As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  The manager arrived at their table. “You asked to see me, Sir Charles?”

  “I wonder if Mr. Sinclair-Smith would care to join me for a liqueur?” said Charlie, passing the young man one of his cards.

  “I’ll have a word with him immediately, sir,” said the manager who at once turned and walked towards the other table.

  “It’s back to the lobby for you, Roberts,” said Charlie, “as I suspect that my conduct over the next half hour might just offend your professional ethics.” He glanced across the room, where the old man was now studying his card.

  Roberts sighed, rose from his chair and left.

  A large smile appeared on Mr. Sinclair-Smith’s pudgy lips. He pushed himself up out of his chair and waddled over to join his English visitor.

  “Sinclair-Smith,” he said in a high-pitched English accent before offering a limp hand.

  “Good of you to join me, old chap,” said Charlie. “I know a fellow countryman when I see one. Can I interest you in a brandy?” The waiter scurried away.

  “How kind of you, Sir Charles. I can only hope that my humble establishment has provided you with a reasonable cuisine.”

  “Excellent,” said Charlie. “But then you were recommended,” he said as he exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.

  “Recommended?” said Sinclair-Smith, trying not to sound too surprised. “May I ask by whom?”

  “My ancient aunt, Mrs. Ethel Trentham.”

  “Mrs. Trentham? Good heavens, Mrs. Trentham, we haven’t seen the dear lady since my late father’s time.”

  Charlie frowned as the old waiter returned with two large brandies.

  “I do hope she’s keeping well, Sir Charles.”

  “Never better,” said Charlie. “And she wished to be remembered to you.”

  “How kind of her,” replied Sinclair-Smith, swirling the brandy round in his balloon. “And what a remarkable memory, because I was only a young man at the time and had just started working in the hotel. She must now be…”

  “Over ninety,” said Charlie. “And do you know the family still has no idea why she ever came to Melbourne in the first place,” he added.

  “Nor me,” said Sinclair-Smith as he sipped his brandy.

  “You never spoke to her?”

  “No, never,” said Sinclair-Smith. “Although my father and your aunt had many long conversations, he never once confided in me what passed between them.”

  Charlie tried not to show his frustration at this piece of information. “Well, if you don’t know what she was up to,” he said, “I don’t suppose there’s anyone alive who does.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Sinclair-Smith. “Slade would know—that is, if he hasn’t gone completely ga-ga.”

  “Slade?”

  “Yes, a Yorkshireman who worked at the club under my father, in the days when we still had a resident chauffeur. In fact, the whole time Mrs. Trentham stayed at the club she always insisted on using Slade. Said no one else should drive her.”

  “Is he still around?” asked Charlie as he blew out another large cloud of smoke.

  “Good heavens no,” said Sinclair-Smith. “Retired years ago. Not even sure he’s still alive.”

  “Do you get back to the old country much nowadays?” inquired Charlie, convinced that he had extracted every piece of relevant information that could be gained from this particular source.

  “No, unfortunately what with…”

  For the next twenty minutes, Charlie settled back and enjoyed his cigar as he listened to Sinclair-Smith on everything from the demise of the Empire to the parlous state of English cricket. Eventually Charlie called for the bill, at which the owner took his leave and slipped discreetly away.

  The old waiter shuffled back the moment he saw another pound note appear on the tablecloth.

  “Something you needed, sir?”

  “Does the name ‘Slade’ mean anything to you?”

  “Old Walter Slade, the club’s chauffeur?”

  “That’s the man.”

  “Retired years ago.”

  “I know that much, but is he still alive?”

  “No idea,” said the waiter. “Last I heard of him he lived somewhere out in the Ballarat area.”

  “Thank you,” said Charlie, as he stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, removed another pound note and left to join Roberts in the lobby.

  “Telephone your office immediately,” he instructed his solicitor. “Ask them to track down a Walter Slade who may be living at somewhere called Ballarat.”

