As the Crow Flies (92 page)

“A
jury might also consider Miss Ross to be nothing more than an opportunist,”
suggested Birkenshaw, changing tack. “An opportunist who, having stumbled upon
rather a good tale, managed to get herself over to England where she then made
the facts fit in neatly with her own circumstances.”

“Very
neatly indeed,” said Charlie. “Didn’t she do well at the age of three to get
herself registered at an orphanage in Melbourne? At exactly the same time as
Guy Trentham was locked up in the local jail... “

“Coincidence,”
said Birkenshaw.

“...
having been left there by Mrs. Trentham, who then makes out a quarterly payment
to the principal of that orphanage which mysteriously ceases the moment Miss
Benson dies. That must have been some secret she was keeping.”

“Once
again circumstantial and, what’s more, inadmissible,” said Birkenshaw.

Nigel
Trentham leaned forward and was about to make a comment when his lawyer placed
his right hand firmly on his arm. “We shall not fall for those sort of
bully-boy tactics, Sir Charles, that I suspect are more commonplace in the
Whitechapel Road than in Lincoln’s Inn.”

Charlie
leaped out of his chair, his fist clenched, and took a pace towards Birkenshaw.

“Calm
yourself, Sir Charles,” said Baverstock sharply.

Charlie
reluctantly came to a halt a couple of feet in front of Birkenshaw, who did not
flinch. After a moment’s hesitation he recalled Daphne’s advice and returned to
his chair. Trentham’s lawyer continued to stare defiantly at him.

“As
I was saying,” said Birkenshaw, “my client has nothing to hide. And he will
certainly not find it necessary to resort to physical violence to prove his
case.”

Charlie
unclenched his fist but did not lower his voice: “I do hope your client will
resort to answering leading counsel when he inquires as to why his mother
continued to pay large sums of money to someone from the other side of the
world whom she, so you claim, never met. And why a Mr. Walter Slade, a
chauffeur with the Victoria Country Club, took Mrs. Trentham to St. Hilda’s on
20 April 1927 accompanied by a little girl of Cathy’s age called Margaret, but
left without her. And I’ll bet if we ask a judge to delve into Miss Benson’s
bank account, we’ll find that those payments go back to within a day of when
Miss Ross was registered at St. Hilda’s. After all, we already know that the
banker’s order was canceled the week Miss Benson died.”

Once
again Baverstock appeared horrified by Charlie’s reckless nerve, and raised a
hand in the hope that he might stop any further outbursts.

Birkenshaw
in contrast couldn’t resist a wry smile. “Sir Charles, in default of your being
represented by a lawyer, I really should remind you of one or two home truths.
For a start, let me make one point abundantly clear: my client has assured me
that he had never heard of Miss Benson until yesterday. In any case, no English
judge has the jurisdiction to delve into an Australian bank account unless they
have reason to believe a crime has been committed in both countries. What is
more, Sir Charles, two of your key wimesses are sadly in their graves while the
third, Mr. Walter Slade, will not be making any trips to London. What is more,
you won’t be able to subpoena him.

“So
now let us turn to your claim, Sir Charles, that a jury would be surprised if
my client did not appear in the witness box to answer on behalf of his mother.
I suspect they would be even more staggered to learn that the principal witness
in this case, the claimant, was also unwilling to take the stand to answer on
her own behalf because she has little or no recollection of what actually took
place at the time in question. I do not believe that you could find a counsel
in the land who would be willing to put Miss Ross through such an ordeal if the
only words she is likely to utter in reply to every question put to her in the
witness box were, ‘Sorry, I can’t remember.’ Or is it possible that she simply
has nothing credible to say? Let me assure you, Sir Charles, we would be only
too happy to go to court, because you would be laughed out of it.”

Charlie
could tell from the look on Baverstock’s face that he was beaten. He glanced
sadly across at Cathy, whose expression had not changed for the past hour.

