As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  Mr. Baverstock took over an hour performing what seemed to me a simple enough responsibility, though to be fair he managed with some considerable dexterity not to reveal the name of Daniel Trumper when it came to explaining what would eventually happen to the estate. My mind began to wander as minor relations were informed of the thousand-pound windfalls they would inherit and was only brought sharply back to the droning voice of Mr. Baverstock when he uttered my own name.

  “Mrs. Gerald Trentham and Miss Amy Hardcastle will both receive during their lifetimes in equal part any income derived from the Trust.” The solicitor stopped to turn a page before placing the palms of his hands on the desk. “And finally, the house, the estate in Yorkshire and all its contents plus the sum of twenty thousand pounds,” he continued, “I bequeath to my elder daughter, Miss Amy Hardcastle.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  “Good morning, Mr. Sneddles.”

  The old bibliophile was so surprised the lady knew his name that for a moment he just stood and stared at her.

  Eventually he shuffled across to greet the lady, giving her a low bow. She was, after all, the first customer he had seen for over a week—that is if he did not count Dr. Halcombe, the retired headmaster, who would happily browse around the shop for hours on end but who had not actually purchased a book since 1937.

  “Good morning, madam,” he said in turn. “Was there a particular volume that you were hoping to find?” He looked at the lady, who wore a long lace dress and a large wide-brimmed hat with a veil that made it impossible to see her face.

  “No, Mr. Sneddles,” said Mrs. Trentham. “I have not come to purchase a book, but to seek your services.” She stared at the stooping old man in his mittens, cardigan and overcoat, which she assumed he was wearing because he could no longer afford to keep the shop heated. Although his back seemed to be permanently semicircular and his head stuck out like a tortoise’s from its overcoat shell, his eyes were clear and his mind appeared sharp and alert.

  “My services, madam?” the old man repeated.

  “Yes. I have inherited an extensive library that I require to be catalogued and valued. You come highly recommended.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so, madam.”

  Mrs. Trentham was relieved that Mr. Sneddles did not inquire as to who had made the particular recommendation.

  “And where is this library, might I be permitted to ask?”

  “A few miles east of Harrogate. You will find that it is quite an extraordinary collection. My late father, Sir Raymond Hardcastle—you may have heard of him?—devoted a considerable part of his life to putting it together.”

  “Harrogate?” said Sneddles as if it was a few miles east of Bangkok.

  “Of course I would cover all your expenses, however long the enterprise might take.”

  “But it would mean having to close the shop,” he murmured as if talking to himself.

  “I would naturally also compensate you for any loss of earnings.”

  Mr. Sneddles removed a book from the counter and checked its spine. “I fear it’s out of the question, madam, quite impossible, you see—”

  “My father specialized in William Blake, you know. You will find that he managed to get hold of every first edition, some still in mint condition. He even secured a handwritten manuscript of…”

  Amy Hardcastle had gone to bed even before her sister arrived back in Yorkshire that evening.

  “She gets so tired nowadays,” the housekeeper explained.

  Mrs. Trentham was left with little choice but to have a light supper on her own before retiring to her old room a few minutes after ten. As far as she could tell nothing had changed: the view over the Yorkshire dales, the black clouds, even the picture of York Minster that hung above the walnut-framed bed. She slept soundly enough and returned downstairs at eight the following morning. The cook explained to her that Miss Amy had not yet risen so she ate breakfast alone.

  Once all the covered dishes had been cleared away Mrs. Trentham sat in the drawing room reading the Yorkshire Post while she waited for her sister to make an appearance. When over an hour later the old cat wandered in, Mrs. Trentham shooed the animal away with a vicious wave of the folded newspaper. The grandfather clock in the hall had already struck eleven when Amy finally entered the room. She walked slowly towards her sister with the aid of a stick.

  “I’m so sorry, Ethel, that I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived last night,” she began. “I fear my arthritis has been playing me up again.”

  Mrs. Trentham didn’t bother to reply, but watched her sister as she hobbled towards her, unable to believe the deterioration in her condition in less than three months.

  Although Amy had in the past appeared slight she was now frail. And even if she had always been quiet she was now almost inaudible. If she had been perhaps a little pale, she was now gray and the lines on her face were so deeply etched she looked far older than her sixty-nine years.

  Amy lowered herself onto the chair next to her sister and for some seconds continued to breathe deeply, leaving her visitor in no doubt that the walk from the bedroom to the drawing room had been something of an ordeal.

  “It’s so kind of you to leave your family and come up to be with me in Yorkshire,” Amy said as the tortoise-shell cat climbed onto her lap. “I must confess that since dear Papa died I don’t know where to turn.”

  “That’s quite understandable, my dear.” Mrs. Trentham smiled thinly. “But I felt it was nothing more than my duty to be with you—as well as being a pleasure, of course. In any case, Father warned me this might happen once he had passed away. He gave me specific instructions, you know, as to exactly what should be done in the circumstances.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad to hear that.” Amy’s face lit up for the first time. “Please do tell me what Papa had in mind.”

