As the Crow Flies

Chapter 32

"My purpose in inviting you up to Yorkshire this weekend is to let you know exactly what I have planned for you in my will."

My father was seated behind his desk while I sat in a leather chair facing him, the one my mother had always favored. He had named me "Margaret Ethel" after her but there the resemblance ended as he never stopped reminding me. I watched him as he carefully pressed some tobacco down into the well of his briar pipe, wondering what he could possibly be going to say. He took his time before looking up at me again and announcing, "I have made the decision to leave my entire estate to Daniel Trumper."

I was so stunned by this revelation that it was several seconds before I could think of an acceptable response.

"But, Father, now that Guy has died surely Nigel must be the legitimate heir?"

"Daniel would have been the legitimate heir if your son had done the honorable thing. Guy should have returned from India and married Miss Salmon the moment he realized she was having his child."

"But Trumper is Daniel's father," I protested. "Indeed, he has always admitted as much. The birth certificate—"

"He has never denied it, I grant you that. But don't take me for a fool, Ethel. The birth certificate only proves that, unlike my late grandson, Charlie Trumper has some sense of responsibility. In any case, those of us who have watched Guy in his formative years and have also followed Daniel's progress can be in little doubt about the relationship between the two men."

I wasn't certain I had heard my father correctly. "You've actually seen Daniel Trumper?"

"Oh, yes," he replied matter-of-factly, picking up a box of matches from his desk. "I made a point of visiting St. Paul's on two separate occasions. Once when the boy was performing in a concert I was able to sit and watch him at close quarters for over two hours—he was rather good, actually. And then a year later on Founders' Day when he was awarded the Newton Mathematics Prize, I shadowed him while he accompanied his parents to afternoon tea in the headmaster's garden. So I can assure you that not only does he look like Guy, but he's also inherited some of his late father's mannerisms."

"But surely Nigel deserves to be treated as his equal?" I protested, racking my brains to think of some rational response that would make my father reconsider his position.

"Nigel is not his equal and never will be," replied my father, as he struck a match before beginning that endless sucking that always preceded his attempt to light a pipe. "Don't let's fool ourselves, Ethel. We've both known for some time that the lad isn't even worthy of a place on the board of Hardcastle's, let alone to be considered as my successor."

While my father puffed energetically at his pipe, I stared blindly at the painting of two horses in a paddock that hung on the wall behind him and tried to collect my thoughts.

"I'm sure you haven't forgotten, my dear, that Nigel even failed to pass out of Sandhurst, which I'm told takes some doing nowadays. I have also recently been informed that he's only holding down his present job with Kitcat and Aitken because you led the senior partner to believe that in time they will be administering the Hardcastle portfolio." He punctuated each statement with a puff from his pipe. "And I can assure you that will not be the case."

I found myself unable to look straight at him. Instead my eyes wandered from the Stubbs on the wall behind his desk to the row upon row of books he had spent a lifetime collecting. Dickens, every first edition; Henry James, a modern author he admired, and countless Blakes of every description, from treasured handwritten letters to memorial editions. Then came the second blow.

"As there isn't a member of the family who can readily replace me as head of the firm," he continued, "I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that with war daily becoming more likely I will have to reconsider the future of Hardcastle's." The pungent smell of tobacco hung in the air.

"You would never allow the business to fall into anyone else's hands?" I said in disbelief. "Your father would—"

"My father would have done what was best for all concerned, and no doubt expectant relations would have been fairly low down on his list of priorities." His pipe refused to stay alight so a second match was brought into play. He gave a few more sucks before a look of satisfaction appeared on his face and he began to speak again. "I've sat on the boards of Harrogate Haulage and the Yorkshire Bank for several years, and more recently John Brown Engineering where I think I've finally found my successor. Sir John's son may not be an inspired chairman of the company but he's capable, and more important, he's a Yorkshireman. Anyway, I have come to the conclusion that a merger with that company will be best for all concerned."

I was still unable to look directly at my father as I tried to take in all that he was saying.

"They've made me a handsome offer for my shares," he added, "which will in time yield an income for you and Amy that will more than take care of your needs once I've gone."

"But, Father, we both hope you will live for many more years."

"Don't bother yourself, Ethel, with trying to flatter an old man who knows death can't be far away. I may be ancient but I'm not yet senile."

"Father," I protested again but he simply returned to the sucking of his pipe, showing total lack of concern at my agitation. So I tried another ploy.

"Does that mean Nigel will receive nothing?"

"Nigel will receive what I consider right and proper in the circumstances."

"I'm not sure I fully understand you, Father."

"Then I shall explain. I've left him five thousand pounds which after my death he may dispose of in any manner he wishes." He paused as if considering whether he should add to this piece of information. "I have at least saved you one embarrassment," he offered at last. "Although, following your death, Daniel Trumper will inherit my entire estate, he won't learn of his good fortune until his thirtieth birthday, by which time you will be well over seventy and perhaps find it easier to live with my decision."

Twelve more years, I thought, as a tear fell from my eye and began to run down my cheek.

"You needn't bother with crying, Ethel, or hysterics, or even reasoned argument for that matter." He exhaled a long plume of smoke. "I have made up my mind, and nothing you can say or do is going to budge me."

His pipe was now puffing away like an express train. I removed a handkerchief from my handbag in the hope it would give me a little more time to think.

"And should it cross your mind to try and have the will revoked at some later date, on the grounds of my insanity"—I looked up aghast—"of which you are quite capable, I have had the document drawn up by Mr. Baverstock and witnessed by a retired judge, a Cabinet minister and, perhaps more relevant, a specialist from Sheffield whose chosen subject is mental disorders."

I was about to protest further when there was a muffled knock on the door and Amy entered the room.

"I do apologize for interrupting you, Papa, but should I have tea served in the drawing room or would you prefer to take it in here?"

My father smiled at his elder daughter. "The drawing room is just fine, my dear," he said in a far gentler tone than he ever adopted when addressing me. He rose unsteadily from behind his desk, emptied his pipe in the nearest ashtray and, without another word, followed my sister slowly out of the room.

I remained fairly uncommunicative during tea while I tried to think through the implications of all my father had just told me. Amy, on the other hand, prattled happily on about the effect the recent lack of rain was having on the petunias in the flower bed directly under my father's room. "They don't catch the sun at any hour of the day," she confided to us in worried tones as her cat jumped up onto the sofa and settled in her lap. The old tortoise-shell whose name I could never remember had always got on my nerves but I never said as much because I knew Amy loved the creature second only to my father. She began to stroke the animal, obviously unaware of the unease caused by the conversation that had just taken place in the study.

