As the Crow Flies (63 page)

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?”

M
rs. 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 viceadmiral’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 Airken, 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 turnd 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 louder 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.”