The assistant continued to leaf through the files.
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Culver, “and very good she was too, Sir Charles. We still have an example of her work hanging in the dining room, a woodland scene influenced by Sisley, I suspect. Indeed, I would go as far as to say—”
“May I be allowed to see the picture, Mrs. Culver?”
“Of course, Sir Charles.” The principal removed a key from the top right hand drawer of her desk and said, “Please follow me.”
Charlie rose unsteadily to his feet and accompanied Mrs. Culver as she marched out of her study and down a long corridor towards the dining room, the door of which she proceeded to unlock. Trevor Roberts, striding behind Charlie, continued to look puzzled, but refrained from asking any questions.
As they entered the dining room Charlie stopped in his tracks and said, “I could spot a Ross at twenty paces.”
“I beg your pardon, Sir Charles?”
“It’s not important, Mrs. Culver,” Charlie said as he stood in front of the picture and stared at a woodland scene of dappled browns and greens.
“Beautiful, isn’t it, Sir Charles? A real understanding of the use of color. I would go as far as to say—”
“I wonder, Mrs. Culver, if you would consider that picture to be a fair exchange for a minibus?”
“A very fair exchange,” said Mrs. Culver without hesitation. “In fact I feel sure…”
“And would it be too much to ask that you write on the back of the picture, ‘Painted by Miss Cathy Ross,’ along with the dates that she resided at St. Hilda’s?”
“Delighted, Sir Charles.” Mrs. Culver stepped forward and lifted the picture off its hook, then turned the frame round for all to see. What Sir Charles had requested, although faded with age, was already written and clearly legible to the naked eye.
“I do apologize, Mrs. Culver,” said Charlie. “By now I should know better of you.” He removed his wallet from an inside pocket, signed a blank check and passed it over to Mrs. Culver.
“But how much—?” began the astonished principal.
“Whatever it costs,” was all Charlie replied, having finally found a way of rendering Mrs. Culver speechless.
The three of them returned to the principal’s study where a pot of tea was waiting. One of the assistants set about making two copies of everything in Cathy’s file while Roberts rang ahead to the nursing home where Miss Benson resided to warn the matron to expect them within the hour. Once both tasks had been completed Charlie thanked Mrs. Culver for her kindness and bade her farewell. Although she had remained silent for some time she somehow managed, “Thank you, Sir Charles. Thank you.”
Charlie clung tightly to the picture as he walked out of the orphanage and back down the path. Once he was in the car again he instructed the driver to guard the package with his life.
“Certainly, sir. And where to now?”
“Maple Lodge Residential Home, on the north side,” instructed Roberts, who had climbed into the other side. “I do hope you’re going to explain to me what happened back there at St Hilda’s. Because I am, as the Good Book would have it, ‘sore amazed.’”
“I’ll tell you as much as I know myself,” said Charlie. He began to explain how he had first met Cathy almost fifteen years before at a housewarming party in his home at Eaton Square. He continued with his story uninterrupted until he had arrived at the point when Miss Ross had been appointed a director of Trumper’s and how since Daniel’s suicide she had been unable to tell them much about her background because she still hadn’t fully recovered her memory of those events that had taken place before she came to England. The lawyer’s opening response to this information took Charlie by surprise.
“You can be sure it wasn’t a coincidence that Miss Ross visited England in the first place, or for that matter that she applied for a job at Trumper’s.”
“What are you getting at?” said Charlie.
“She must have left Australia with the sole purpose of trying to find out about her father, believing him still to be alive, perhaps even living in England. That must have been her original motivation to visit London, where she undoubtedly discovered some connection between his and your family. And if you can find that link between her father, her going to England and Trumper’s, you will then have your proof—proof that Cathy Ross is in fact Margaret Ethel Trentham.”
“But I have no idea what that link could be,” said Charlie. “And now that Cathy remembers so little of her early life in Australia I may never be able to find out.”
“Well, let’s hope Miss Benson can point us in the right direction,” said Roberts. “Although, as I warned you earlier, no one who knew her at St. Hilda’s has a good word to say for the woman.”
“If Walter Slade’s anything to go by, it won’t be that easy to get the time of day out of her. It’s becoming obvious that Mrs. Trentham cast a spell over everyone she came into contact with.”
“I agree,” said the lawyer. “That’s why I didn’t reveal to Mrs. Campbell, the matron of Maple Lodge, our reason for wanting to visit the home. I couldn’t see any point in warning Miss Benson of our impending arrival. It would only give her enough time to have all her answers well prepared.”
Charlie grunted his approval. “But have you come up with any ideas as to what approach we should take with her?” he asked, “because I certainly made a balls-up of my meeting with Walter Slade.”
“No, I haven’t. We’ll just have to play it by ear and hope she’ll prove to be cooperative. Though heaven knows which accent you will be required to call on this time, Sir Charles.”
