“A small compensation.” Charlie couldn’t think of a more appropriate reply as he considered what a contrast Mr. Baverstock’s nominee in Australia was to the Queen’s representative.
“Now, do tell me what brings you to Sydney,” continued the Governor-General. “Are we to anticipate that the second ‘biggest barrow in the world’ is about to be pushed round to this side of the globe?”
“No, Sir Oliver. You’ll be saved that. I’m here on a brief private visit, trying to sort out some family business.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do to assist you,” said his host, taking a gin from another passing tray, “just let me know.”
“That’s kind of you, Sir Oliver, because I do need your help over one small matter.”
“And what might that be?” asked his host, at the same moment allowing his eyes to wander over Charlie’s shoulder in the direction of some late arrivals.
“You could call the chief of police in Melbourne and ask him to be as cooperative as possible when I visit him tomorrow morning.”
“Consider the call made, old fellow,” said Sir Oliver as he leaned forward to shake the hand of an Arab sheikh. “And don’t forget, Sir Charles, if there’s anything I can do to help—and I mean anything—just let me know. Ah, Monsieur L’Ambassadeur, comment allez vous?”
Charlie suddenly felt exhausted. He spent the rest of the hour just trying to remain on his feet while talking to diplomats, politicians and businessmen, all of whom seemed well acquainted with the biggest barrow in the world. Eventually a firm touch on his elbow from Roberts signaled that the proprieties had been observed and he must now leave for the airport.
On the flight to Melbourne Charlie was just about able to stay awake, even if his eyes weren’t always open. In answer to a question from Roberts he confirmed that the Governor-General had agreed to telephone the chief of police the following morning. “But I’m not certain he appreciated how important it was.”
“I see,” said Roberts. “Then I’ll be back in touch with his office first thing tomorrow. Sir Oliver’s not renowned for remembering promises he makes at cocktail parties. ‘If there’s anything I can do to assist you, old chap, and I mean anything’”—which even managed to elicit a sleepy grin from Charlie.
At Melbourne Airport another car was waiting for them. Charlie was whisked away, and this time he did fall asleep and didn’t wake again until they drew up outside the Windsor Hotel some twenty minutes later. The manager showed his guest to the Prince Edward suite and as soon as he had been left on his own Charlie quickly undressed, had a shower and climbed into bed. A few minutes later he fell into a heavy sleep. However, he still woke around four the next morning.
Propped uncomfortably up in bed supported by foam rubber pillows that wouldn’t stay in one place, Charlie spent the next three hours going through Roberts’ files. The man might not have looked or sounded like Baverstock but the same stamp of thoroughness was evident on every page. By the time Charlie let the last file drop to the floor he had to accept that Roberts’ firm had covered every angle and followed up every lead; his only hope now rested with a cantankerous Melbourne policeman.
Charlie had a cold shower at seven and a hot breakfast just after eight. Although his only appointment that day was at ten o’clock he was pacing round his suite long before Roberts was due to pick him up at nine-thirty, aware that if nothing came out of this meeting he might as well pack his bags and fly back to England that afternoon. At least that would give Becky the satisfaction of being proved right.
At nine twenty-nine Roberts knocked on his door; Charlie wondered how long the young lawyer had been standing outside in the corridor waiting. Roberts reported that he had already telephoned the Governor-General’s office and that Sir Oliver had promised to call the chief of police within the hour.
“Good. Now tell me everything you know about the man.”
“Mike Cooper is forty-seven, efficient, prickly and brash. Climbed up through the ranks but still finds it necessary to prove himself to everyone, especially when he’s in the presence of a lawyer, perhaps because crime statistics for Melbourne have risen at an even faster rate than our test averages against England.”
“You said yesterday he was second generation. So where does he hail from?”
Roberts checked his file. “His father emigrated to Australia at the turn of the century from somewhere called Deptford.”