  Roberts hurried off in the direction of the telephone sign, while Charlie paced up and down the corridor praying the old man was still alive. His solicitor returned a few minutes later. “Am I allowed to know what you’re up to this time, Sir Charles?” he asked as he passed over a piece of paper with Walter Slade’s address printed out in capital letters.

  “No good, that’s for sure,” said Charlie, as he took in the information. “Don’t need you for this one, young man, but I will require the car. See you back at the office—and I can’t be sure when.” He gave a small wave as he pushed through the swing doors leaving a bemused Roberts standing on his own in the lobby.

  Charlie handed over the slip of paper to the chauffeur who studied the address. “But it’s nearly a hundred miles,” said the man, looking over his shoulder.

  “Then we haven’t a moment to waste, have we?”

  The driver switched on the engine and swung out of the country club forecourt. He drove past the Melbourne Cricket Ground where Charlie could see someone was 2 for 147. It annoyed him that on his first trip to Australia he didn’t even have enough time to drop in and see the test match. The journey on the north highway lasted for another hour and a half, which gave Charlie easily enough time to consider what approach he would use on Mr. Slade, assuming he wasn’t, to quote Sinclair-Smith, “completely ga-ga.” After they had sped past the sign for Ballarat, the driver pulled into a petrol station. Once the attendant had filled the tank he gave the driver some directions and it took another fifteen minutes before they came to a halt outside a small terraced house on a run-down estate.

  Charlie jumped out of the car, marched up a short, weed-covered path and knocked on the front door. He waited for some time before an old lady wearing a pinafore and a pastel-colored dress that nearly reached the ground answered his call.

  “Mrs. Slade?” asked Charlie.

  “Yes,” she replied, peering up at him suspiciously.

  “Would it be possible to have a word with your husband?”

  “Why?” asked the old lady. “You from the social services?”

  “No, I’m from England,” said Charlie. “And I’ve brought your husband a small bequest from my aunt Mrs. Ethel Trentham, who has recently died.”

  “Oh, how kind of you,” said Mrs. Slade. “Do come in.” She guided Charlie through to the kitchen, where he found an old man, dressed in a cardigan, clean check shirt and baggy trousers, dozing in a chair in front of the fireplace.

  “There’s a man come all the way from England, specially to see you, Walter.”

  “What’s that?” said the man, raising his bony fingers to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

  “A man come from England,” repeated his wife. “With a present from that Mrs. Trentham.”

  “I’m too old to drive her now.” His tired eyes blinked at Charlie.

  “No, Walter, you don’t understand. He’s a relative come all the way from England with a gift. You see, she died.”

  “Died?”

  Both of them were now staring quizzically at Charlie as he quickly took out his wallet and removed every note he possessed before handing the money over to Mrs. Slade.

  She began to count the notes slowly as Walter Slade continued to stare at Charlie, making him feel distinctly uneasy as he stood on their spotless stone floor.

  “Eighty-five pounds, Walter,” she told him, passing the money over to her husband.

  “Why so much?�
�� he asked. “And after so long?”

  “You did her a great service,” said Charlie, “and she simply wished to repay you.”

  The old man began to look more suspiciously at Charlie.

  “She paid me at the time,” he said.

  “I realize that,” said Charlie, “but—”

  “And I’ve kept my mouth shut,” he said.

  “That’s just another reason why she had cause to be grateful to you,” said Charlie.

  “Are you saying that you came all the way from England, just to give me eighty-five pounds?” said Mr. Slade. “Doesn’t make any sense to me, lad.” He suddenly sounded a lot more awake.

  “No, no,” said Charlie, feeling that he was losing the initiative. “I’ve had a dozen other bequests to deliver before coming out here, but you weren’t that easy to find.”

  “I’m not surprised. I’ve stopped driving these twenty years.”

  “You’re from Yorkshire, aren’t you?” said Charlie with a grin. “I’d know that accent anywhere.”

  “Aye, lad, and you’re from London. Which means you’re not to be trusted. So why did you really come to see me? Because it wasn’t to give us eighty-five pounds, that’s for sure.”