I went to bed early that evening and spent a sleepless night trying to work out what course of action had been left open to me. I confess I hadn't expected anything substantial from the will for Amy or myself, as we were both women in our sixties and without a great need of any extra income. However, I had always assumed that I would inherit the house and the estate while the company would be left to Guy and, following his death, Nigel.

By the morning I had come to the reluctant conclusion that there was little I could do about my father's decision. If the will had been drawn up by Mr. Baverstock, his long-serving solicitor and friend, F. E. Smith himself would not have been able to find a loophole. I began to realize that my only hope of securing Nigel's rightful inheritance would have to involve Daniel Trumper himself.

After all, my father would not live forever.

We sat alone almost unsighted in the darkest corner of the room. He began clicking the knuckles of his right hand one by one.

"Where is it at this moment?" I asked, looking across at a man to whom I had paid thousands of pounds since we had first met almost twenty years ago. He still turned up for our weekly meetings at the St. Agnes wearing what seemed to be the same brown tweed jacket and shiny yellow tie, even if he did appear to have acquired one or two more shirts lately. He put down his whisky, pulled out a brown paper package from under his chair and handed it over to me.

"How much did you have to pay to get it back?"

"Fifty pounds."

"I told you not to offer him more than twenty pounds without consulting me."

"I know, but there was a West End dealer nosing around the shop at the time. I just couldn't risk it, could I?"

I didn't believe for one moment that it had cost Harris fifty pounds. However, I did accept that he realized how important the picture was to my future plans.

"Would you like me to hand the painting over to the police?" he asked. "I could then drop a hint that perhaps—"

"Certainly not," I said without hesitation. "The police are far too discreet in these matters. Besides, what I have in mind for Mr. Trumper will be a great deal more humiliating than a private interview in the privacy of Scotland Yard."

Mr. Harris leaned back in the old leather chair and began clicking the knuckles of his left hand.

"What else do you have to report?"

"Daniel Trumper has taken up his place at Trinity College. He's to be found on New Court, staircase B. Room 7."

"That was all in your last report."

Both of us stopped speaking while an elderly guest selected a magazine from a nearby table.

"Also, he's started seeing quite a lot of a girl called Marjorie Carpenter. She's a third-year mathematician from Girton College."

"Is that so? Well, if it begins to look at all serious let me know at once and you can start a file on her." I glanced around to be sure no one could overhear our conversation. The clicking began again and I looked back to find Harris staring fixedly at me.

"Is something worrying you?" I asked as I poured myself another cup of tea.

"Well, to be honest with you there is one thing, Mrs. Trentham. I feel the time might have come for me to ask for another small rise in my hourly rate. After all, I'm expected to keep so many secrets"—he hesitated for a moment—"secrets that might . . ."

"That might what?"

"Prove to be invaluable to other equally interested parties."

"Are you threatening me, Mr. Harris?"

"Certainly not, Mrs. Trentham, it's just that—"

"I'll say this once and once only, Mr. Harris. If you ever reveal to anyone anything that has passed between us it won't be an hourly rate that you'll be worrying about but the length of time you'll be spending in prison. Because I also have kept a file on you which I suspect some of your former colleagues might well be interested to learn about. Not least the pawning of a stolen picture and the disposal of an army greatcoat after a crime had been committed. Do I make myself clear?"

Harris didn't reply, just clicked his fingers back into place, one by one.

Some weeks after war was declared I learned that Daniel Trumper had avoided being called up. It transpired that he was now to be found serving behind a desk in Bletchley Park and was therefore unlikely to experience the wrath of the enemy unless a bomb were to land directly on top of him.

As it happened, the Germans did manage to drop a bomb, right in the middle of my flats, destroying them completely. My initial anger at this disaster evaporated when I saw the chaos it left behind in Chelsea Terrace. For several days I gained considerable satisfaction from just standing on the opposite side of the road admiring the Germans' handiwork.

A few weeks later it was the turn of the Musketeer and Trumper's greengrocer shop to feel the brunt of the Luftwaffe. The only perceptible outcome of this second bombing was that Charlie Trumper signed up for the Fusiliers the following week. However much I might have desired to see Daniel disposed of by a stray bullet, I still required Charlie Trumper to remain very much alive: it was a more public execution I had in mind for him.

It didn't require Harris to brief me on Charlie Trumper's new appointment at the Ministry of Food because it was fully reported in every national paper. However, I made no attempt to take advantage of his prolonged absence as I reasoned there could be little purpose in acquiring further property in the Terrace while war was still being waged, and in any case Harris' monthly reports revealed that Trumper's was steadily losing money.

Then, when I was least prepared for it, my father died of a heart attack. I immediately dropped everything and hurried off to Yorkshire in order to oversee the arrangements for the burial.

Two days later I led the mourners at the funeral, which was held in Wetherby parish church. As titular head of the family, I was placed on the left-hand end of the front pew with Gerald and Nigel on my right. The service was well attended by family, friends and business associates alike, including the solemn Mr. Baverstock, clutching onto his inevitable Gladstone bag that I noticed he never let out of his sight. Amy, who sat in the row directly behind me, became so distressed during the archdeacon's address that I don't believe she would have got through the rest of the day had I not been there to comfort her.

After the mourners had left I decided to stay on in Yorkshire for a few more days while Gerald and Nigel returned to London. Amy spent most of the time in her bedroom, which gave me the chance to look around the house and check if there was anything of real value that could be rescued before I returned to Ashurst. After all, the property would—once the will had been administered at worst—end up being divided between us.

I came across my mother's jewelry, which had obviously never been touched since her death, and the Stubbs that still hung in my father's study. I removed the jewelry from my father's bedroom, and as for the Stubbs, Amy agreed over a light supper in her room that for the time being I could hang the painting at Ashurst. The only other item left of any real value, I concluded, was my father's magnificent library. However, I already had long-term plans for the collection that did not involve the sale of a single book.

On the first of the month I traveled down to London to attend the offices of Baverstock, Dickens and Cobb to be informed officially of the contents of my father's will.

Mr. Baverstock seemed disappointed that Amy had felt unable to make the journey but accepted the fact that my sister had not yet recovered sufficiently from the shock of my father's death to contemplate such a trip. Several other relations, most of whom I saw only at christenings, weddings and funerals, sat around looking hopeful. I knew exactly what they could expect.

