That night Daphne threw a birthday party in Charlie’s honor at her home in Eaton Square. No one mentioned the name of “Trentham” until the port had been passed round for a second time, when a slightly maudlin Charlie recited the relevant clause in Sir Raymond’s will, which he explained had been put there with the sole purpose of trying to save him.
“I give you Sir Raymond Hardcastle,” said Charlie, raising his glass. “A good man to have on your team.”
“Sir Raymond,” the guests echoed, all raising their glasses, with the exception of Daphne.
“What’s the problem, old gel?” asked Percy. “Port not up to scratch?”
“No, as usual it’s you lot who aren’t. You’ve all totally failed to work out what Sir Raymond expected of you.”
“What are you on about, old gel?”
“I should have thought it was obvious for anyone to see, especially you, Charlie,” she said, turning from her husband to the guest of honor.
“I’m with Percy—I haven’t a clue what you’re on about.”
By now everyone round the table had fallen silent, while they concentrated on what Daphne had to say.
“It’s quite simple really,” continued Daphne. “Sir Raymond obviously didn’t consider it likely that Mrs. Trentham would outlive Daniel.”
“So?” said Charlie.
“And I also doubt if he thought for one moment that Daniel would have any children before she died.”
“Possibly not,” said Charlie.
“And we are all painfully aware that Nigel Trentham was a last resort—otherwise Sir Raymond would happily have named him in his will as the next beneficiary and not have been willing to pass his fortune on to an offspring of Guy Trentham, whom he had never even met. ‘He also wouldn’t have added the words: should he have no issue, then the estate shall pass to my closest living descendant.’”
“Where’s all this leading?” asked Becky.
“Back to the clause Charlie has just recited. ‘Please go to any lengths you feel necessary to find someone entitled to make a claim on my inheritance.’” Daphne read from the jottings she had scribbled in ballpoint on her damask tablecloth. “Are those the correct words, Mr. Baverstock?” she asked.
“They are, Lady Wiltshire, but I still don’t see—”
“Because you’re as blind as Charlie,” said Daphne. “Thank God one of us is still sober. Mr. Baverstock, please remind us all of Sir Raymond’s instructions for placing the advertisement.”
Mr. Baverstock touched his lips with his napkin, folded the linen square neatly and placed it in front of him. “An advertisement should be placed in The Times, the Telegraph and the Guardian and any other newspaper I consider relevant and appropriate.”
“That you consider ‘relevant and appropriate,’” said Daphne, slowly enunciating each word. “As broad a hint as you might hope from a sober man, I would have thought.” Every eye was now fixed on Daphne and no one attempted to interrupt her. “Can’t you see those are the crucial words?” she asked. “Because if Guy Trentham did have any other children, you certainly wouldn’t find them by advertising in the London Times, the Telegraph, the Guardian, the Yorkshire Post or for that matter the Huddersfield Daily Examiner.”
Charlie dropped his slice of birthday cake back onto his plate and looked across at Mr. Baverstock. “Good heavens, she’s right, you know.”
“She certainly may not be wrong,” admitted Baverstock, shuffling uneasily in his chair. “And I apologize for my lack of imagination, because as Lady Wiltshire rightly points out I’ve been a blind fool by not following my master’s instructions when he advised me to use my common sense. He so obviously worked out that Guy might well have fathered other children and that such offspring were most unlikely to be found in England.”
“Well done, Mr. Baverstock,” said Daphne. “I do believe I should have gone to university and read for the bar.”
Mr. Baverstock felt unable to correct her on this occasion.
“There may still be time,” said Charlie. “After all, there’s another six weeks left before the inheritance has to be handed over, so let’s get straight back to work. By the way, thank you,” he added, bowing towards Daphne.
Charlie rose from his chair and headed towards the nearest phone. “The first thing I’m going to need is the sharpest lawyer in Australia.” Charlie checked his watch. “And preferably one who doesn’t mind getting up early in the morning.”
Mr. Baverstock cleared his throat.
During the next two weeks large box advertisements appeared in every newspaper on the Australian continent with a circulation of over fifty thousand. Each reply was quickly followed up with an interview by a firm of solicitors in Sydney that Mr. Baverstock had been happy to recommend. Every evening Charlie was telephoned by Trevor Roberts, the senior partner, who remained on the end of the line for several hours when Charlie would learn the latest news that had been gathered from their offices in Sydney, Melbourne, Perth, Brisbane and Adelaide. However, after three weeks of sorting out the cranks from the genuine inquirers Roberts came up with only three candidates who fulfilled all the necessary criteria. However, once they had been interviewed by a partner of the firm they also failed to prove any direct relationship with any member of the Trentham family.
Roberts had discovered that there were seventeen Trenthams on the national register, most of them from Tasmania, but none of those could show any direct lineage with Guy Trentham or his mother, although one old lady from Hobart who had emigrated from Ripon after the war was able to present a legitimate claim for a thousand pounds, as it turned out she was a third cousin of Sir Raymond.
