As the Crow Flies (64 page)

“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 incite.”

“No,
that will be unnecessary,” said Veronica. “Niger 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, ne’e 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 Courts 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 Courts 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 turnd 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 reluctandy 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.