Mr. Baverstock took over an hour performing what seemed to me a simple enough responsibility, though to be fair he managed with some considerable dexterity not to reveal the name of Daniel Trumper when it came to explaining what would eventually happen to the estate. My mind began to wander as minor relations were informed of the thousand-pound windfalls they would inherit and was only brought sharply back to the droning voice of Mr. Baverstock when he uttered my own name.

"Mrs. Gerald Trentham and Miss Amy Hardcastle will both receive during their lifetimes in equal part any income derived from the Trust." The solicitor stopped to turn a page before placing the palms of his hands on the desk. "And finally, the house, the estate in Yorkshire and all its contents plus the sum of twenty thousand pounds," he continued, "I bequeath to my elder daughter, Miss Amy Hardcastle."

Chapter 33

"Good morning, Mr. Sneddles."

The old bibliophile was so surprised the lady knew his name that for a moment he just stood and stared at her.

Eventually he shuffled across to greet the lady, giving her a low bow. She was, after all, the first customer he had seen for over a week—that is if he did not count Dr. Halcombe, the retired headmaster, who would happily browse around the shop for hours on end, but who had not actually purchased a book since 1937.

"Good morning, madam," he said in turn. "Was there a particular volume that you were hoping to find?" He looked at the lady, who wore a long lace dress and a large wide-brimmed hat with a veil that made it impossible to see her face.

"No, Mr. Sneddles," said Mrs. Trentham. "I have not come to purchase a book, but to seek your services." She stared at the stooping old man in his mittens, cardigan and overcoat, which she assumed he was wearing because he could no longer afford to keep the shop heated. Although his back seemed to be permanently semicircular and his head stuck out like a tortoise's from its overcoat shell, his eyes were clear and his mind appeared sharp and alert.

"My services, madam?" the old man repeated.

"Yes. I have inherited an extensive library that I require to be catalogued and valued. You come highly recommended."

"It's kind of you to say so, madam."

Mrs. Trentham was relieved that Mr. Sneddles did not inquire as to who had made the particular recommendation.

"And where is this library, might I be permitted to ask?"

"A few miles east of Harrogate. You will find that it is quite an extraordinary collection. My late father, Sir Raymond Hardcastle—you may have heard of him—devoted a considerable part of his life to putting it together."

"Harrogate?" said Sneddles as if it was a few miles east of Bangkok.

"Of course I would cover all your expenses, however long the enterprise might take."

"But it would mean having to close the shop," he murmured as if talking to himself.

"I would naturally also compensate you for any loss of earnings."

Mr. Sneddles removed a book from the counter and checked its spine. "I fear it's out of the question, madam, quite impossible, you see—"

"My father specialized in William Blake, you know. You will find that he managed to get hold of every first edition, some still in mint condition. He even secured a handwritten manuscript of . . ."

Amy Hardcastle had gone to bed even before her sister arrived back in Yorkshire that evening.

"She gets so tired nowadays," the housekeeper explained.

Mrs. Trentham was left with little choice but to have a light supper on her own before retiring to her old room a few minutes after ten. As far as she could tell nothing had changed: the view over the Yorkshire dales, the black clouds, even the picture of York Minster that hung above the walnut-framed bed. She slept soundly enough and resumed downstairs at eight the following morning. The cook explained to her that Miss Amy had not yet risen so she ate breakfast alone.

Once all the covered dishes had been cleared away Mrs. Trentham sat in the drawing room reading the Yorkshire Post while she waited for her sister to make an appearance. When over an hour later the old cat wandered in, Mrs. Trentham shooed the animal away with a vicious wave of the folded newspaper. The grandfather clock in the hall had already struck eleven when Amy finally entered the room. She walked slowly towards her sister with the aid of a stick.

"I'm so sorry, Ethel, that I wasn't here to greet you when you arrived last night," she began. "I fear my arthritis has been playing me up again."

Mrs. Trentham didn't bother to reply, but watched her sister as she hobbled towards her, unable to believe the deterioration in her condition in less than three months.

Although Amy had in the past appeared slight she was now frail. And even if she had always been quiet she was now almost inaudible. If she had been perhaps a little pale, she was now gray and the lines on her face were so deeply etched she looked far older than her sixty-nine years.

Amy lowered herself onto the chair next to her sister and for some seconds continued to breathe deeply, leaving her visitor in no doubt that the walk from the bedroom to the drawing room had been something of an ordeal.

"It's so kind of you to leave your family and come up to be with me in Yorkshire," Amy said as the tortoiseshell cat climbed onto her lap. "I must confess that since dear Papa died I don't know where to turn."

"That's quite understandable, my dear." Mrs. Trentham smiled thinly. "But I felt it was nothing more than my duty to be with you as well as being a pleasure, of course. In any case, Father warned me this might happen once he had passed away. He gave me specific instructions, you know, as to exactly what should be done in the circumstances."

"Oh, I'm so glad to hear that." Amy's face lit up for the first time. "Please do tell me what Papa had in mind."

"Father was adamant that you should sell the house as quickly as possible and either come and live with Gerald and me at Ashurst—"

"Oh, I could never dream of putting you to so much trouble, Ethel."

"—or alternatively you could move into one of those nice little hotels on the coast that cater specially for retired couples and single people. He felt that way you could at least make new friends and indeed even have an extended lease on life. I would naturally prefer you to join us in Buckingham, but what with the bombs—"

"He never mentioned selling the house to me," murmured Amy anxiously. "In fact, he begged me—"

"I know, my dear, but he realized only too well what a strain his death would be on you and asked me to break the news gently. You will no doubt recall the long meeting we held in his study when I last came up to see him."

Amy nodded her acknowledgment but the look of bewilderment remained on her face.

"I remember every word he said," Mrs. Trentham went on. "Naturally, I shall do my utmost to see his wishes are carried out."

"But I wouldn't know how or where to begin."

"There's no need for you to give it a second thought, my dear." She patted her sister's arm. "That's exactly why I'm here."

"But what will happen to the servants and my dear Garibaldi?" Amy asked anxiously as she continued stroking the cat. "Father would never forgive me if they weren't all properly taken care of."

"I couldn't agree more," Mrs. Trentham said. "However, as always he thought of everything and gave me explicit instructions as to what should be done with all the staff."

"How thoughtful of dear Papa. However, I am not altogether certain . . ."