Charlie thanked Mr. Roberts for his continued diligence but told him not to let up, as he didn’t care how many staff were allocated to the job night or day.
At the final board meeting to be called before Nigel Trentham officially came into his inheritance, Charlie briefed his colleagues on the latest news from Australia.
“Doesn’t sound too hopeful to me,” said Newman. “After all, if there is another Trentham around he or she must be well over thirty, and surely would have made a claim by now.”
“Agreed, but Australia’s an awfully big place and they might even have left the country.”
“Never give up, do you?” remarked Daphne.
“Be that as it may,” said Arthur Selwyn, “I feel the time is long overdue for us to try and come to some agreement with Trentham, if there is to be a responsible takeover of the company. In the interests of Trumper’s and its customers, I would like to see if it is at all possible for the principals involved to come to some amicable arrangement—”
“Amicable arrangement!” said Charlie. “The only arrangement Trentham would agree to is that he sits in this chair with a built-in majority on the board while I am left twiddling my thumbs in a retirement home.”
“That may well be the case,” said Selwyn. “But I must point out, Chairman, that we still have a duty to our shareholders.”
“He’s right,” said Daphne. “You’ll have to try, Charlie, for the long-term good of the company you founded.” She added quietly, “However much it hurts.”
Becky nodded her agreement and Charlie turned to ask Jessica to make an appointment with Trentham at his earliest convenience. Jessica returned a few minutes later to let the board know that Nigel Trentham had no interest in seeing any of them before the March board meeting, when he would be happy to accept their resignations in person.
“Seventh of March: two years to the day since the death of his mother,” Charlie reminded the board.
“And Mr. Roberts is holding for you on the other line,” Jessica reported.
Charlie rose and strode out of the room. The moment he reached the phone he grabbed at it as a drowning sailor might a lifeline. “Roberts, what have you got for me?”
“Guy Trentham!”
“But he’s already buried in a grave in Ashurst.”
“But not before his body was removed from
a jail in Melbourne.”
“A jail? I thought he died of tuberculosis.”
“I don’t think you can die of tuberculosis while you’re hanging from the end of a six-foot rope, Sir Charles.”
“Hanged?”
“For the murder of his wife, Anna Helen,” said the solicitor.
“But did they have any children?”
“There’s no way of knowing the answer to that.”
“Why the hell not?”
“It’s against the law for the prison service to release the names of the next of kin to anyone.”
“But why, for heaven’s sake?”
“For their own protection.”
“But this could only be to their benefit.”
“They’ve heard that one before. Indeed, I have had it pointed out to me that in this particular case we’ve already advertised for claimants from one coast to the other. What’s worse, if any of Trentham’s offspring had changed their name, for understandable reasons, we’ve little chance of tracing him or her at all. But be assured I’m still working flat out on it, Sir Charles.”
“Get me an interview with the chief of police.”
“It won’t make any difference, Sir Charles. He won’t—” began Roberts, but Charlie had already hung up.
“You’re mad,” said Becky, as she helped her husband pack a suitcase an hour later.
“True,” agreed Charlie. “But this may well be the last chance I have of keeping control of the company, and I’m not willing to do it on the end of a phone, let alone twelve thousand miles away. I have to be there myself, so at least I know it’s me who’s failed and not a third party.”
“But what exactly are you hoping to find when you get there?”
Charlie looked across at his wife as he fastened his suitcase. “I suspect only Mrs. Trentham knows the answer to that.”
CHAPTER
44
When thirty-four hours later on a warm, sunlit evening, Flight 012 touched down at Kingsford Smith Airport in Sydney, Charlie felt what he most needed was a good night’s sleep. After he had checked through customs he was met by a tall young man dressed in a light beige suit who stepped forward and introduced himself as Trevor Roberts, the lawyer who had been recommended by Baverstock. Roberts had thick, rusty-colored hair and an even redder complexion. He was of a solid build and looked as if he might still spend his Saturday afternoons in a different type of court. He immediately took over Charlie’s laden trolley and pushed it smartly towards the exit marked “car park.”
“No need to check this lot into a hotel,” said Roberts as he held the door open for Charlie. “Just leave everything in the car.”
“Is this good legal advice you’re giving me?” asked Charlie, already out of breath trying to keep up with the young man.
“It certainly is, Sir Charles, because we’ve no time to waste.” He brought the trolley to a halt at the curbside and a chauffeur heaved the bags into the boot while Charlie and Mr. Roberts climbed into the back. “The British Governor-General has invited you for drinks at six at his residence, but I also need you to be on the last flight to Melbourne tonight. As we only have six days left, we can’t afford to waste any of them being in the wrong city.”
