments in the Commons for the following week and arranged for Sir Danvers to visit us on the Monday evening at six, knowing only too well that, because of his commitments in the House, Gerald would almost certainly have to cancel the meeting at the last moment.

Gerald phoned soon after five on the day in question to say that he couldn't possibly get away and suggested the colonel might come on over to the House of Commons. I said I would see what I could do. An hour later Sir Danvers arrived at Chester Square. After I had apologized and explained my husband's absence I was able to convince him that he should convey his message to me. When the colonel informed me that Miss Salmon was going to have a child I naturally asked of what interest that could possibly be to Gerald or myself. He hesitated only for a moment before suggesting that Guy was the father. I realized immediately that if such a slander was allowed to spread abroad it might even reach the ears of his brother officers in Poona and that could only do immense harm to my son's chances of further promotion. Any such suggestion I therefore dismissed as ridiculous, along with the colonel in the same breath.

It was during a rubber of bridge at Celia Littlechild's house a few weeks later that she let slip that she had employed a private detective called Harris to spy on her first husband, once she was convinced he was being unfaithful. After learning this piece of information I found myself quite unable to concentrate on the game, much to my partner's annoyance.

On returning home I looked up the name in the London directory. There he was: "Max Harris, Private Detective―ex-Scotland Yard, all problems considered." After some minutes staring at the phone, I finally picked up the headpiece and asked the operator to get me Paddington 3720. I waited for several moments before anyone spoke.

"Harris," said a gruff voice without further explanation.

"Is that the detective agency?" I asked, nearly replacing the phone back on the hook before I had given the man a chance to reply.

"Yes, madam, it is," said the voice, sounding a little more enthusiastic.

"I may be in need of your help―for a friend, you understand," I said, feeling rather embarrassed.

"A friend," said the voice. "Yes, of course. Then perhaps we should meet."

"But not at your office," I insisted.

"I quite understand, madam. Would the St. Agnes Hotel, Bury Street, South Kensington, four o'clock tomorrow afternoon suit?"

"Yes," I said and put the phone down, suddenly aware that he didn't know my name and I didn't know what he looked like.

When the following day I arrived at the St. Agnes, a dreadful little place just off the Brompton Road, I walked round the block several times before I finally felt able to enter the lobby. A man of about thirty, perhaps thirty-five was leaning on the reception desk. He straightened up the moment he saw me.

"Are you looking for a Mr. Harris, by any chance?" he inquired.

I nodded and he quickly led us through to the tea room and ushered me into a seat in the farthest corner. Once he had sat down in the chair opposite me I began to study him more carefully. He must have been about five foot ten, stocky, with dark brown hair and an even browner moustache. He wore a brown check Harris tweed jacket, cream shirt and thin yellow tie. As I began to explain why I might be in need of his services I became distracted as he started to click the knuckles of his fingers, one by one, first the left hand and then the right. I wanted to get up and leave, and would have done so had I believed for a moment that finding anyone less obnoxious to carry out the task would have proved easy.

It also took me some considerable time to convince Harris that I was not looking for a divorce. At that first meeting I explained to him as much of my dilemma as I felt able. I was shocked when he demanded the extortionate fee of five shillings an hour just to open his investigation. However, I did not feel I had been left with a great deal of choice in the matter. I agreed that he should start the following day and that we would meet again a week later.

Mr. Harris's first report informed me that, in the view of those who spent most of their working hours at a pub in Chelsea called the Musketeer, Charlie Trumper was the father of Rebecca Salmon's child, and indeed when the suggestion was put to him directly he made no attempt to deny it. As if to prove the point, within days of the child's birth he and Miss Salmon were married quietly in a register office.

Mr. Harris had no trouble in obtaining a copy of the child's birth certificate. It confirmed that the child, Daniel George Trumper, was the son of Rebecca Salmon and Charlie George Trumper of 147 Chelsea Terrace. I also noted that the child had been named after both his grandparents. In my next letter to Guy I enclosed a copy of the birth certificate along with one or two other little snippets that Harris had supplied, such as details of the wedding and Colonel Hamilton's appointment as chairman of the Trumper board. I must confess that I assumed that was an end of the matter.