It took Mrs. Trentham two more days of patient encouragement before she was finally able to convince her sister that her plans for the future would all work out for the best and, more important, it was what "dear Papa" wanted.

From that moment on Amy only came down in the afternoons to take a short walk around the garden and occasionally attend to the petunias. Whenever Mrs. Trentham came across her sister she begged her not to overdo things.

Three days later Amy dispensed with her afternoon walk.

The following Monday Mrs. Trentham gave the staff a week's notice, with the exception of the cook whom she told to stay on until Miss Amy had been settled. That same afternoon she sought out a local agent and placed the house and the sixty-acre estate on the market.

On the following Thursday Mrs. Trentham made an appointment to see a Mr. Althwaite, a solicitor in Harrogate. On one of her sister's infrequent visits downstairs she explained to Amy that it had not been necessary to bother Mr. Baverstock: she felt certain any problem that arose concerning the estate could be more easily dealt with by a local man.

Three weeks later Mrs. Trentham was able to move her sister and a few of her belongings into a small residential hotel overlooking the east coast a few miles north of Scarborough. She agreed with the proprietor that it was unfortunate that they could not allow pets but felt sure that her sister would fully understand. Mrs. Trentham's final instruction was to send the monthly bills direct to Coutts in the Strand, where they would be settled immediately.

Before Mrs. Trentham bade farewell to Amy she got her sister to sign three documents. "So that you will have nothing more to worry about, my dear," Mrs. Trentham explained in a gentle tone.

Amy signed all three of the forms placed in front of her without bothering to read them. Mrs. Trentham quickly folded up the legal papers prepared by the local solicitor and deposited them in her handbag.

"I'll see you soon," she promised Amy before kissing her sister on the forehead. A few minutes later she began her journey back to Ashurst.

The bell above the door clanged noisily in the musty silence as Mrs. Trentham stepped smartly into the shop. At first there was no sign of movement until at last Mr. Sneddles appeared from his little room at the rear carrying three books under his arm.

"Good morning, Mrs. Trentham," he said. "How kind of you to respond to my note so quickly. I felt I had to contact you as a problem has arisen."

"A problem?" Mrs. Trentham drew back the veil that covered her face.

"Yes. As you are aware, I have almost completed my work in Yorkshire. I am sorry it has taken so long, madam, but I fear I have been overindulgent with my time, such was my appreciation of—"

Mrs. Trentham waved a hand in a manner that indicated she was not displeased.

"And I fear," he continued, "that despite enlisting the good services of Dr. Halcombe as my assistant and also remembering the time it takes to travel up and down to Yorkshire it may still take us several more weeks to both catalogue and value such a fine collection—always aware that your late father spent a lifetime putting the library together."

"It's of no consequence," Mrs. Trentham assured him. "You see, I'm not in a hurry. Do take your time, Mr. Sneddles, and just let me know when you have completed the task."

The antiquarian smiled at the thought of being allowed to continue his cataloguing uninterrupted.

He escorted Mrs. Trentham back to the front of the shop and opened the door to let her out. No one who saw them together would have believed they had been born in the same year. She stared up and down Chelsea Terrace before quickly dropping the veil across her face.

Mr. Sneddles closed the door behind her and rubbed his mittens together, then shuffled back to his room to join Dr. Halcombe.

Lately he had been annoyed whenever a customer entered the shop.

"After thirty years, I have no intention of changing my stockbrokers," Gerald Trentham said curtly as he poured himself a second cup of coffee.

"But can't you understand, my dear, just what a boost it would give Nigel to secure your account for his company?"

"And what a blow it would be for David Cartwright and Vickers da Costa to lose a client whom they have served so honorably for over a hundred years? No Ethel, it's high time Nigel carried out his own airy work. Damn it all, he's over forty."

"All the more reason to help," his wife suggested as she buttered a second piece of toast.

"No, Ethel. I repeat, no."

"But can't you see that one of Nigel's responsibilities is to bring new clients into the firm? It's particularly important at this moment, as I feel sure that now the war is over, they will soon be offering him a partnership."

Major Trentham didn't try to hide his incredulity at this piece of news. "If that is the case, he should be making more use of his own contacts—preferably the ones he made at school and at Sandhurst, not to mention the City. He shouldn't always expect to fall back on his father's friends."

"That's hardly fair, Gerald. If he can't rely on his own flesh and blood, why should he expect anyone else to come to his aid?"

"Come to his aid? That just about sums it up." Gerald's voice rose with every word. "Because that's exactly what you've been doing since the day he was born, which is perhaps the reason he is still unable to stand on his own two feet."

"Gerald," Mrs. Trentham said, removing a handkerchief from her sleeve. "I never thought—"

"In any case," the major replied, trying to restore some calm, "it's not as if my portfolio is all that impressive. As you and Mr. Attlee know only too well, all our capital is bound up in land and has been for generations."

"It's not the amount that matters," Mrs. Trentham chided him. "It's the principle."

"Couldn't agree with you more," said Gerald as he folded his napkin, rose from the breakfast table and left the room before his wife could utter another word.

Mrs. Trentham picked up her husband's morning paper and ran her finger down the names of those who had been awarded knighthoods in the birthday honors. Her shaking finger stopped at the T's.

During his summer vacation, according to Max Harris, Daniel Trumper had taken the Queen Mary to America. However, the private detective was quite unable to answer Mrs. Trentham's next question—why? All that Harris could be sure of was that Daniel's college still expected the young don back for the start of the new academic year.

During the weeks that Daniel was away in America Mrs. Trentham spent a considerable amount of time closeted with her solicitors in Lincoln's Inn Fields while they prepared a building application for her.

She had already sought out three architects, all of whom had recently qualified. She instructed them to prepare outline drawings for a block of flats to be built in Chelsea. The winner, she assured them, would be offered the commission while the other two would receive one hundred pounds each in compensation. All three happily agreed to her terms.

Some twelve weeks later, each presented his portfolio but only one of them had come up with what Mrs. Trentham was hoping for.

In the opinion of the senior partner of the law practice, the submission by the youngest of the three, Justin Talbot, would have made Battersea Power Station look like the Palace of Versailles. Mrs. Trentham did not divulge to her solicitor that she had been influenced in her selection by the fact that Mr. Talbot's uncle was a member of the Planning Committee of the London County Council.

