As the Crow Flies (90 page)

“Hello,
Charlie, I didn’t know you liked Mozart,” a voice said.

“I
never used to but suddenly he’s top of the pops,” said Charlie, unable to mask
his delight.

“Of
course,” said the manager. “The one place you couldn’t see was the box below
ours.”

“May
I introduce... “

“We
haven’t time for that,” said Charlie. “Just follow me.” He grabbed Cathy by the
arm. “Mr. Jackson, would you behind enough to ask my wife to explain to this
gentleman why I need Cathy. You can have her back after midnight,” said
Charlie, smiling at the bemused young man. “And thank you, Mr. Jackson.”

He
checked his watch: ten-forty. “We still have enough time.”

“Enough
time for what, Charlie?” said Cathy as she found herself being-pulled across
the foyer and out onto Belvedere Road. The uniformed man was now standing to
attention by the car.

“Thank
you, Ron,” said Charlie as he tried to open the front door. “Damn, Becky’s
locked it,” he said. He turned to watch a cab as it came off the waiting rank.
He hailed it.

“I
say, old fellow,” said a man standing in the front of the taxi queue, “I think
you’ll find that’s my cab.”

“She’s
just about to give birth,” said Charlie as he opened the door and pushed the
wafer-thin Cathy into the back of the taxi.

“Oh,
jolly good luck,” said the man, taking a pace backwards.

“Where
to, guvntr?” asked the cabbie.

“Number
110 High Holborn and don’t hang about “ said Charlie.

“I
think we’re more likely to find a solicitor than a gynecologist at that
particular address,” suggested Cathy. “And I do hope you’ve a worthwhile
explanation as to why I’m missing dinner with the one man who’s asked me out on
a date in weeks.”

“Not
right now,” Charlie confessed. “All I need you to do for the moment is sign a
document before midnight, then I promise the explanations will follow.”

The
taxi pulled up outside the solicitor’s office a few minutes after eleven.
Charlie stepped out of the cab to find Baverstock was standing by the door
waiting to greet them.

“That’ll
be eight and six, govn’r.”

“Oh,
God,” said Charlie, “I haven’t got any money.”

“That’s
the way he treats all his girls,” said Cathy as she passed the cabbie a
ten-shilling note.

They
both followed Baverstock through to his office where a set of documents was
already laid out on his desk. “Since you called I have had a long conversation
with my nephew in Australia,” said Baverstock, facing Charlie. “So I think I’m
well acquainted with everything that took place while you were over there.”

“Which
is more than I am,” said Cathy, sounding bewildered.

“All
in good time,” said Charlie. “Explanations later.” He turned back to
Baverstock. “So what happens now?”

“Miss
Ross must sign here, here and here,” the solicitor said without further
explanation, indicating a space between two penciled crosses at the bottom of
three separate sheets of paper. “As you are in no way related to the
beneficiary or a beneficiary yourself, Sir Charles, you may care to act as the
witness to Miss Ross’ signature.”

Charlie
nodded, placed a pair of opera glasses beside the contract and took a pen from
his inside pocket.

“You’ve
always taught me in the past, Charlie, to read documents carefully before
putting my signature to them.”

“Forget
everything I’ve taught you in the past, my girl, and just sign where Mr.
Baverstock is pointing.”

Cathy
signed all three documents without another word.

“Thank
you, Miss Ross,” said Mr. Baverstock. “And now if you could both bear with me
for one moment, I must inform Mr. Birkenshaw of what has taken place.”

“Birkenshaw?”
said Charlie.

“Mr.
Trentham’s solicitor. I must obviously let him know immediately that his client
is not the only person who has registered a claim to the Hardcastle estate.”

Cathy,
looking even more bewildered, turned to Charlie.

“Later,”
said Charlie. “I promise.”

Baverstock
dialed the seven digits of a Chelsea number.

No
one spoke as they waited for the telephone to be answered. Eventually Mr.
Baverstock heard a sleepy voice say, “Kensington 7192.”

“Good
evening, Birkenshaw, Baverstock here. Sorry to have to bother you at this time
of night. Indeed, I wouldn’t have done so if I hadn’t considered the
circumstances fully warranted such an intrusion on your privacy. But may I
first ask what time you make it?”

“Have
I heard you correctly?” said Birkenshaw, his voice now sounding more alert. “You’ve
telephoned me in the middle of the night to ask what the time is?”

“Precisely,”
said Baverstock. “You see, I need to confirm that it is still before the
witching hour. So do be a good fellow and tell me what time you make it.”

“I
make it eleven-seventeen, but I fail to understand... “

“I
make it eleven-sixteen,” said Baverstock, “but on the matter of time I am happy
to bow to your superior judgment. The purpose of this call, by the way,” he
continued, “is to let you know that a second person who appears to be a more
direct descendant of Sir Raymond than your client has laid claim to the
Hardcastle estate.”

“What’s
her name?”

“I
suspect you already know that,” replied the old laborer before he replaced the
telephone. “Damn,” he said, looking across at Charlie, “I should have recorded
the conversation.”

“Why?”

“Because
Birkenshaw is never going to admit that he said ‘her.’”

“
Are you saying
that Guy Trentham was my father?” asked Cathy. “But how... ?”

After
waking up Dr. Atkins, a man more used to being disturbed during the night, Charlie
felt able to explain to Cathy what he had discovered during his visit to
Australia, and how everything had been borne out by the infommation she had
supplied to Becky when she first applied for a job at Trumper’s. Baverstock
listened intently, nodding from time to time, while regularly checking the
copious notes he had made following a long conversation with his nephew in
Sydney.

Cathy
listened to everything Charlie had to report and although she now had some
recollections of her life in Australia, she was still fairly vague about her
days at the University of Melbourne and could remember almost nothing of St.
Hilda’s. The name “Miss Benson” just didn’t register at all.