However, two weeks later I received a letter from Guy: I presume it must have crossed with mine in the post. He explained that Sir Danvers had been in communication with his commanding officer, Colonel Forbes, and because of Forbes' insistence that there might be a breach-of-promise suit pending Guy had been made to appear in front of a group of his fellow officers to explain the relationship between himself and Miss Salmon.

I immediately sat down and wrote a long letter to Colonel Forbes―Guy was obviously not in a position to present the full evidence I had managed to secure. I included a further copy of the birth certificate so that he would be left in no doubt that my son could not have possibly been involved with the Salmon girl in any way. I added without prejudice that Colonel Hamilton was now employed as chairman of the board of Trumper's, a position from which he certainly derived some remuneration. The long information sheets now sent to me on a weekly basis by Mr. Harris were, I had to admit, proving of considerable value.

For some little time matters returned to normal. Gerald busied himself with his parliamentary duties while I concentrated on nothing more demanding than the appointment of the new vicar's warden and my bridge circle.

The problem, however, went deeper than I had imagined, for quite by chance I discovered that we were no longer to be included on the guest list for Daphne Harcourt-Browne's marriage to the Marquess of Wiltshire. Of course, Percy would never have become the twelfth marquess had it not been for his father and brother sacrificing their lives on the Western Front. However, I learned from others who were present at the ceremony that Colonel Hamilton as well as the Trumpers were to be seen at St. Margaret's, and at the reception afterwards.

During this period, Mr. Harris continued to supply me with memoranda about the comings and goings of the Trumpers and their growing business empire. I must confess that I had no interest whatsoever in any of their commercial transactions: it was a world that remained totally alien to me but I didn't stop him going beyond his brief as it gave me a useful insight into Guy's adversaries.

A few months later I received a note from Colonel Forbes acknowledging my letter, but otherwise I heard nothing further concerning Guy's unfortunate misrepresentation. I therefore assumed everything must be back on an even keel and that Colonel Hamilton's fabrication had been treated with the disdain it merited.

Then one morning in June the following year, Gerald was called away to the War Office on what he thought at the time must be another routine parliamentary briefing.

When my husband returned to Chester Square unexpectedly that afternoon he made me sit down and drink a large whisky before he explained that he had some unpleasant news to impart. I had rarely seen him looking so grim as I sat there silently wondering what could possibly be important enough to cause him to return home during the day.

"Guy has resigned his commission," announced Gerald tersely. "He will be returning to England just as soon as the necessary paperwork has been completed."

"Why?" I asked, quite stunned.

"No reason was given," Gerald replied. "I was called to the War Office this morning, and tipped off by Billy Cuthbert, a brother Fusilier. He informed me privately that if Guy hadn't resigned he would undoubtedly have been cashiered."

During the time I waited for Guy's return to England I went over every snippet of information on the rapidly growing Trumper empire that Mr. Harris was able to supply me with, however minute or seemingly insignificant it seemed at the time. Among the many pages of material that the detective sent, no doubt in order to justify his outrageous fees, I came across one item which I suspected might have been almost as important to the Trumpers as my son's reputation was to me.

I carried out all the necessary inquiries myself, and having checked over the property one Sunday morning I phoned Savill's on the Monday and made a bid of two thousand, five hundred pounds for the property in question. The agent rang back later in the week to say someone else—who I realized had to be Trumper's—had offered three thousand. "Then bid four thousand," I told him, before replacing the phone.

The estate agents were able to confirm later that afternoon that I was in possession of the freehold on 25 to 99 Chelsea Terrace, a block of thirty-eight flats. Trumper's representative, I was assured, would be informed immediately who their next-door neighbor was to be.

Chapter 23

Guy Trentham arrived back on the doorstep of 19 Chester Square on a chilly afternoon in September 1922, just after Gibson had cleared away afternoon tea. His mother would never forget the occasion, because when Guy was shown into the drawing room she hardly recognized him. Mrs. Trentham had been writing a letter at her desk when Gibson announced, "Captain Guy."

She turned to see her son enter the room and walk straight over to the fireplace where he stood, legs astride, with his back to the coals. His glazed eyes stared in front of him but he didn't speak.