Even if Talbot's uncle were to come to his nephew's aid, Mrs. Trentham remained unconcerned that a majority of the committee would accept such an outrageous offering. It resembled a bunker that even Hitler might have rejected. However, her lawyers suggested that she should state in her application that the primary purpose of the new building was to create some low-cost housing in the center of London to help students and single unemployed men who were in dire need of temporary accommodation. Second, any income derived from the flats would be placed in a charitable trust to help other families suffering from the same problem. Third, she should bring to the committee's attention the painstaking efforts that have been made to give a young, recently qualified architect his first break.

Mrs. Trentham didn't know whether to be delighted or appalled when the LCC granted its approval. After long deliberation over several weeks, they insisted on only a few minor modifications to young Talbot's original plans. She gave her architect immediate instructions to clear the bombed-out site so that the building could begin without delay.

The application to the LCC by Sir Charles Trumper for a new store to be erected in Chelsea Terrace came in for considerable national publicity, most of it favorable. However, Mrs. Trentham noted that in several articles written about the proposed new building, there was mention of a certain Mr. Martin Simpson who described himself as the president of the Save the Small Shops Federation—a body that objected to the whole concept of Trumper's. Mr. Simpson claimed it could only harm the little shopkeeper in the long run; their livelihoods were, after all, being put at risk. He went on to complain that what made it even more unfair was that none of the local shopkeepers had the means of taking on a man as powerful and wealthy as Sir Charles Trumper.

"Oh, yes, they have," Mrs. Trentham said over breakfast that morning.

"Have what?"

"Nothing important," she reassured her husband but later that day she supplied Harris with the financial wherewithal to allow Mr. Simpson to lodge an official objection to the Trumper scheme. Mrs. Trentham also agreed to cover any out-of-pocket costs Mr. Simpson might incur while carrying out his endeavors.

She began to follow the results of Mr. Simpson's efforts daily in the national press, even confiding to Harris that she would have been happy to pay the man a fee for the service he was rendering; but like so many activists the cause was all he seemed to care about.

Once the bulldozers had moved in on Mrs. Trentham's site and work had come to a standstill on Trumper's, she turned her attention back to Daniel and the problem of his inheritance.

Her lawyers had confirmed that there was no way of reversing the provisions in the will unless Daniel Trumper were voluntarily to resign all his rights. They even presented her with a form of words that would be necessary for him to sign in such circumstances, leaving Mrs. Trentham the daunting task of actually getting his signature affixed to the paper.

As Mrs. Trentham was unable to imagine any situation in which she and Daniel would ever meet she considered the whole exercise futile. However, she carefully locked the lawyer's draft in the bottom drawer of her desk in the drawing room along with all the other Trumper documents.

"How nice to see you again, madam," said Mr. Sneddles. "I cannot apologize too profusely over the length of time I have taken to complete your commission. I shall naturally charge you no more than the sum on which we originally agreed."

The bookseller was unable to see the expression on Mrs. Trentham's face as she had not yet removed her veil. She followed the old man past shelf after shelf of dust-covered books until they reached his little room at the back of the shop. There she was introduced to Dr. Halcombe who, like Sneddles, was wearing a heavy overcoat. She declined to take the offered chair when she noticed that it too was covered in a thin layer of dust.

The old man proudly pointed to eight boxes that lay on his desk. It took him nearly an hour to explain, with the occasional interjection from Dr. Halcombe, how they had catalogued her late father's entire library first alphabetically under authors, then by categories and finally with a separate cross-section under titles. A rough valuation of each book had also been penciled neatly in the bottom right-hand corner of every card.

Mrs. Trentham was surprisingly patient with Mr. Sneddles, occasionally asking questions in whose answer she had no interest, while allowing him to indulge in a long and complicated explanation as to how he had occupied his time during the past five years.

"You have done a quite remarkable job, Mr. Sneddles," she said after he flicked over the last card "Zola, Emile (1840–1902)." "I could not have asked for more."

"You are most kind, madam," said the old man bowing low, "but then you have always shown such a genuine concern in these matters. Your father could have found no more suitable person to be responsible for his life's work."

"Fifty guineas was the agreed fee, if I remember correctly," said Mrs. Trentham, removing a check from her handbag and passing it over to the owner of the bookshop.

"Thank you, madam," Mr. Sneddles replied, taking the check and placing it absentmindedly in an ashtray. He refrained from adding, "I would happily have paid you double the sum for the privilege of carrying out such an exercise."

"And I see," she said, studying the accompanying papers closely, "that you have placed an overall value on the entire collection of a little under five thousand pounds."

"That is correct, madam. I should warn you, however, that if anything I have erred on the conservative side. You see, some of these volumes are so rare it would be difficult to say what they might fetch on the open market."

"Does that mean you would be willing to offer such a sum for the library should I wish to dispose of it?" asked Mrs. Trentham, looking directly at him.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, madam," replied the old man. "But alas, I fear that I quite simply do not have sufficient funds to do so."

"What would your attitude be were I to entrust you with the responsibility for their sale?" asked Mrs. Trentham, her eyes never leaving the old man.

"I can think of no greater privilege, madam, but it might take me many months—possibly even years—to carry out such an enterprise."

"Then perhaps we should come to some arrangement, Mr. Sneddles."

"Some arrangement? I'm not sure I fully understand you, madam."

"A partnership perhaps, Mr. Sneddles?"

Chapter 34

Mrs. Trentham approved of Nigel's choice of bride; but then it was she who had selected the young lady in the first place.

Veronica Berry possessed all the attributes her future mother-in-law considered necessary to become a Trentham. She came from a good family: her father was a vice-admiral who had not yet been placed on the reserve list and her mother was the daughter of a suffragan bishop. They were comfortably off without being wealthy and, more important, of their three children, all daughters, Veronica was the eldest.

The wedding was celebrated at Kimmeridge parish church in Dorset where Veronica had been christened by the vicar, confirmed by the suffragan bishop and was now to be married by the bishop of Bath and Wells. The reception was grand enough without being lavish and "the children," as Mrs. Trentham referred to them, would, she told everyone, be spending their honeymoon on the family estate in Aberdeen before resuming to a mews house in Cadogan Place that she had selected for them. It was so convenient for Chester Square, she explained when asked, and also when not asked.

Every one of the thirty-two partners of Kitcat and Aitken, the stockbrokers for whom Nigel worked, was invited to the nuptial feast, but only five felt able to make the journey to Dorset.

During the reception, held on the lawn of the vice-admiral's home, Mrs. Trentham made a point of speaking to all those partners present. To her consternation none was particularly forthcoming about Nigel's future.