  “I can’t find the little girl who was with Mrs. Trentham when you drove her,” said Charlie, risking everything. “You see, she’s been left a large inheritance.”

  “Fancy that, Walter,” said Mrs. Slade.

  Walter Slade’s face registered nothing.

  “And it’s my duty somehow to locate her and then inform the lady of her good fortune.”

  Slade’s face remained impassive as Charlie battled on. “And I thought you’d be the one person who might be able to help.”

  “No, I won’t,” Slade replied. “What’s more you can have your money back,” he added, throwing the notes at Charlie’s feet. “And don’t bother to show your face round these parts again, with your phony trumped-up stories about fortunes. Show the gentleman the door, Elsie.”

  Mrs. Slade bent down and carefully picked up the scattered notes before passing them up to Charlie. When she had handed over the last one, she silently led the stranger back towards the front door.

  “I do apologize, Mrs. Slade,” said Charlie. “I had no intention of offending your husband.”

  “I know, sir,” said Mrs. Slade. “But then Walter has always been so proud. Heaven knows, we could have done with the money.” Charlie smiled as he stuffed the bundle of notes into the old lady’s pinafore and quickly put a finger up to his lips. “If you don’t tell him, I won’t,” he said. He gave a slight bow before turning to walk back down the little path towards the car.

  “I never saw no little girl,” she said in a voice that barely carried. Charlie froze on the spot. “But Walter once took a snooty lady up to that orphanage on Park Hill in Melbourne. I know because I was walking out with the gardener at the time, and he told me.”

  Charlie turned to thank her, but she had already closed the door and disappeared back into the house.

  Charlie climbed into the car, penniless and with just one name to cling to, aware that the old man could undoubtedly have solved the entire mystery for him. Otherwise he would have said “No, I can’t” and not “No, I won’t” when he had asked for his help.

  He cursed his stupidity several times on the long journey back to the city.

  “Roberts, is there an orphanage in Melbourne?” were Charlie’s opening words as he strode into the lawyer’s office.

  “St. Hilda’s,” said Neil Mitchell, before his partner could consider the question. “Yes, it’s up on Park Hill somewhere. Why?”

  “That’s the one,” said Charlie, checking his watch. “It’s about seven o’clock in the morning London time and I’m shattered, so I’m off to my hotel to try and grab some sleep. In the meantime I need a few questions answered. To start with, I want to know everything that can possibly be found out about St. Hilda’s, starting with the names of every member of staff who worked there between 1923 and 1927, from the head honcho down to the scullery maid. And if anyone’s still around from that period find them because I want to see them—and within the next twenty-four hours.”

  Two of the staff in Mitchell’s office had begun scribbling furiously as they tried to take down every word Sir Charles said.

  “I also want to know the name of every child registered at that orphanage between 1923 and 1927. Remember, we’re looking for a girl who couldn’t have been more than two years old, and may have been called Margaret Ethel. And when you’ve found the answers to all those questions wake me—whatever time it is.”

  CHAPTER

  45

  Trevor Roberts arrived back at Charlie’s hotel a few minutes before eight the following morning to find his client tucking into a large breakfast of eggs, tomato, mushrooms and bacon. Although Roberts looked unshaven and tired, he was the bearer of news.

  “We’ve been in touch with the principal of St. Hilda’s, a Mrs. Culver, and she couldn’t have been more cooperative.” Charlie smiled. “It turns out that nineteen children were registered with the orphanage between 1923 and 1927. Eight boys and eleven girls. Of the eleven girls we now know that nine of them didn’t have a mother or father alive at the time. Of those nine we have managed to contact seven, five of whom have a relative still alive who could vouch for who their father was, one whose parents were killed in a car crash and the other who is an aboriginal. The last two, however, are proving more difficult to track down, so I thought you might like to visit St. Hilda’s and study the files yourself.”

  “What about the staff at the orphanage?”