Mrs. Trentham was only thankful that her husband was taking part in a debate at the Commons that afternoon and was not expected back until after the ten o'clock vote that night.

Guy obviously hadn't shaved for several days. He could also have made excellent use of a scrubbing brush, while the suit he wore was barely recognizable as the one that only three years before had been tailored by Gieves. The disheveled figure stood with his back to the blazing coal fire, his body visibly shivering, as he turned to face his mother. For the first time Mrs. Trentham noticed that her son was holding a brown paper parcel under one arm.

Although she was not cold, Mrs. Trentham also shuddered. She remained at her desk, feeling no desire to embrace her first born, or be the one who broke the silence between them.

"What have you been told, Mother?" Guy uttered at last, his voice shaky and uncertain.

"Nothing of any real substance." She looked up at him quizzically. "Other than that you have resigned your commission, and that had you not done so you would have been cashiered."

"That much is true," he admitted, at last releasing the parcel he had been clutching and placing it on the table beside him. "But only because they conspired against me."

"They?"

"Yes, Colonel Hamilton, Trumper and the girl."

"Colonel Forbes preferred the word of Miss Salmon even after I had written to him?" asked Mrs. Trentham icily.

"Yes―yes, he did. After all, Colonel Hamilton still has a lot of friends in the regiment and some of them were only too happy to carry out his bidding if it meant a rival might be eliminated."

She watched him for a moment as he swayed nervously from foot to foot. "But I thought the matter had been finally settled. After all, the birth certificate—"

"That might have been the case had it been signed by Charlie Trumper as well as the girl, but the certificate only bore the single signature—hers. What made matters worse, Colonel Hamilton advised Miss Salmon to threaten a breach-of-promise suit naming me as the father. Had she done so, of course, despite my being innocent of any charge they could lay at my door, the good name of the regiment would have suffered irredeemably. I therefore felt I'd been left with no choice but to take the honorable course and resign my commission." His voice became even more bitter. "And all because Trumper feared that the truth might come out."

"What are you talking about, Guy?"

He avoided his mother's direct gaze as he moved from the fireplace to the drinks cabinet where he poured himself a large whisky. He left the soda syphon untouched and took a long swallow. His mother waited in silence for him to continue.

"After the second battle of the Marne I was ordered by Colonel Hamilton to set up an inquiry into Trumper's cowardice in the field," said Guy as he moved back to the fireplace. "Many thought he should have been court-martialed, but the only other witness, a Private Prescott, was himself killed by a stray bullet when only yards from the safety of our own trenches. I had foolishly allowed myself to lead Prescott and Trumper back towards our lines, and when Prescott fell I looked round to see a smile on Trumper's face. All he said was, 'Bad luck, Captain, now you haven't got your witness, have you?"

"Did you tell anyone about this at the time?"

Guy returned to the drinks cabinet to refill his glass. "Who could I tell without Prescott to back me up. The least I could do was to make sure that he was awarded a posthumous Military Medal. Even if it meant letting Trumper off the hook. Later, I discovered Trumper wouldn't even confirm my version of what had happened on the battlefield, which nearly prevented my being awarded the MC."

"And now that he's succeeded in forcing you to resign your commission, it can only be your word against his."

"That would have been the case if Trumper had not made one foolish mistake which could still cause his downfall."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well," continued Guy, his manner slightly more composed, "while the battle was at its height I came to the rescue of the two men in question. I found them hiding in a bombed-out church. I made the decision to remain there until nightfall, when it was my intention to lead them back to the safely of our own trenches. While we were waiting on the roof for the sun to go down and Trumper was under the impression that I was asleep, I saw him slope off back to the chancery and remove a magnificent picture of the Virgin Mary from behind the altar. I continued to watch him as he placed the little oil in his haversack. I said nothing at the time because I realized that this was the proof I needed of his duplicity; after all, the picture could always be resumed to the church at some later date. Once we were back behind our own lines I immediately had Trumper's equipment searched so I could have him arrested for the theft. But to my surprise it was nowhere to be found."

"So how can that be of any use to you now?"

"Because the picture has subsequently reappeared."

"Reappeared?"