“Deptford?” repeated Charlie with a grin. “That’s almost home territory.” He checked his watch. “Shall we be off? I think I’m more than ready to meet Mr. Cooper.”
When twenty minutes later Roberts held open the door of the police headquarters for his client, they were greeted with a large formal photograph of a man in his late forties that made Charlie feel every day of his sixty-four years.
After Roberts had supplied the officer on duty with their names they were kept waiting for only a few minutes before Charlie was ushered through to the chief’s office.
The policeman’s lips formed a reluctant smile when he shook hands with Charlie. “I am not sure there’s a lot I can do to help you, Sir Charles,” began Cooper, motioning him to take a seat. “Despite your Governor-General taking the trouble to call me.” He ignored Roberts, who remained standing a few feet behind his client.
“I know that accent,” said Charlie, not taking the offered chair.
“I beg your pardon?” replied Cooper, who also remained standing.
“Half a crown to a pound says your father hails from London.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“And the East End of that city would be my bet.”
“Deptford,” said the chief.
“I knew it the moment you opened your mouth,” said Charlie, now sinking back into a leather chair. “I come from Whitechapel myself. So where was he born?”
“Bishop’s Way,” said the chief. “Just off—”
“Just a stone’s throw away from my part of the world,” said Charlie, in a thick cockney accent.
Roberts had not yet uttered a word, let alone given a professional opinion.
“Tottenham supporter, I suppose,” said Charlie.
“The Gunners,” said Cooper firmly.
“What a load of rubbish,” said Charlie. “Arsenal are the only team I know who read the names of the crowd to the players.”
The chief laughed. “I agree,” he said. “I’ve almost given up hope for them this season. So who do you support?”
“I’m a West Ham man myself.”
“And you were hoping I’d cooperate with you?”
Charlie laughed. “Well, we did let you beat us in the Cup.”
“In 1923,” said Cooper, laughing.
“We’ve got long memories down at Upton Park.”
“Well, I never expected you to have an accent like that, Sir Charles.”
“Call me Charlie, all my friends do. And another thing, Mike, do you want him out of the way?” Charlie cocked a thumb at Trevor Roberts, who still hadn’t been offered a seat.
“Might help,” said the chief.
“Wait outside for me, Roberts,” said Charlie, not even bothering to glance in the direction of his lawyer.
“Yes, Sir Charles.” Roberts turned and started walking towards the door.
Once they were alone Charlie leaned across the desk and said, “Soddin’ lawyers, they’re all the same. Overpaid toffee-nosed brussels sprouts, charge the earth and then expect you to do all the work.”
Cooper laughed. “Especially when you’re a grasshopper” he confided.
Charlie laughed. “Haven’t heard a copper described that way since I left Whitechapel.” The older man leaned forward. “This is between you and me, Mike. Two East End boys together. Can you tell me anything about Guy Francis Trentham that he doesn’t know?” Charlie pointed his thumb towards the door.
“I’m afraid there isn’t a lot Roberts hasn’t already dug up, to be fair to him, Sir Charles.”
“Charli
e.”
“Charlie. Look, you already know that Trentham murdered his wife and you must be aware by now that he was later hanged for the crime.”
“Yes, but what I need to know, Mike, is, were there any children?” Charlie held his breath as the policeman seemed to hesitate.
Cooper looked down at a charge sheet that lay on the desk in front of him. “It says here, wife deceased, one daughter.”
Charlie tried not to leap out of his chair. “Don’t suppose that piece of paper tells you her name?”
“Margaret Ethel Trentham,” said the chief.
Charlie knew he didn’t have to recheck the name in the files that Roberts had left with him overnight. There hadn’t been a Margaret Ethel Trentham mentioned in any of them. He could recall the names of the three Trenthams born in Australia between 1924 and 1925, and all of those were boys.
“Date of birth?” he hazarded.
“No clue, Charlie,” said Cooper. “It wasn’t the girl who was being charged.” He pushed the piece of paper over the desk, so that his visitor could read everything he had already been told. “They didn’t bother too much with those sort of details in the twenties.”