Charlie knew he was going to like Mr. Roberts from the moment the Australian passed over a thick file. Charlie began to listen attentively to the young lawyer as he went over the proposed schedule for the next three days while the car traveled on towards the outskirts of the city. Charlie continued to pay attention to everything he had to say, only occasionally asking for something to be repeated or gone over in greater detail as he tried to accustom himself to the difference in style between Mr. Roberts and any solicitor he had dealt with in England. When he had asked Mr. Baverstock to find him the sharpest young lawyer in Sydney, Charlie hadn’t imagined that he would select someone in quite such a different mold from his old friend.
As the car sped along the highway towards the Governor-General’s residence Roberts, with several files balanced on his knees, continued with his detailed briefing. “We’re only attending this cocktail party with the Governor-General,” he explained, “in case during the next few days we need some help in opening heavy doors. Then we’re off to Melbourne because every time someone from my office comes up with anything that might be described as a lead it always seems to end up on the Chief Commissioner of Police’s desk in that city. I’ve made an appointment for you to see the new chief in the morning, but as I warned you the commissioner’s not proving to be at all cooperative with my people.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s recently been appointed to the job, and is now desperately trying to prove that everyone will be treated impartially—except poms.”
“So what’s his problem?”
“Like all second-generation Australians he hates the British, or at least he has to pretend he does.” Roberts grinned. “In fact, I think there’s only one group of people he dislikes more.”
“Criminals?”
“No, lawyers,” replied Roberts. “So now you’ll realize why the odds are stacked against us.”
“Have you managed to get anything out of him at all?”
“Not a lot. Most of what he has been willing to reveal was already on public record, namely that on 27 July 1926 Guy Trentham, in a fit of temper, killed his wife by stabbing her several times while she was taking a bath. He then held her under the water so as to be sure that she didn’t survive—page sixteen in your file. We also know that on 23 April 1927 he was hanged for the crime, despite several appeals for clemency to the Governor-General. What we’ve been quite unable to discover is if he was survived by any children. The Melbourne Age was the one newspaper that carried a report of the trial, and they made no mention of a child. However, that’s hardly surprising, as the judge would have ruled against any such reference in court unless it threw some light on the crime.”
“But what about the wife’s maiden name? Surely that’s a better route to take.”
“You’re not going to like this, Sir Charles,” said Roberts.
“Try me.”
“Her name was Smith—Anna Helen Smith—that’s why we concentrated what little time we had on Trentham.”
“But you’ve still come up with no firm leads?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Roberts. “If there was a child in Australia at the time bearing the name of ‘Trentham’ we certainly haven’t been able to trace him. My staff have interviewed every Trentham that’s shown up on the national register, including one from Coorabulka, which has a population of eleven and takes three days to reach by car and foot.”
“Despite your valiant efforts, Roberts, my guess is there might still be some stones we need to look under.”
“Possibly,” said Roberts. “I even began to wonder if perhaps Trentham had changed his name when he first came to Australia, but the chief of police was able to confirm that the file he holds in Melbourne is under the name of Guy Francis Trentham.”
“So if the name’s unchanged then surely any child would be traceable?”
“Not necessarily. I dealt with a case quite recently in which I had a client whose husband was sent to jail for manslaughter. She reverted to her maiden name, which she also gave to her only child, and was able to show me a foolproof system for then having the original name expunged from the records. Also, remember that in this case we’re dealing with a child who could have been born any time between 1923 and 1925, and the removal of just one piece of paper could well have been enough to eliminate any connection he or she might have with Guy Trentham. If that’s the case, finding such a child in a country the size of Australia would be like searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack.”
“But I’ve only got six days,” said Charlie plaintively.
“Don’t remind me,” said Roberts, as the car drove through the gates of the Governor-General’s residence at Government House, dropping its speed to a more sedate pace as they continued up the d
rive. “I’ve allocated one hour for this party, no more,” the young lawyer warned. “All I want out of the Governor-General is a promise that he’ll telephone the chief of police in Melbourne before our meeting tomorrow, to ask him to be as cooperative as possible. But when I say we must leave, Sir Charles, I mean we must leave.”
“Understood,” said Charlie, feeling like a private back on parade in Edinburgh.
“By the way,” said Roberts, “the Governor-General is Sir Oliver Williams. Sixty-one, former guards officer, comes from some place called Tunbridge Wells.”
Two minutes later they were striding into the grand ballroom of Government House.
“So glad you could make it, Sir Charles,” said a tall, elegantly dressed man who wore a double-breasted striped suit and a guards tie.
“Thank you, Sir Oliver.”
“And how was the journey over, old chap?”
“Five stops for refueling and not one airport that knew how to brew a decent cup of tea.”
“Then you’ll need one of these,” suggested Sir Oliver, handing Charlie a large whisky that he removed deftly from a passing tray. “And to think,” continued the diplomat, “they’re predicting that our grandchildren will be able to fly the entire journey from London to Sydney nonstop in less than a day. Still, yours was a lot less unpleasant an experience than the early settlers had to endure.”
As the Crow Flies Page 59