"Yes," said Guy, his voice rising. "Daphne Harcourt-Browne told me that she had spotted the painting on the drawing room wall in Trumper's house, and was even able to give me a detailed description of it. There was no doubt in my mind that it was the same portrait of the Virgin Mary and Child that he had earlier stolen from the church."

"But there's little anyone can do about that while the painting is still hanging in his home."

"It isn't any longer. Which is the reason I'm disguised like this."

"You must stop talking in riddles," said his mother. "Explain yourself properly, Guy."

"This morning I visited Trumper's home, and told the housekeeper that I had served alongside her master on the Western Front."

"Was that wise, Guy?"

"I told her my name was Fowler, Corporal Denis Fowler, and I had been trying to get in touch with Charlie for some time. I knew he wasn't around because I'd seen him go into one of his shops on Chelsea Terrace only a few minutes before. The maid―who stared at me suspiciously―asked if I would wait in the hall while she went upstairs to tell Mrs. Trumper I was there. That gave me easily enough time to slip into the front room and remove the picture from where Daphne had told me it was hanging. I was out of the house even before they could possibly have worked out what I was up to."

"But surely they will report the theft to the police and you will be arrested."

"Not a chance," said Guy as he picked up the brown paper parcel from the table and started to unwrap it. "The last thing Trumper will want the police to get their hands on is this." He passed the picture over to his mother.

Mrs. Trentham stared at the little oil. "From now on you can leave Mr. Trumper to me," she said without explanation. Guy smiled for the first time since he had set foot in the house. "However," she continued, "we must concentrate on the more immediate problem of what we are going to do about your future. I'm still confident I can get you a position in the City. I have already spoken to—"

"That won't work, Mother, and you know it. There's no future for me in England for the time being. Or, at least, not until my name has been cleared. In any case, I don't want to hang around London explaining to your bridge circle why I'm no longer with the regiment in India. No, I'll have to go abroad until things have quieted down a little."

"Then I'll need some more time to think," Guy's mother replied. "Meanwhile, go up and have a bath and shave, and while you're at it find yourself some clean clothes and I'll work out what has to be done."

As soon as Guy had left the room Mrs. Trentham returned to her writing desk and locked the little picture in the bottom left-hand drawer. She placed the key in her bag, then began to concentrate on the more immediate problem of what should be done to protect the Trentham name.

As she stared out of the window a plan began to form in her mind which, although it would require using even more of her dwindling resources, might at least give her the breathing space she required to expose Trumper for the thief and liar he was, and at the same time to exonerate her son.

Mrs. Trentham reckoned she only had about fifty pounds in cash in the safe deposit box in her bedroom, but she still possessed sixteen thousand of the twenty thousand that her father had settled on her the day she was married. "Always there in case of some unforeseen emergency," he had told her prophetically.

Mrs. Trentham took out a piece of writing paper from her drawer and began to make some notes. She was only too aware that once her son left Chester Square that night she might not see him again for some considerable time. Forty minutes later she studied her efforts:

Her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Guy, looking a little more like the son she remembered. A blazer and cavalry twills had replaced the crumpled suit and the skin although pale was at least cleanshaven. Mrs. Trentham folded up the piece of paper, having finally decided on exactly what course of action needed to be taken.

"Now, sit down and listen carefully," she said.

Guy Trentham left Chester Square a few minutes after nine o'clock, an hour before his father was due to return from the Commons. He had fifty-three pounds in cash along with a check for five thousand pounds lodged in an inside pocket. He had agreed that he would write to his father the moment he landed in Sydney, explaining why he had traveled direct to Australia. His mother had vowed that while he was away she would do everything in her power to clear her son's name, so that he might eventually return to England vindicated, and take up his rightful place as head of the family.

The only two servants who had seen Captain Trentham that evening were instructed by their mistress not to mention his visit to anyone, especially her husband, on pain of losing their positions in the household.

Mrs. Trentham's final task before her husband returned home that night was to phone the local police. A Constable Wrigley dealt with the reported theft.

During those weeks of waiting for her son's letter to arrive, Mrs. Trentham did not sit around idly. The day after Guy sailed to Australia she made one of her periodic visits to the St. Agnes Hotel, a rewrapped parcel under one arm. She handed over her prize to Mr. Harris before giving him a series of detailed instructions.