Baverstock
slowly removed his spectacles and made great play of cleaning them with a
handkerchief he had taken out of his top pocket. Eventually he spoke: “I
confess, Sir Charles, that I cannot see any good reason to take up the courts’
time with this case. In fact, I believe it would be irresponsible of me to do
so, unless of course Miss Ross is able to produce some fresh evidence of her
identity that has so far not been considered or at least can corroborate all
the statements you have made on her behalf.” He turned to Cathy. “Miss Ross, is
there anything you would like to say at this juncture?”

All
four men turned their attention to Cathy, who was sitting quietly, rubbing a
thumb against the inside of her forefinger, just below her chin. “I apologize,
Miss Ross,” said Baverstock. “I didn’t realize that you had been trying to gain
my attention.”

“No,
no, it is I who should apologize, Mr. Baverstock,” said Cathy. “I always do
that when I’m nervous. It reminds me of the piece of jewelry that my father
gave me when I was a child.”

“The
piece of jewelry your father gave you?” said Mr. Baverstock quietly, not sure
that he had heard her correctly.

“Yes,”
said Cathy. She undid the top button of her blouse and took out the miniature
medal that hung from the end of a piece of string.

“Your
father gave you that?” said Charlie.

“Oh,
yes,” said Cathy. “It’s the only tangible memory I have of him.”

“May
I see the necklace, please?” asked Baverstock.

“Certainly,”
said Cathy, slipping the thin gold chain over her head and passing the medal to
Charlie. He examined the miniature for some time before handing it on to Mr.
Baverstock.

“Although
I’m no expert on medals I think it’s a miniature MC,” said Charlie.

“Wasn’t
Guy Trentham awarded the MC?” asked Baverstock.

“Yes,
he was,” said Birkenshaw, “and he also went to Harrow, but simply wearing their
old school tie doesn’t prove my client was his brother. In fact, it doesn’t
prove anything and certainly couldn’t be produced as evidence in a court of
law. After all, there must be hundreds of MCs still around. Indeed, Miss Ross
could have picked up such a medal in any junk shop in London once she’d planned
to make the facts surrounding Guy Trentham fit in with her background. You can’t
really expect us to fall for that old trick, Sir Charles.”

“I
can assure you, Mr. Birkenshaw, that this particular medal was given to me by
my father,” said Cathy, looking directly at the lawyer. “He may not have been
entitled to wear it, but I will never forget him placing it around my neck.”

“That
can’t possibly be my brother’s MC,” said Nigel Trentham, speaking for the first
time. “What’s more, I can prove it.”

“You
can prove what?” asked Baverstock.

“Are
you certain ?” began Birkenshaw, but this time it was Trentham who placed a
hand firmly on his lawyer’s arm.

“I
will prove to your satisfaction, Mr. Baverstock,” continued Trentham, “that the
medal you now have in front of you could not have been the MC won by my
brother.”

“And
just how do you propose to do that?” asked Baverstock.

“Because
Guy’s medal was unique. After he had been awarded his MC my mother sent the
original to Spinks and at her request they engraved Guy’s initials down the edge
of one of the arms. Those initials can only be seen under a magnifying glass. I
know, because the medal he was presented with on the Marne still stands on the
mantelpiece of my home in Chester Square. If a miniature had ever existed my
mother would have had his initials engraved on it in exactly the same way.

No
one spoke as Baverstock opened a drawer in his desk and took out an
ivory-handled magnifying glass that he nominally used to decipher illegible
handwriting. He held up the medal to the light and studied the edges of the
little silver arms one by one.

“You’re
quite right,” admitted Baverstock, as he looked back up at Trentham. “Your case
is proven.” He passed both the medal and the magnifying glass over to Mr.
Birkenshaw, who in turn studied the MC for some time before resuming the medal
to Cathy with a slight bow of the head. He turned to his client and asked, “Were
your brother’s initials ‘G.F.T.’?”

“Yes,
that’s right. Guy Francis Trentham.”

“Then
I can only wish that you had kept your mouth shut.”