Mrs. Trentham had rather hoped that her son might have been made a partner soon after his fortieth birthday as she was well aware that several younger men had seen their names printed on the top left-hand side of the letter paper despite having joined the firm some time after Nigel.

Just before the speeches were about to begin a shower sent the guests scurrying back into the marquee. Mrs. Trentham felt the bridegroom's speech could have been received a little more warmly. However, she allowed that it was quite hard to applaud when you were holding a glass of champagne in one hand and an asparagus roll in the other. Indeed, Nigel's best man, Hugh Folland, hadn't done a great deal better.

After the speeches were over Mrs. Trentham sought out Miles Renshaw, the senior partner of Kitcat and Aitken, and after taking him on one side revealed that in the near future she intended to invest a considerable sum of money in a company that was planning to go public. She would therefore be in need of his advice as to what she described as her long-term strategy.

This piece of information did not elicit any particular response from Renshaw, who still remembered Mrs. Trentham's assurance over the future management of the Hardcastle portfolio once her father had died. However, he suggested that perhaps she should drop into their City office and go over the details of the transaction once the official tender document had been released.

Mrs. Trentham thanked Mr. Renshaw and continued to work her way round the assembled gathering as if it were she who was the hostess.

She didn't notice Veronica's scowl of disapproval on more than one occasion.

It was the last Friday in September 1947 that Gibson tapped quietly on the door of the living room, entered and announced, "Captain Daniel Trentham."

When Mrs. Trentham first saw the young man dressed in the uniform of a captain in the Royal Fusiliers, her legs almost gave way. He marched in and came to a halt in the middle of the carpet. The meeting that had taken place in that room more than twenty-five years before immediately sprang to her mind. Somehow she managed to get herself across the room before collapsing onto the sofa.

Gripping its arm to make sure she didn't pass out completely Mrs. Trentham stared up at her grandson. She was horrified at his resemblance to Guy, and felt quite sick by the memories he evoked. Memories which for so many years she had managed to keep at the back of her mind.

Once she had composed herself Mrs. Trentham's first reaction was to order Gibson to throw him out, but she decided to wait for a moment as she was anxious to discover what the young man could possibly want. As Daniel delivered his carefully rehearsed sentences she began to wonder if possibly the meeting might be turned to her advantage.

Her grandson started by telling her how he had been to Australia that summer, not America as Harris had led her to believe. He went on to show he knew of her ownership of the flats, her attempt to block the planning permission for the store and the wording on the grave in Ashurst. He continued his rendering with an assurance that his parents were unaware he had come to visit her that afternoon.

Mrs. Trentham concluded that he must have discovered the full circumstances of her son's death in Melbourne. Otherwise why would he have stressed that, if the information he possessed were to fall into the hands of the popular press, it could only result in—to put it mildly—embarrassment for all concerned?

Mrs. Trentham allowed Daniel to continue his speech while at the same time thinking furiously. It was during his prognosis on the future development of Chelsea Terrace that she wondered just how much the young man standing before her actually did know. She decided there was only one way of finding out, and that would require her to take one big risk.

When Daniel had finally come out with his specific demand, Mrs. Trentham simply replied, "I have a condition of my own."

"What condition?"

"That you relinquish any claim you might have to the Hardcastle estate."

Daniel looked uncertain for the first time. It was obviously not what he had expected. Mrs. Trentham suddenly felt confident that he had no knowledge of the will: after all, her father had briefed Baverstock not to allow the young man to be privy to its contents until his thirtieth birthday; and Mr. Baverstock was not a man to break his word.

"I can't believe you ever intended to leave me anything in the first place," was Daniel's first response.

She didn't reply and waited until Daniel at last nodded his agreement.

"In writing," she added.

"Then I shall also require our arrangement in writing," he demanded brusquely.

Mrs. Trentham felt certain that he was no longer relying on the safety of a prepared script and was now simply reacting to events as they took place.

She rose, walked slowly over to her desk and unlocked a drawer. Daniel remained in the middle of the room, swaying slightly from foot to foot.

Having located two sheets of paper and retrieving the lawyer's draft wording that she had left locked in the bottom drawer, Mrs. Trentham wrote out two identical agreements which included Daniel's demand for her withdrawal of both her application to build the flats and her objections to his father's application for planning permission to build Trumper Towers. She also included in the agreements her lawyer's exact words for Daniel's waiver of his rights to his great-grandfather's estate.

She handed over the first draft for her grandson to study. At any moment she expected him to work out what he must be sacrificing by signing such a document.

Daniel finished reading the first copy of the agreement, then checked to see that both drafts were identical in every detail. Though he said nothing, Mrs. Trentham still felt he must surely fathom out why she needed the agreement so badly. In fact, had he demanded that she also sell the land in Chelsea Terrace to his father at a commercial rate she would happily have agreed, just to have Daniel's signature on the bottom of the agreement.

The moment Daniel had signed both documents Mrs. Trentham rang the bell and called for the butler to witness the two signatures. Once this task had been completed she said curtly, "Show the gentleman out, Gibson." As the uniformed figure left the room she found herself wondering just how long it would be before the boy realized what a poor bargain he had struck.

When on the following day Mrs. Trentham's solicitors studied the one-page document they were stunned by the simplicity of the transaction. However, she offered no explanation as to how she had managed to achieve such a coup. A slight bow of the head from the senior partner acknowledged that the agreement was watertight.

Every man has his price, and once Martin Simpson realized his source of income had dried up, a further fifty pounds in cash convinced him that he should withdraw his objection to Trumper Towers from proceeding as planned.

The following day Mrs. Trentham turned her attention to other matters: the understanding of offer documents.

In Mrs. Trentham's opinion Veronica became pregnant far too quickly. In May 1948 her daughter-in-law produced a son, Giles Raymond, only nine months and three weeks after she and Nigel had been married. At least the child had not been born prematurely. As it was, Mrs. Trentham had already observed the servants counting the months on their fingers on more than one occasion.

It was after Veronica had returned from hospital with the child that Mrs. Trentham had the first difference of opinion with her daughter-in-law.

Veronica and Nigel had wheeled Giles round to Chester Square for the proud grandmother to admire. After Mrs. Trentham had given the infant a cursory glance Gibson pushed the pram out and the tea trolley in.

"Of course you'll want the boy to be put down for Asgarth and Harrow without delay," said Mrs. Trentham, even before Nigel or Veronica had been given a chance to select a sandwich. "After all, one wants to be certain that his place is guaranteed."