Two days later the detective informed her that the portrait of the Virgin Mary and Child had been left with Bentley's the pawnbroker, and could not be sold for at least five years, when the date on the pawn ticket would have expired. He handed over a photo of the picture and the receipt to prove it. Mrs. Trentham placed the photo in her handbag but didn't bother to ask Harris what had become of the five pounds he had been paid for the picture.

"Good," she said, placing her handbag by the side of her chair. "In fact highly satisfactory."

"So would you like me to point the right man at Scotland Yard in the direction of Bentley's?" asked Harris.

"Certainly not," said Mrs. Trentham. "I need you to carry out a little research on the picture before anyone else will set eyes on it, and then if my information proves correct the next occasion that painting will be seen by the public will be when it comes under the hammer at Sotheby's."

Chapter 24

"Good morning, madam. I do apologize for having to bother you in this way."

"It's no bother," said Mrs. Trentham to the police officer whom Gibson had announced as Inspector Richards.

"It's not you I was hoping to see actually, Mrs. Trentham," explained the inspector. "It's your son, Captain Guy Trentham."

"Then you'll have a very long journey ahead of you, Inspector."

"I'm not sure I understand you, madam."

"My son," said Mrs. Trentham, "is taking care of our family interests in Australia, where he is a partner in a large firm of cattle brokers."

Richards was unable to hide his surprise. "And how long has he been out there, madam?"

"For some considerable time, Inspector."

"Could you be more precise?"

"Captain Trentham left England for India in February 1920, to complete his tour of duty with the regiment. He won the MC at the second battle of the Marne, you know." She nodded towards the mantelpiece. The inspector looked suitably impressed. "Of course," Mrs. Trentham continued, "it was never his intention to remain in the army, as we had always planned that he would have a spell in the colonies before resuming to run our estates in Berkshire."

"But did he come back to England before taking up this position in Australia?"

"Sadly not, Inspector," said Mrs. Trentham. "Once he had resigned his commission he traveled directly to Australia to take up his new responsibilities. My husband, who as I am sure you know is the Member of Parliament for Berkshire West, would be able to confirm the exact dates for you."

"I don't feel it will be necessary to bother him on this occasion, madam."

"And why, may I ask, did you wish to see my son in the first place?"

"We are following up inquiries concerning the theft of a painting in Chelsea."

Mrs. Trentham offered no comment, so the detective continued. "Someone who fits your son's description was seen in the vicinity wearing an old army greatcoat. We hoped he might therefore be able to help us with our inquiries."

"And when was this crime committed?"

"Last September, madam, and as the painting has not yet been recovered we are still pursuing the matter—" Mrs. Trentham kept her head slightly bowed as she learned this piece of information and continued to listen carefully. "But we are now given to understand that the owner will not be preferring charges, so I expect the file should be closed on this one fairly shortly. This your son?" The inspector pointed to a photograph of Guy in full dress uniform that rested on a side table.

"It is indeed, Inspector."

"Doesn't exactly fit the description we were given," said the policeman, looking slightly puzzled. "In any case, as you say, he must have been in Australia at the time. A cast-iron alibi." The inspector smiled ingratiatingly but Mrs. Trentham's expression didn't alter.

"You're not suggesting that my son was in any way involved in this theft, are you?" she asked coldly.

"Certainly not, madam. It's just that we've come across a greatcoat which Gieves, the Savile Row tailors, have confirmed they made for a Captain Trentham. We found an old soldier wearing it who—"

"Then you must have also found your thief," said Mrs. Trentham with disdain.

"Hardly, madam. You see, the gentleman in question has only one leg."

Mrs. Trentham still showed no concern. "Then I suggest you ring Chelsea Police Station," she said, "as I feel sure they will be able to enlighten you further on the matter."

"But I'm from Chelsea Police Station myself," replied the inspector, looking even more puzzled.

Mrs. Trentham rose from the sofa and walked slowly over to her desk, pulled open a drawer and removed a single sheet of paper. She handed it to the inspector. His face reddened as he began to take in the contents. When he had finished reading the document he passed the piece of parer back.