“Anything else in that file you think might ’elp an East End boy not on his ’ome ground?” asked Charlie, only hoping he wasn’t overdoing it.
Cooper studied the papers in the Trentham file for some time before he offered an opinion. “There are two entries on our records that might just be of some use to you. The first was penciled in by my predecessor and there’s an even earlier entry from the chief before him, which I suppose just might be of interest.”
“I’m all ears, Mike.”
“Chief Parker was paid a visit on 24 April 1927 by a Mrs. Ethel Trentham, the deceased’s mother.”
“Good God,” said Charlie, unable to hide his surprise. “But why?”
“No reason given, nor any record of what was said at that meeting either. Sorry.”
“And the second entry?”
“That concerns another visitor from England inquiring after Guy Trentham. This time on 23 August 1947”—the police chief looked down at the file again to check the name—“a Mr. Daniel Trentham.”
Charlie went cold as he gripped the arms of his chair.
“You all right?” asked Cooper, sounding genuinely concerned.
“Fine,” said Charlie. “It’s only the effects of jet lag. Any reason given for Daniel Trentham’s visit?”
“According to the attached note, he claimed to be the deceased’s son,” said the chief. Charlie tried not to show any emotion. The policeman sat back in his chair. “So now you know every bit as much about the case as I do.”
“You’ve been very ’elpful, Mike,” said Charlie as he pushed himself up to his feet before leaning across to shake hands. “And if you should ever find yourself back in Deptford, look me up. I’d be only too happy to take you to see a real football team.”
Cooper smiled and continued to trade stories with Charlie as the two men made their way out of his office to the lift. Once they were on the ground floor the policeman accompanied him to the steps of police headquarters, where Charlie shook hands with the chief once again before joining Trevor Roberts in the car.
“Right, Roberts, it seems we’ve got ourselves some work to do.”
“May I be permitted to ask one question before we begin, Sir Charles?”
“Be my guest.”
“What happened to your accent?”
“I only save that for special people, Mr. Roberts. The Queen, Winston Churchill and when I’m serving a customer on the barrow. Today I felt it necessary to add Melbourne’s chief of police to my list.”
“I can’t begin to think what you said about me and my profession.”
“I told him you were an overpaid, toffee-nosed boy scout who expected me to do all the work.”
“And did he offer an opinion?”
“Thought I might have been a little too restrained.”
“That’s not hard to believe,” said Roberts. “But were you able to prise any fresh information out of him?”
“I certainly was,” said Charlie. “It seems Guy Trentham had a daughter.”
“A daughter?” repeated Roberts, unable to hide his excitement. “But did Cooper let you know her name, or anything about her?”
“Margaret Ethel, but our only other clue is that Mrs. Trentham, Guy’s mother, paid a visit to Melbourne in 1927. Cooper didn’t know why.”
“Good heavens,” said Roberts. “You’ve achieved more in twenty minutes than I achieved in twenty days.”
“Ah, but I had the advantage of birth,” said Charlie with a grin. “Now where would an English lady have rested her genteel head in this city around that time?”
“Not my hometown,” admitted Roberts. “But my partner Neil Mitchell should be able to tell us. His family settled in Melbourne over a hundred years ago.”
“So what are we waiting for?”
Neil Mitchell frowned when his colleague put the same question to him. “I haven’t a clue,” he admitted, “but my mother’s sure to know.” He picked up his phone and started dialing. “She’s Scottish, so she’ll try and charge us for the information.” Charlie and Trevor Roberts stood in front of Mitchell’s desk and waited, one patiently, one impatiently. After a few preliminaries expected of a son, he put his question and listened carefully to her reply.
“Thank you, Mother, invaluable as always,” he said. “See you at the weekend,” he added before putting down the phone.
“Well?” said Charlie.