"Actually, Nigel and I have already decided how our son will be educated," said Veronica, "and neither of those schools have entered our deliberations."

Mrs. Trentham placed her cup back on its saucer and stared at Veronica as if she had announced the death of the King. "I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you correctly, Veronica."

"We are going to send Giles to a local primary school in Chelsea and then on to Bryanston."

"Bryanston? And where is that, may one ask?"

"In Dorset. It's my father's old school," Veronica added before removing a salmon sandwich from the plate in front of her.

Nigel looked anxiously across at his mother as he touched his blue and silver striped tie.

"That may well be the case," said Mrs. Trentham. "However, I feel sure we still need to give a little more consideration as to how young Raymond"—she stressed the name—"should start off in life."

"No, that will be unnecessary," said Veronica. "Nigel and I have already given quite sufficient thought as to how Giles should be educated. In fact, we registered him for Bryanston last week. After all, one wants to be certain that his place is guaranteed."

Veronica leaned forward and helped herself to another salmon sandwich.

Three chimes echoed from the little carriage clock that stood on the mantelpiece on the far side of the room.

Max Harris pushed himself up out of the armchair in the corner of the lounge the moment he saw Mrs. Trentham enter the hotel lobby. He gave a half bow as he waited for his client to be seated in the chair opposite him.

He ordered tea for her and another double whisky for himself. Mrs. Trentham frowned her disapproval as the waiter scurried off to carry out the order. Her attention fixed on Max Harris the moment she heard the inevitable clicks.

"I assume you would not have requested this meeting, Mr. Harris, unless you had something important to tell me."

"I think I can safely say that I am the bearer of glad tidings. You see, a lady by the name of Mrs. Bennett has recently been arrested and charged with shoplifting. A fur coat and a leather belt from Harvey Nicholls, to be exact."

"And of what possible interest could this lady be to me?" asked Mrs. Trentham as she looked over his shoulder, annoyed to see that it had started raining, remembering that she had left the house without an umbrella.

"She turns out to have a rather interesting relationship with Sir Charles Trumper."

"Relationship?" said Mrs. Trentham, looking even more puzzled.

"Yes," said Harris. "Mrs. Bennett is none other than Sir Charles' youngest sister."

Mrs. Trentham turned her gaze back on Max Harris. "But Trumper only has three sisters if I remember correctly," she said. "Sal, who is in Toronto and married to an insurance salesman; Grace, who has recently been appointed matron of Guy's Hospital, and Kitty, who left England some time ago to join her sister in Canada."

"And has now returned."

"Returned?"

"Yes, as Mrs. Kitty Bennett."

"I don't begin to understand," said Mrs. Trentham, becoming exasperated by the cat and mouse game Harris was so obviously enjoying.

"While she was in Canada," Harris continued, oblivious to his client's irritation, "she married a certain Mr. Bennett, a longshoreman. Not unlike her old man, in fact. It lasted for almost a year before ending in a messy divorce in which several men were petitioned. She returned to England a few weeks ago, but only after her sister Sal had refused to take her back."

"How did you come by this information?"

"A friend of mine at Wandsworth nick pointed me in the right direction. Once he had read the charge sheet in the name of Bennett, née Trumper, he decided to double-check. It was 'Kitty' that gave the game away. I popped round immediately to be sure we had the right woman." Harris stopped to sip his whisky.

"Go on," said Mrs. Trentham impatiently.

"For five pounds she sang like a canary," said Harris. "If I were in a position to offer her fifty I've a feeling she'd sound awfully like a nightingale."

When Trumper's announced they were preparing to go public Mrs. Trentham was holidaying on her husband's estate in Aberdeenshire. Having read the short piece in the Telegraph, she concluded that, although she now had control over the combined monthly incomes left to her sister as well as herself and a further windfall of twenty thousand pounds, she would still need all the capital she had acquired from the sale of the Yorkshire estate if she was going to be able to purchase a worthwhile holding in the new company. She made three trunk calls that morning.

Earlier in the year she had given instructions for her own portfolio to be transferred to Kitcat and Aitken, and after several months of continually badgering her husband she had finally bludgeoned him into following suit. Despite this further commitment on her son's behalf Nigel was still not offered a partnership. Mrs. Trentham would have advised him to resign had she been confident his prospects elsewhere would have been any better.

Despite this setback she continued to invite the partners of Kitcat to dinner at Chester Square in regular rotation. Gerald left his wife in no doubt that he did not approve of such tactics, and remained unconvinced that they helped their son's cause. He had been, however, aware that his opinion in such matters had made little impression on her for some time. In any case, the major had now reached an age when he had become too weary to put up more than token resistance.

After Mrs. Trentham had studied the finer details of the Trumper's proposals in her husband's copy of The Times, she instructed Nigel to apply for five percent of the company's shares the moment the prospectus was launched.

However, it was a paragraph towards the end of an article in the Daily Mail, written by Vincent Mulcrone and headed "The Triumphant Trumpers," that reminded her that she was still in possession of a picture that needed to fetch its proper price.

Whenever Mr. Baverstock requested a meeting with Mrs. Trentham it always seemed to her to be more of a summons than an invitation. Perhaps it was because he had acted for her father for over thirty years.

She was only too aware that, as her father's executor, Mr. Baverstock still wielded considerable influence, even if she had managed to clip his wings recently over the sale of the estate.

Having offered her the seat on the other side of the partner's desk Mr. Baverstock resumed to his own chair, replaced his half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and opened the cover of one of his inevitable gray files.

He seemed to conduct all his correspondence, not to mention his meetings, in a manner that could only be described as distant. Mrs. Trentham often wondered if he had treated her father in the same way.

"Mrs. Trentham," he began, placing the palms of his hands on the desk in front of him and pausing to stare down at the notes he had written the previous evening. "May I first thank you for taking the trouble to come and see me in my offices and add how sad I am that your sister felt she had to once again decline my invitation. However, she has made it clear to me in a short letter I received last week that she is happy for you to represent her on this and indeed on any future occasion."

"Dear Amy," said Mrs. Trentham. "The poor creature took the death of my father rather badly, even though I have done everything in my power to soften the blow."

The solicitor's eyes returned to the file which contained a note from a Mr. Althwaite of Bird, Collingwood and Althwaite in Harrogate, instructing them to see that in future Miss Amy's monthly check should be sent direct to Coutts in the Strand for an account number that differed by only one digit from that to which Mr. Baverstock already sent the other half of the monthly revenue.

