As the Crow Flies (88 page)

“Good,
now let’s hope we can still reach the airport in time.”

“You’ve
done wonders,” said Charlie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uncle
Ernest?”

“Yes,
Ernest Baverstock.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Evil
woman,” said Charlie to himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So
how long have they had?”

“Twenty
hours,” replied the girl, looking embarrassed.

“So
that means we’re stuck here for another four hours?”

“I’m
afraid so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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