"I do apologize, madam. I had no idea that you had reported the loss of the greatcoat the same day. I shall have a word with young Constable Wrigley just as soon as I get back to the station." Mrs. Trentham showed no reaction to the policeman's embarrassment. "Well, I won't take up any more of your time," he said. "I'll just show myself out."

Mrs. Trentham waited until she heard the door close behind him before picking up the phone and asking for a Paddington number.

She made only one request of the detective before replacing the receiver.

Mrs. Trentham knew that Guy must have arrived safely in Australia when her check was cleared by Coutts and Company through a bank in Sydney. The promised letter to his father arrived on the doormat a further six weeks after that. When Gerald imparted to her the contents of the letter, explaining that Guy had joined a firm of cattle brokers, she feigned surprise at her son's uncharacteristic action, but her husband didn't seem to show a great deal of interest either way.

During the following months Harris' reports continued to show that Trumper's newly formed company was going from strength to strength, but it still brought a smile to Mrs. Trentham's lips when she recalled how for a mere four thousand pounds she had stopped Charles Trumper right in his tracks.

The same smile was not to return to Mrs. Trentham's face again until she received a letter from Savill's some time later, presenting her with an opportunity to repeat for Rebecca Trumper the same acute frustration as she had managed in the past for Charlie Trumper, even if this time the cost to herself might be a little higher. She checked her bank balance, satisfied that it would prove more than adequate for the purpose she had in mind.

Over the years Savill's had kept Mrs. Trentham well informed of any shops that came up for sale in Chelsea Terrace but she made no attempt to stop Trumper from purchasing them, reasoning that her possession of the flats would be quite adequate to ruin any long-term plans he might have for the whole Terrace. However, when the details of Number 1 Chelsea Terrace were sent to her she realized that here the circumstances were entirely different. Not only was Number 1 the corner shop, facing as it did towards the Fulham Road, and the largest property on the block, it was also an established if somewhat run-down fine art dealer and auctioneer. It was the obvious outlet for all those years of preparation Mrs. Trumper had put in at Bedford College and more recently at Sotheby's.

A letter accompanying the bill of sale asked if Mrs. Trentham wished to be represented at the auction that Mr. Fothergill, the present owner, was proposing to conduct himself.

She wrote back the same day, thanking Savill's but explaining that she would prefer to carry out her own bidding and would be further obliged if they could furnish her with an estimate of how much the property might be expected to fetch.

Savill's reply contained several ifs and buts, as in their view the property was unique. They also pointed out that they were not qualified to offer an opinion as to the value of the stock. However, they settled on an upper estimate, in the region of four thousand pounds.

During the following weeks Mrs. Trentham was to be found regularly seated in the back row of Christie's, silently watching the various auctions as they were conducted. She never nodded or raised a hand herself. She wanted to be certain that when the time came for her to bid she would be thoroughly familiar with the protocol of such occasions.

On the morning of the sale of Number 1 Chelsea Terrace Mrs. Trentham entered the auctioneer's wearing a long dark red dress that swept along the ground. She selected a place in the third row and was seated some twenty minutes before the bidding was due to commence. Her eyes never remained still as she watched the different players enter the room and take their places. Mr. Wrexall arrived a few minutes after she had, taking a seat in the middle of the front row. He looked grim but determined. He was exactly as Mr. Harris had described him, mid-forties, heavily built and balding. Being so badly overweight he looked considerably older than his years, she considered. His flesh was swarthy and whenever he lowered his head several more chins appeared. It was then that Mrs. Trentham decided that should she fail to secure Number 1 Chelsea Terrace a meeting with Mr. Wrexall might prove advantageous.

At nine-fifty precisely Colonel Hamilton led his two colleagues down the aisle and filed into the vacant seats immediately behind Mrs. Trentham. Although she glanced at the colonel he made no effort to acknowledge her presence. At nine-fifty there was still no sign of either Mr. or Mrs. Trumper.