  “Father was adamant that you should sell the house as quickly as possible and either come and live with Gerald and me at Ashurst—”

  “Oh, I could never dream of putting you to so much trouble, Ethel.”

  “—or alternatively you could move into one of those nice little hotels on the coast that cater specially for retired couples and single people. He felt that way you could at least make new friends and indeed even have an extended lease on life. I would naturally prefer you to join us in Buckingham, but what with the bombs—”

  “He never mentioned selling the house to me,” murmured Amy anxiously. “In fact, he begged me—”

  “I know, my dear, but he realized only too well what a strain his death would be on you and asked me to break the news gently. You will no doubt recall the long meeting we held in his study when I last came up to see him.”

  Amy nodded her acknowledgment but the look of bewilderment remained on her face.

  “I remember every word he said,” Mrs. Trentham went on. “Naturally, I shall do my utmost to see his wishes are carried out.”

  “But I wouldn’t know how or where to begin.”

  “There’s no need for you to give it a second thought, my dear.” She patted her sister’s arm. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”

  “But what will happen to the servants and my dear Garibaldi?” Amy asked anxiously as she continued stroking the cat. “Father would never forgive me if they weren’t all properly taken care of.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Mrs. Trentham said. “However, as always he thought of everything and gave me explicit instructions as to what should be done with all the staff.”

  “How thoughtful of dear Papa. However, I am not altogether certain…”

  It took Mrs. Trentham two more days of patient encouragement before she was finally able to convince her sister that her plans for the future would all work out for the best and, more important, it was what “dear Papa” wanted.

  From that moment on Amy only came down in the afternoons to take a short walk around the garden and occasionally attend to the petunias. Whenever Mrs. Trentham came across her
sister she begged her not to overdo things.

  Three days later Amy dispensed with her afternoon walk.

  The following Monday Mrs. Trentham gave the staff a week’s notice, with the exception of the cook whom she told to stay on until Miss Amy had been settled. That same afternoon she sought out a local agent and placed the house and the sixty-acre estate on the market.

  On the following Thursday Mrs. Trentham made an appointment to see a Mr. Althwaite, a solicitor in Harrogate. On one of her sister’s infrequent visits downstairs she explained to Amy that it had not been necessary to bother Mr. Baverstock: she felt certain any problem that arose concerning the estate could be more easily dealt with by a local man.

  Three weeks later Mrs. Trentham was able to move her sister and a few of her belongings into a small residential hotel overlooking the east coast a few miles north of Scarborough. She agreed with the proprietor that it was unfortunate that they could not allow pets but felt sure that her sister would fully understand. Mrs. Trentham’s final instruction was to send the monthly bills direct to Coutts in the Strand, where they would be settled immediately.

  Before Mrs. Trentham bade farewell to Amy she got her sister to sign three documents. “So that you will have nothing more to worry about, my dear,” Mrs. Trentham explained in a gentle tone.

  Amy signed all three of the forms placed in front of her without bothering to read them. Mrs. Trentham quickly folded up the legal papers prepared by the local solicitor and deposited them in her handbag.

  “I’ll see you soon,” she promised Amy before kissing her sister on the forehead. A few minutes later she began her journey back to Ashurst.

  The bell above the door clanged noisily in the musty silence as Mrs. Trentham stepped smartly into the shop. At first there was no sign of movement until at last Mr. Sneddles appeared from his little room at the rear carrying three books under his arm.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Trentham,” he said. “How kind of you to respond to my note so quickly. I felt I had to contact you as a problem has arisen.”

  “A problem?” Mrs. Trentham drew back the veil that covered her face.

  “Yes. As you are aware, I have almost completed my work in Yorkshire. I am sorry it has taken so long, madam, but I fear I have been overindulgent with my time, such was my appreciation of—”

  Mrs. Trentham waved a hand in a manner that indicated she was not displeased.

  “And I fear,” he continued, “that despite enlisting the good services of Dr. Halcombe as my assistant and also remembering the time it takes to travel up and down to Yorkshire it may still take us several more weeks to both catalogue and value such a fine collection—always aware that your late father spent a lifetime putting the library together.”

  “It’s of no consequence,” Mrs. Trentham assured him. “You see, I’m not in a hurry. Do take your time, Mr. Sneddles, and just let me know when you have completed the task.”

  The antiquarian smiled at the thought of being allowed to continue his cataloguing uninterrupted.

  He escorted Mrs. Trentham back to the front of the shop and opened the door to let her out. No one who saw them together would have believed they had been born in the same year. She stared up and down Chelsea Terrace before quickly dropping the veil across her face.

  Mr. Sneddles closed the door behind her and rubbed his mittens together, then shuffled back to his room to join Dr. Halcombe.

  Lately he had been annoyed whenever a customer entered the shop.

  “After thirty years, I have no intention of changing my stockbrokers,” Gerald Trentham said curtly as he poured himself a second cup of coffee.

  “But can’t you understand, my dear, just what a boost it would give Nigel to secure your account for his company?”