“The Victoria Country Club apparently was the only place someone from Mrs. Trentham’s background would have dreamed of staying in the twenties,” Mitchell said. “In those days Melbourne only had two decent hotels and the other one was strictly for visiting businessmen.”
“Does the place still exist?” asked Roberts.
“Yes, but it’s badly run-down nowadays. What I imagine Sir Charles would describe as ‘seedy.’”
“Then telephone ahead and let them know you want a table for lunch in the name of Sir Charles Trumper. And stress ‘Sir Charles.’”
“Certainly, Sir Charles,” said Roberts. “And which accent will we be using on this occasion?”
“Can’t tell you that until I’ve weighed up the opposition,” said Charlie as they made their way back to the car.
“Ironic when you think about it,” said Roberts, as the car headed out onto the freeway.
“Ironic?”
“Yes,” said Roberts. “If Mrs. Trentham went to all this trouble to remove her granddaughter’s very existence from the records, she must have required the services of a first-class lawyer to assist her.”
“So?”
“So there must be a file buried somewhere in this city that would tell us everything we need to know.”
“Possibly, but one thing’s for certain: we don’t have enough time to discover whose filing cabinet it’s hidden in.”
When they arrived at the Victoria Country Club they found the manager standing in the hallway waiting to greet them. He led his distinguished guest through to a quiet table in the alcove. Charlie was only disappointed to find how young he was.
Charlie chose the most expensive items from the à la carte section of the menu, then selected a 1957 bottle of Chambertin. Within moments he was receiving attention from every waiter in the room.
“And what are you up to this time, Sir Charles?” asked Roberts, who had satisfied himself with the set menu.
“Patience, young man,” Charlie said in mock disdain as he tried to cut into an overcooked, tough piece of lamb with a blunt knife. He eventually gave in, and ordered a vanilla ice cream, confident they couldn’t do much harm to that. When finally the coffee was served, the oldest waiter in the room came slowly over to offer them both a cigar.
“A Monte Cristo, please,” said Charlie, removing a pound note from his wallet and placing it on the table in front of him. A large old humidor was o
pened for his inspection. “Worked here for a long time, have you?” Charlie added.
“Forty years last month,” said the waiter, as another pound note landed on top of the first.
“Good memory?”
“I like to think so, sir,” said the waiter, staring at the two banknotes.
“Remember someone called Mrs. Trentham? English, strait-laced, might have stayed for a couple of weeks or more round 1927,” said Charlie, pushing the notes towards the old man.
“Remember her?” said the waiter. “I’ll never forget her. I was a trainee in those days and she did nothing except grumble the whole time about the food and the service. Wouldn’t drink anything but water, said she didn’t trust Australian wines and refused to spend good money on the French ones—that’s why I always ended up having to serve on her table. End of the month, she ups and offs without a word and didn’t even leave me a tip. You bet I remember her.”
“That sounds like Mrs. Trentham all right,” said Charlie. “But did you ever find out why she came to Australia in the first place?” He removed a third pound note from his wallet and placed it on top of the others.
“I’ve no idea, sir,” said the waiter sadly. “She never talked to anyone from morning to night, and I’m not sure even Mr. Sinclair-Smith would know the answer to that question.”
“Mr. Sinclair-Smith?”
The waiter motioned over his shoulder to the far corner of the room where a gray-haired gentleman sat alone, a napkin tucked into his collar. He was busy attacking a large piece of Stilton. “The present owner,” the waiter explained. “His father was the only person Mrs. Trentham ever spoke civilly to.”
“Thank you,” said Charlie. “You’ve been most helpful.” The waiter pocketed the three banknotes. “Would you be kind enough to ask the manager if I could have a word with him?”
“Certainly, sir,” said the old waiter, who closed the humidor and scurried away.
“The manager is far too young to remember—”
“Just keep your eyes open, Mr. Roberts, and possibly you might just learn a trick or two they failed to teach you in the business contracts class at law school,” said Charlie as he clipped the end of his cigar.
As the Crow Flies Page 60