W
hen Charlie
burst into the drawing room that evening it was the first time that I really
believed Guy Trentham was finally dead.

I
sat in silence while my husband strode around the room recalling with relish
every last detail of the confrontation that had taken place in Mr. Baverstock’s
office earlier that afternoon.

I
have loved four men in my life with emotions ranging from adoration to
devotion, but only Charlie encompassed the entire spectrum. Yet, even in his
moment of triumph, I knew it would be left to me to take away from him the
thing he most loved.

Within
a fortnight of that fateful meeting, Nigel Trentham had agreed to part with his
shares at the market price. Now that interest rates had risen to eight percent
it was hardly surprising that he had little stomach for a protracted and bitter
wrangle over any claim he might or might not have to the Hardcastle estate.

Mr.
Baverstock, on behalf of the Trust, purchased all his stock at a cost of a
little over seven million pounds. The old solicitor then advised Charlie that
he should call a special board meeting as it was his duty to inform Companies
House of what had taken place. He also warned Charlie that he must, within
fourteen days, circulate all other shareholders with the details of the
transaction.

It
had been a long time since I’d looked forward to a board meeting with such
anticipation.

Although
I was among the first to take my place at the boardroom table that morning,
every other director was present long before the meeting was scheduled to
begin.

“Apologies
for absence?” requested the chairman on the dot of ten.

“Niger
Trentham, Roger Gibbs and Hugh Folland,” Jessica intoned in her best matter-of-fact
voice.

“Thank
you. Minutes of the last meeting,” said Charlie. “Is it your wish that I should
sign those minutes as a true record?”

I
glanced round the faces at the boardroom table. Daphne, dressed in a perky
yellow outfit, was doodling away all over her minutes. Tim Newman was looking
as suave as ever and simply nodded, while Simon took a sip from the glass of
water in front of him and when he caught my eye raised it in a mock toast. Ned
Denning whispered something inaudible in Bob Makins’ ear while Cathy placed a
tick by item number two. Only Paul Merrick looked as if he wasn’t enjoying the
occasion. I turned my attention back to Charlie.

As
no one appeared to be showing any dissent, Jessica folded back the last page of
the minutes to allow Charlie to scrawl his signature below the bottom line. I
noticed Charlie smile when he reread the final instruction the board had given
him on the last occasion we had met: “Chairman to try and come to some amicable
agreement with Mr. Nigel Trentham concerning the orderly takeover of Trumper’s.”

“Matters
arising from the minutes?” Charlie asked. Still no one else spoke, so once
again Charlie’s eyes returned to the agenda. “Item number four, the future
of... “ he began, but then every one of us tried to speak at once.

When
some semblance of order had been regained, Charlie suggested that it might be
wise if the chief executive were to bring us up to date on the latest position.
I joined the “Hear, hears” and nods that greeted this suggestion.

“Thank
you, Chairman,” said Arthur Selwyn, removing some papers from a briefcase by
the side of his chair. The rest of the board waited patiently. “Members of the
board will be aware that,” he began, sounding like the senior civil servant he
had once been, Following the announcement by Mr. Nigel Trentham that it was no
longer his intention to mount a takeover bid for Trumper’s, the company’s
shares subsequently fell from their peak of two pounds four shillings to their
present price of one pound nineteen shillings.

“We’re
all capable of following the vagaries of the stock market,” said Daphne,
butting in. “What I would like to know is: what has happened to Trentham’s
personal shareholding?”

I
didn’t join in with the chorus of approval that foliowed as I already knew
every last detail of the agreement.

“Mr.
Trentham’s stock,” said Mr. Selwyn, continuing as if he had not been
interrupted, “was, following an agreement reached between his lawyers and Miss
Ross’, acquired a fortnight ago by Mr. Baverstock on behalf of the Hardcastle
Trust at a cost of two pounds one shilling per share.”

And
will the rest of the board ever be privy to what brought about this cozy little
arrangements asked Daphne.