  “And what a blow it would be for David Cartwright and Vickers da Costa to lose a client whom they have served so honorably for over a hundred years? No, Ethel, it’s high time Nigel carried out his own dirty work. Damn it all, he’s over forty.”

  “All the more reason to help,” his wife suggested as she buttered a second piece of toast.

  “No, Ethel. I repeat, no.”

  “But can’t you see that one of Nigel’s responsibilities is to bring new clients into the firm? It’s particularly important at this moment, as I feel sure that now the war is over, they will soon be offering him a partnership.”

  Major Trentham didn’t try to hide his incredulity at this piece of news. “If that is the case, he should be making more use of his own contacts—preferably the ones he made at school and at Sandhurst, not to mention the City. He shouldn’t always expect to fall back on his father’s friends.”

  “That’s hardly fair, Gerald. If he can’t rely on his own flesh and blood, why should he expect anyone else to come to his aid?”

  “Come to his aid? That just about sums it up.” Gerald’s voice rose with every word. “Because that’s exactly what you’ve been doing since the day he was born, which is perhaps the reason he is still unable to stand on his own two feet.”

  “Gerald,” Mrs. Trentham said, removing a handkerchief from her sleeve. “I never thought—”

  “In any case,” the major replied, trying to restore some calm, “it’s not as if my portfolio is all that impressive. As you and Mr. Attlee know only too well, all our capital is bound up in land and has been for generations.”

  “It’s not the amount that matters,” Mrs. Trentham chided him. “It’s the principle.”

  “Couldn’t agree with you more,” said Gerald as he folded his napkin, rose from the breakfast table and left the room before his wife could utter another word.

  Mrs. Trentham picked up her husband’s morning paper and ran her finger down the names of those who had been awarded knighthoods in the birthday honors. Her shaking finger stopped at the Ts.

  During his summer vacation, according to Max Harris, Daniel Trumper had taken the Queen Mary to America. However, the private detective was quite unable to answer Mrs. Trentham’s next question—why? All that Harris could be sure of was that Daniel’s college still expected the young don back for the start of the new academic year.

  During the weeks that Daniel was away in America Mrs. Trentham spent a considerable amount of time closeted with her solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn Fields while they prepared a building application for her.

  She had already sought out three architects, all of whom had recently qualified. She instructed them to prepare outline drawings for a block of flats to be built in Chelsea. The winner, she assured them, would be offered the commission while the other two would receive one hundred pounds each in compensation. All three happily agreed to her terms.

  Some twelve weeks later, each presented his portfolio but only one of them had come up with what Mrs. Trentham was hoping for.

  In the opinion of the senior partner of the law practice, the submission by the youngest of the three, Justin Talbot, would have made Battersea Power Station look like the Palace of Versailles. Mrs. Trentham did not divulge to her solicitor that she had been influenced in her selection by the fact that Mr. Talbot’s uncle was a member of the Planning Committee of the London County Council.

  Even if Talbot’s uncle were to come to his nephew’s aid, Mrs. Trentham remained unconcerned that a majority of the committee would accept such an outrageous offering. It resembled a bunker that even Hitler might have rejected. However, her lawyers suggested that she should state in her application that the primary purpose of the new building was to create some low-cost housing in the center of London to help students and single unemployed men who were in dire need of temporary accommodation. Second, any income derived from the flats would be placed in a charitable trust to help other families suffering from the same problem. Third, she should bring to the committee’s attention the painstaking efforts that have been made to give a young, recently qualified architect his first break.

  Mrs. Trentham didn’t know whether to be delighted or appalled when the LCC granted its approval. After
long deliberation over several weeks, they insisted on only a few minor modifications to young Talbot’s original plans. She gave her architect immediate instructions to clear the bombed-out site so that the building could begin without delay.

  The application to the LCC by Sir Charles Trumper for a new store to be erected in Chelsea Terrace came in for considerable national publicity, most of it favorable. However, Mrs. Trentham noted that in several articles written about the proposed new building, there was mention of a certain Mr. Martin Simpson who described himself as the president of the Save the Small Shops Federation a body that objected to the whole concept of Trumper’s. Mr. Simpson claimed it could only harm the little shopkeeper in the long run; their livelihoods were, after all, being put at risk. He went on to complain that what made it even more unfair was that none of the local shopkeepers had the means of taking on a man as powerful and wealthy as Sir Charles Trumper.

  “Oh, yes, they have,” Mrs. Trentham said over breakfast that morning.

  “Have what?”

  “Nothing important,” she reassured her husband, but later that day she supplied Harris with the financial wherewithal to allow Mr. Simpson to lodge an official objection to the Trumper scheme. Mrs. Trentham also agreed to cover any out-of-pocket costs Mr. Simpson might incur while carrying out his endeavors.

  She began to follow the results of Mr. Simpson’s efforts daily in the national press, even confiding to Harris that she would have been happy to pay the man a fee for the service he was rendering; but like so many activists the cause was all he seemed to care about.

  Once the bulldozers had moved in on Mrs. Trentham’s site and work had come to a standstill on Trumper’s, she turned her attention back to Daniel and the problem of his inheritance.