Savill's had warned Mrs. Trentham that Trumper might be represented by an outside agent, but from all she had gathered about the man over the years she couldn't believe he would allow anyone else to carry out the bidding for him. She was not to be disappointed for when the clock behind the auctioneer's box showed five minutes before the hour, in he strode. Although he was a few years older than he'd been at the time of the photograph she held in her hand, she was in no doubt that it was Charlie Trumper. He wore a smart, well-tailored suit that helped disguise the fact that he was beginning to have a weight problem. A smile rarely left his lips though she had plans to remove it. He seemed to want everyone to know he had arrived, as he shook hands and chatted with several people before taking a reserved seat on the aisle about four rows behind her. Mrs. Trentham half turned her chair so she could observe both Trumper and the auctioneer without having continually to look round.

Suddenly Mr. Trumper rose and made his way towards the back of the room, only to pick up a bill of sale from the table at the entrance before returning to his reserved place on the aisle. Mrs. Trentham suspected that this performance had been carried out for some specific reason. Her eyes raked each row and although she could see nothing untoward she nevertheless felt uneasy.

By the time Mr. Fothergill had climbed the steps of the auctioneer's box, the room was already full. Yet despite almost every place having been taken Mrs. Trentham was still unable to see if Mrs. Trumper was seated among the large gathering.

From the moment Mr. Fothergill called for the first bid the auction did not proceed as Mrs. Trentham had imagined, or indeed planned. Nothing she had experienced at Christie's during the previous month could have prepared her for the final outcome—Mr. Fothergill announcing a mere six minutes later, "Sold for twelve thousand pounds to Mrs. Gerald Trentham."

She was angry at having made such a public spectacle of herself, even if she had secured the fine art shop and dealt a satisfying blow to Rebecca Trumper. It had certainly been done at a considerable cost, and now she wasn't even certain she had enough money in her special account to cover the full amount she had committed herself to.

After eighty days of soul-searching, in which she considered approaching her husband and even her father to make up the shortfall, Mrs. Trentham finally decided to sacrifice the one thousand and two hundred pounds deposit, retreat and lick her wounds. The alternative was to admit to her husband exactly what had taken place at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace that day.

There was one compensation, however. She would no longer need to use Sotheby's when the time came to dispose of the stolen painting.

As the months passed, Mrs. Trentham received regular letters from her son, first from Sydney, then later from Melbourne, informing her of his progress. They often requested her to send more money. The larger the partnership grew, Guy explained, the more he needed extra capital to secure his share of the equity. Overall some six thousand pounds found its way across the Pacific Ocean to a bank in Sydney during a period of over four years, none of which Mrs. Trentham resented giving since Guy appeared to be making such a success of his new profession. She also felt confident that once she could expose Charles Trumper for the thief and liar he was, her son could return to England with his reputation vindicated, even in the eyes of his father.

Then suddenly, just at the point when Mrs. Trentham had begun to believe that the time might be right to put the next stage of her plan into action, a cable arrived from Melbourne. The address from which the missive had been sent left Mrs. Trentham with no choice but to leave for that distant city without delay.

When, over dinner that night, she informed Gerald that she intended to depart for the Antipodes on the first possible tide her news was greeted with polite indifference. This came as no surprise, as Guy's name had rarely passed her husband's lips since that day he had visited the War Office over four years before. In fact, the only sign that still remained of their firstborn's existence at either Ashurst Hall or Chester Square was the one picture of him in full dress uniform that stood on her bedroom table and the MC that Gerald had allowed to remain on the mantelpiece.

As far as Gerald was concerned, Nigel was their only child.

Gerald Trentham was well aware that his wife told all his and her friends that Guy was a successful partner in a large cattle firm of brokers that had offices right across Australia. However, he had long ago stopped believing such stories, and had lately even stopped listening to them. Whenever the occasional envelope, in that all too familiar hand, dropped through the letter box at Chester Square, Gerald Trentham made no inquiry as to his elder son's progress.

The next ship scheduled to sail for Australia was the SS Orontes, which was due out of Southampton on the following Monday. Mrs. Trentham cabled back to an address in Melbourne to let them know her estimated time of arrival.

The five-week trip across two oceans seemed interminable to Mrs. Trentham, especially as for most of the time she chose to remain in her cabin, having no desire to strike up a casual acquaintanceship with anyone on board—or, worse, bump into someone who actually knew her. She turned down several invitations to join the captain's table for dinner.