“I’ve
tried so hard to recall more details of what happened before I came to England,
but nothing much comes back despite the fact that I can remember almost
everything that took place after I landed at Southampton. Dr. Atkins isn’t that
optimistic, is he?”

“There
are no rules, is all he keeps reminding me.”

Charlie
stood up, walked across the room and turned Cathy’s painting round, a look of
hope appearing on his face, but she just shook her head as she stared at the
woodland scene.

“I
agree I must have painted it at some time, but I’ve no idea where or when.”

Around
four the following morning Charlie phoned for a taxi to take them back to Eaton
Square, having agreed with Baverstock that he should set up a face-toface
meeting with the other side as soon as it could be arranged. When they returned
home Cathy was so exhausted that she went straight to bed, but as Charlie’s
time clock didn’t allow him to sleep he closeted himself in the study and
continued his mental search for the missing link, only too aware of the legal
bathe that lay ahead of him even if he succeeded.

The
following day he and Cathy traveled up to Cambridge together and spent a
fraught afternoon in Dr. Atkins’ little office at Addenbrooke’s. For his part
the consultant seemed far more interested in the file on Cathy that had been
supplied by Mrs. Culver than the fact she might in some way be related to Mrs.
Trentham and therefore eligible to inherit the Hardcastle Trust.

He
took her slowly through each item in the file art classes, credits,
misdemeanors, tennis matches, Melbourne Church of England Girls’ Grammar
School, Universiy of Melbourne but he always met with the same response: deep
thought, but only vague recollections. He tried word associations Melbourne,
Miss Benson, cricket, ship, hotel to which he received the replies, Australia,
Hedges, scorer, Southampton, long hours.

“Scorer”
was the only word that interested Dr. Atkins, but pressed further, Cathy’s only
memories of Australia remained a sketchy description of a grammar school, some
clear recollections of the university and a boy called Mel Nicholls, followed
by a long trip on a ship to London. She could even tell them the names of Pam
and Maureen, who had traveled over with her, but not where they came from.

Cathy
went into great detail when the subject turned to the Melrose Hotel and Charlie
was able to confirm the accuracy of Cathy’s recollection of her early life at
Trumper’s.

The
description of her first meeting with Daniel, down to his changing the place
cards at the Trumpers’ housewarming party, brought tears to Charlie’s eyes. But
on the subject of her parentage and the names of Margaret Ethel Trentham and
Miss Rachel Benson, she still had nothing to offer.

By
six o’clock Cathy was drained. Dr. Atkins took Charlie on one side and warned
him that in his opinion it was most unlikely that she would remember much more
of what took place in her life before she arrived in London. Perhaps minor
incidents might come back to her from time to time, but nothing of any real
significance.

“I’m
sorry, I wasn’t much help to you, was I?” said Cathy as Charlie drove her back
to London.

He
took her hand. “We’re not beaten yet,” he promised her, although he was
beginning to feel that Trevor Roberts’ odds of fifty-fifry of proving that
Cathy was the rightful claimant to the Hardcastle Trust were looking distinctly
optimistic.

Becky
was there to welcome them home and the three of them had a quiet supper
together. Charlie made no reference to what had taken place at Cambridge
earlier in the day until after Cathy had retired to her room. When Becky heard
how Cathy had responded to Dr. Atkins’ examination she insisted that from now
on the girl was to be left in peace.

“I
lost Daniel because of that woman,” she told her husband. “I’m not willing to
lose Cathy as well. If you’re going to continue your fight for Trumper’s you
must do it without involving her.”

Charlie
nodded his agreement though he wanted to shout out: how am I expected to save
everything I’ve built up from being taken away from me by yet another Trentham
without being allowed to push Cathy to the brink?

Just
before he switched out the bedroom light the phone rang. It was Trevor Roberts
calling from Sydney, but his news did not advance their cause. Walter Slade had
refused to release any new information on Ethel Trentham and wouldn’t even sign
a document confirming he had known her. Charlie once again cursed himself for
the crass way he had handled the interview with the old Yorkshireman.

“And
the bank?” he asked, not sounding too hopeful.

“The
Commercial Bank of Australia say they wouldn’t allow access to the details of
Miss Benson’s private account unless we could prove a crime had been committed.
What Mrs. Trentham did to Cathy might well be described as evil, but I fear it
wasn’t strictly criminal.”

“It
hasn’t been a good day for either of us,” admitted Charlie.

“Never
forget that the other side doesn’t know that.”

“True,
but how much do they know?”

“My
uncle told me about Birkenshaw’s slip of the tongue with ‘her,’ so my bet is
they know almost as much as we do. When you confront them, better assume they
do, while at the same time never stop looking for that missing link.”

After
Charlie had put down the phone, he lay awake for some time and didn’t move
again until he could hear Becky breathing deeply. Then he slid out of bed,
donned his dressing gown and crept down to his study. He opened a notebook and
began to write out every fact he had gathered during the last few days in the
hope that it might just trigger some memory. The following morning Cathy found
him slumped, head on his desk, sound asleep.

“I
don’t deserve you, Charlie,” she whispered, kissing him on the forehead. He
stirred and raised his eyes.

“We’re
winning,” he said sleepily and even managed a smile, but he realized from the
expression on her face that she didn’t believe him.

Becky
joined them for breakfast an hour later and talked of everything except the
face-to-face meeting that had been arranged to take place in Mr. Baverstock’s
rooms that afternoon.

As
Charlie stood up to leave the table, Cathy said, quite unexpectedly, “I’d like
to be present at the showdown.”

“Do
you think that’s wise?” asked Becky, glancing anxiously towards her husband.