  “Only a cook survives from around that period, and she says there never was a child at St. Hilda’s called Trentham or any name like that, and she can’t even remember a Margaret or an Ethel. So our last hope may prove to be a Miss Benson.

  “Miss Benson?”

  “Yes, she was the principal at the time and is now a resident at an exclusive old people’s home called Maple Lodge on the other side of the city.”

  “Not bad, Mr. Roberts,” said Charlie. “But how did you manage to get Mrs. Culver to be so cooperative at such short notice?”

  “I resorted to methods that I suspect are more familiar to the Whitechapel school of law than Harvard, Sir Charles.”

  Charlie looked at him quizzically.

  “It seems that St. Hilda’s is currently organizing an appeal for a minibus—”

  “A minibus?”

  “So badly needed by the orphanage for trips—”

  “And so you hinted that I—”

  “—might be possible to help with a wheel or two if—”

  “—they in return felt able to—”

  “—cooperate. Precisely.”

  “You’re a quick learner, Roberts, I’ll give you that.”

  “And as there’s no more time to be wasted, we ought to leave for St. Hilda’s immediately so you can go over those files.”

  “But our best bet must surely be Miss Benson.”

  “I agree with you, Sir Charles. And I’ve planned for us to pay her a visit this afternoon, just as soon as you’ve finished at St. Hilda’s. By the way, when Miss Benson was principal, she was known as ‘The Dragon’ not only by the children but also by the staff, so there’s no reason to expect she’ll be any more cooperative than Walter Slade.”

  When Charlie arrived at the orphanage he was greeted at the front door by the principal. Mrs. Culver wore a smart green dress that looked as if it might have been freshly pressed. She had obviously decided to treat her potential benefactor as if he were Nelson Rockefeller because all that was lacking was a red carpet as Charlie was ushered through to her study.

  Two young lawyers who had been going assiduously through files all night and learning all there was to know about dormitory times, exacts, kitchen duties, credits and misdemeanors stood as Charlie and Trevor Roberts entered the room.

  “Any further progress with those two names?” asked Rober
ts.

  “Oh, yes, down to two. Isn’t this exciting?” said Mrs. Culver, as she bustled round the room moving anything that seemed to be out of place. “I was wondering—”

  “We have no proof as yet,” said a bleary-eyed young man, “but one of them seems to fit the bill perfectly. We can come up with no information on the girl before the age of two. What’s more important, she was registered with St. Hilda’s at precisely the same time as Captain Trentham was awaiting execution.”

  “And the cook also remembers from the days when she was a scullery maid,” said Mrs. Culver, jumping in, “that the girl came in the middle of the night, accompanied by a well-dressed, severe looking lady who had a lah-de-dah accent who then—”

  “Enter Mrs. Trentham,” said Charlie. “Only the girl’s name is obviously not Trentham.”

  The young assistant checked the notes that lay spread across the table in front of him. “No, sir,” he said. “This particular girl was registered under the name of Miss Cathy Ross.”

  Charlie felt his legs give way as Roberts and Mrs. Culver rushed forward to help him into the only comfortable chair in the room. Mrs. Culver loosened his tie and undid his collar.

  “Are you feeling all right, Sir Charles?” she asked. “I must say you don’t look too—”

  “Right in front of my eyes all the time,” said Charlie. “Blind as a bat is how Daphne would rightly describe me.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” said Roberts.

  “I’m not sure I do myself as yet.” Charlie turned back to face the anxious messenger responsible for delivering the news.

  “Did she leave St. Hilda’s to take up a place at Melbourne University?” he asked.

  This time the assistant double-checked his notes. “Yes, sir. She signed on for the class of ’42, leaving in ’46.”

  “Where she studied history of art and English.”

  The assistant’s eyes again scanned the papers in front of him. “That’s correct, sir,” he said, unable to hide his surprise.

  “And did she play tennis, by any chance?”

  “The occasional match for the university second six.”

  “But could she paint?” asked Charlie.