Once the ship had docked at Sydney, Mrs. Trentham only rested overnight in that city before traveling on to Melbourne. On arrival at Spencer Street Station she took a taxi directly to the Royal Victoria hospital, where the sister in charge told her matter-of-factly that her son had only another week to live.

They allowed her to see him immediately, and a police officer escorted her to the special isolation wing. She stood by his bedside, staring down in disbelief at a face she could barely recognize. Guy's hair was so thin and gray and the lines on his face so deep that Mrs. Trentham felt she might have been at her husband's deathbed.

A doctor told her that such a condition was not uncommon once the verdict had been delivered and the person concerned realized there was no hope of a reprieve. After standing at the end of the bed for nearly an hour she left without having been able to elicit a word from her son. At no time did she allow any of the hospital staff to become aware of her true feelings.

That evening Mrs. Trentham booked herself into a quiet country club on the outskirts of Melbourne. She made only one inquiry of the young expatriate owner, a Mr. Sinclair-Smith, before retiring to her room.

The next morning she presented herself at the offices of the oldest firm of solicitors in Melbourne, Asgarth, Jenkins and Company. A young man she considered far too familiar asked, "What was her problem?"

"I wish to have a word with your senior partner," Mrs. Trentham replied.

"Then you'll have to take a seat in the waiting room," he told her.

Mrs. Trentham sat alone for some time before Mr. Asgarth was free to see her.

The senior partner, an elderly man who from his dress might have been conducting his practice in Lincoln's Inn Fields rather than Victoria Street, Melbourne, listened in silence to her sad story and agreed to deal with any problems that might arise from handling Guy Trentham's estate. To that end he promised to lodge an immediate application for permission to have the body transported back to England.

Mrs. Trentham visited her son in hospital every day of that week before he died. Although little conversation passed between them, she did learn of one problem that would have to be dealt with before she could hope to travel back to England.

On Wednesday afternoon Mrs. Trentham resumed to the offices of Asgarth, Jenkins and Company to seek the advice of the senior partner on what could be done following her latest discovery. The elderly lawyer ushered his client to a chair before he listened carefully to her revelation. He made the occasional note on a pad in front of him. When Mrs. Trentham had finished he did not offer an opinion for some considerable time.

"There will have to be a change of name," he suggested, "if no one else is to find out what you have in mind."

"And we must also be sure that there is no way of tracing who her father was at some time in the future," said Mrs. Trentham.

The old solicitor frowned. "That will require you to place considerable trust in"—he checked the scribbled name in front of him—"Miss Benson."

"Pay Miss Benson whatever it takes to assure her silence," said Mrs. Trentham. "Coutts in London will handle all the financial details."

The senior partner nodded and by dint of remaining at his desk until nearly midnight for the next four days he managed to complete all the paperwork necessary to fulfill his client's requirements only hours before Mrs. Trentham was due to leave for London.

Guy Trentham was certified as dead by the doctor in attendance at three minutes past six on the morning of 23 April 1927, and the following day Mrs. Trentham began her somber journey back to England, accompanied by his coffin. She was relieved that only two people on that continent knew as much as she did, one an elderly gentleman only months away from retirement, the other a woman who could now spend the rest of her life in a style she would never have believed possible only a few days before.

Mrs. Trentham cabled her husband with the minimum information she considered necessary before sailing back to Southampton as silently and as anonymously as she had come. Once she had set foot on English soil Mrs. Trentham was driven directly to her home in Chester Square. She briefed her husband on the details of the tragedy, and he reluctantly accepted that an announcement should be placed in The Times the following day. It read:

"The death is announced of Captain Guy Trentham, MC, tragically from tuberculosis after suffering a long illness. The funeral will take place at St. Mary's, Ashurst, Berkshire, on Tuesday, 8 June, 1927."

The local vicar conducted the ceremony for the dear departed. His death, he assured the congregation, was a tragedy for all who knew him.

Guy Trentham was laid to rest in the plot originally reserved for his father. Major and Mrs. Trentham, relations, friends of the family, parishioners and servants left the burial ground with their heads bowed low.

During the days that followed, Mrs. Trentham received over a hundred letters of condolence, one or two of which pointed out that she could at least be consoled with the knowledge that there was a second son to take Guy's place.

The next day Nigel's photograph replaced his elder brother's on the bedside table.