"Although your father left you and your sister the income derived from his Trust," the solicitor continued, "the bulk of his capital will, as you know, in time be passed on to Dr. Daniel Trumper."

Mrs. Trentham nodded, her face impassive.

"As you are also aware," Mr. Baverstock continued "the Trust is currently holding stocks, shares and gilts that are being administered for us by the merchant bankers Hambros and Company. Whenever they consider it prudent to make a sizable investment on behalf of the Trust, we feel it equally important to keep you informed of their intentions, despite the fact that Sir Raymond gave us a free hand in these matters."

"That's most considerate of you, Mr. Baverstock."

The solicitor's eyes returned to the file where he studied another note. This time it was from an estate agent in Bradford. The estate, house and contents of the late Sir Raymond Hardcastle had without his knowledge been sold for forty-one thousand pounds. After deducting commissions and legal fees, the agent had sent the balance of the monies direct to the same account at Coutts in the Strand as received Miss Amy's monthly payment.

"Bearing this in mind," continued the family lawyer, "I felt it nothing less than my duty to inform you that our advisers are recommending a considerable investment in a new company that is about to come onto the market."

"And which company might that be?" inquired Mrs. Trentham.

"Trumper's," said Baverstock, watching carefully for his client's reaction.

"And why Trumper's in particular?" she asked, the expression on her face revealing no particular surprise.

"Principally because Hambros consider it a sound and prudent investment. But, perhaps more important in time the bulk of the company's stock will be owned by Daniel Trumper, whose father, as I feel sure you know, is currently chairman of the board."

"I was aware of that," said Mrs. Trentham, without further comment. She could see that it worried Mr. Baverstock that she took the news so calmly.

"Of course, if you and your sister were both to object strongly to such a large commitment being made by the Trust it is possible our advisers might reconsider their position."

"And how much are they thinking of investing?"

"Around two hundred thousand pounds," the solicitor informed her. "This would make it possible for the Trust to purchase approximately ten percent of the shares that are on offer."

"Is that not a considerable stake for us to be holding in one company?"

"It certainly is," said Mr. Baverstock. "But still well within the Trust's budget."

"Then I am happy to accept Hambros' judgment," said Mrs. Trentham. "And I feel sure I speak for my sister in this matter."

Once again Mr. Baverstock looked down at the file where he studied an affidavit signed by Miss Amy Hardcastle, virtually giving her sister carte blanche when it came to decisions relating to the estate of the late Sir Raymond Hardcastle, including the transfer of twenty thousand pounds from her personal account. Mr. Baverstock only hoped that Miss Amy was happy at the Cliff Top Residential Hotel. He looked up at Sir Raymond's other daughter.

"Then all that is left for me to do," he concluded, "is to advise Hambros of your views in this matter and brief you more fully when Trumper's eventually allocates their shares."

The solicitor closed the file, rose from behind his desk and began to walk towards the door. Mrs. Trentham followed in his wake, happy in the knowledge that both the Hardcastle Trust and her own advisers were now working in tandem to help her fulfill her long-term purpose without either side being aware of what she was up to. It pleased her even more to think that the day Trumper's went public she would have control of fifteen percent of the company.

When they reached the door Mr. Baverstock turned to shake Mrs. Trentham's hand.

"Good day, Mrs. Trentham."

"Good day, Mr. Baverstock. You have been most punctilious, as always."

She made her way back to the car where a chauffeur held open the back door for her. As she was driven away she turned to look out of the rear window. The lawyer was standing by the door of his offices, the worried expression remaining on his face.

"Where to, madam?" asked the chauffeur as they joined the afternoon traffic.

She checked her watch: the meeting with Baverstock had not taken as long as she had anticipated and she now found herself with some spare time before her next appointment. Nevertheless she still gave the instruction. "The St. Agnes Hotel," as she placed a hand on the brown paper parcel that lay on the seat beside her.

She had told Harris to book a private room in the hotel and slip Kitty Bennett up in the lift at a time when he felt confident that no one was watching them.

When she arrived at the St. Agnes clutching the parcel under one arm, she was annoyed to find that Harris was not waiting for her in his usual place by the bar. She intensely disliked standing alone in the corridor and reluctantly went over to the hall porter to ask the number of the room Harris had booked.

"Fourteen," said a man in a shiny blue uniform with buttons that did not shine. "But you can't—"

Mrs. Trentham was not in the habit of being told "You can't" by anyone. She turned and slowly climbed the stairs that led up to the bedrooms on the first floor. The hall porter quickly picked up the phone on the counter beside him.

It took Mrs. Trentham a few minutes to locate Room 14 and Harris almost as long to respond to her sharp knock. When Mrs. Trentham was eventually allowed to enter the room she was surprised to discover how small it was: only just large enough to accommodate one bed, one chair and a washbasin. Her eyes settled on the woman who was sprawled across the bed. She was wearing a red silk blouse and a black leather skirt far too short in Mrs. Trentham's opinion, not to mention the fact that two of the top buttons of the blouse were undone.

As Kitty made no attempt to remove an old raincoat that had been thrown across the chair, Mrs. Trentham was left with little choice but to remain standing.

She turned to Harris, who was checking his tie in the only mirror. He had obviously decided that any introduction was superfluous.

Mrs. Trentham's only reaction was to get on with the business she had come to transact so that she could return to civilization as quickly as possible. She didn't wait for Harris to start the proceedings.

"Have you explained to Mrs. Bennett what is expected of her?"

"I most certainly have," said the detective, as he put on his jacket. "And Kitty is more than ready to carry out her part of the bargain."

"Can she be trusted?" Mrs. Trentham glanced doubtfully down at the woman on the bed.

"'Course I can, long as the money's right," were Kitty's first words. "All I want to know is, 'ow much do I get?"

"Whatever it sells for, plus fifty pounds," said Mrs. Trentham.

"Then I expect twenty quid up front."

Mrs. Trentham hesitated for a moment, then nodded her agreement.

"So what's the catch?"

"Only that your brother will try to talk you out of the whole idea," said Mrs. Trentham. "He may even attempt to bribe you in exchange for—"

"Not an 'ope," said Kitty. "'E can talk 'is 'ead off as far as I'm concerned but it won't make a blind bit of difference. You see, I 'ate Charlie almost as much as you do."

Mrs. Trentham smiled for the first time. She then placed the brown paper parcel on the end of the bed.

Harris smirked. "I knew you two would find you had something in common."