Moments later they were driven between two massive wrought-iron gates and on down a long shaded drive which led to a large turn-of-the-century mansion set in several acres of private grounds.
“This can’t come cheap,” said Charlie.
“Agreed,” said Roberts. “And unfortunately they don’t look as if they’re in need of a minibus.”
The car drew up outside a heavy oak door. Trevor Roberts jumped out and waited until Charlie had joined him before pressing the bell.
They did not have long to wait before a young nurse answered their call, then promptly escorted them down a highly polished tiled corridor to the matron’s office.
Mrs. Campbell was dressed in the familiar starched blue uniform, white collar and cuffs associated with her profession. She welcomed Charlie and Trevor Roberts in a deep Scottish burr, and had it not been for the uninterrupted sunshine coming through the windows, Charlie might have been forgiven for thinking that the matron of Maple Lodge Residential Home was unaware that she had ever left Scotland.
After the introductions had been completed Mrs. Campbell asked how she could be of help.
“I was hoping you might allow us to have a word with one of your residents.”
“Yes, of course, Sir Charles. May I inquire who it is you wish to see?” she asked.
“A Miss Benson,” explained Charlie. “You see—”
“Oh, Sir Charles, haven’t you heard?”
“Heard?” said Charlie.
“Yes. Miss Benson’s been dead this past week. In fact, we buried her on Thursday.”
For a second time that day Charlie’s legs gave way and Trevor Roberts had quickly to take his client by the elbow and guided him to the nearest chair.
“Oh, I am sorry,” said the matron. “I had no idea you were such a close friend.” Charlie didn’t say anything. “And have you come all the way from London especially to see her?”
“Yes, he did,” said Trevor Roberts. “Has Miss Benson had any other visitors from England recently?”
“No,” said the matron without hesitation. “She received very few callers towards the end. One or two from Adelaide but never one from Britain,” she added with an edge to her voice.
“And did she ever mention to you anyone called Cathy Ross or Margaret Trentham?”
Mrs. Campbell thought deeply for a moment. “No,” she said eventually. �
�At least, not to my recollection.”
“Then I think perhaps we should leave, Sir Charles, as there’s no point in taking up any more of Mrs. Campbell’s time.”
“I agree,” said Charlie quietly. “And thank you, Matron.” Roberts helped him to his feet and Mrs. Campbell accompanied them both back along the corridor towards the front door.
“Will you be returning to Britain shortly, Sir Charles?” she asked.
“Yes, probably tomorrow.”
“Would it be a terrible inconvenience if I were to ask you to post a letter for me once you are back in London?”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Charlie.
“I wouldn’t have bothered you with this task in normal circumstances,” said the matron, “but as it directly concerns Miss Benson…”
Both men stopped in their tracks and stared down at the prim Scottish lady. She also came to a halt and held her hands together in front of her.
“It’s not simply that I wish to save the postage, you understand, Sir Charles, which is what most folk would accuse my clan of. In fact, the exact opposite is the case, for my only desire is to make a speedy refund to Miss Benson’s benefactors.”
“Miss Benson’s benefactors?” said Charlie and Roberts in unison.
“Aye,” the matron said, standing her full height of five feet and half an inch. “We are not in the habit at Maple Lodge of charging residents who have died, Mr. Roberts. After all, as I’m sure you would agree, that would be dishonest.”
“Of course it would be, Matron.”
“And so, although we insist on three months’ payment in advance, we also refund any sums left over when a resident has passed away. After any outstanding bills have been covered, you understand.”
“I understand,” said Charlie as he stared down at the lady, a look of hope in his eyes.
“So if you will be kind enough to wait just a wee moment, I’ll be away and retrieve the letter from my office.” She turned and headed back to her room a few yards farther down the corridor.
“Start praying,” said Charlie.
“I already have,” said Roberts.
Mrs. Campbell returned a few moments later holding an envelope, which she handed over for Charlie’s safekeeping. In a bold copperplate hand were written the words: “The Manager, Coutts and Company, The Strand, London WC2.”
“I do hope you won’t find my request too much of an imposition, Sir Charles.”
“It’s a greater pleasure than you may ever realize, Mrs. Campbell,” Charlie assured her, as he bade the matron farewell.
Once they were back in the car, Roberts said, “It would be quite unethical of me to advise you as to whether you should or should not open that letter, Sir Charles. However—”
But Charlie had already ripped open the envelope and was pulling out its contents.
A check for ninety-two pounds was attached to a detailed, itemized bill for the years 1953 to 1964: in full and final settlement for the account of Miss Rachel Benson.
“God bless the Scots and their puritan upbringing,” said Charlie, when he saw to whom the check had been made out.
CHAPTER
46
“If you were quick, Sir Charles, you could still catch the earlier flight,” said Trevor Roberts as the car pulled into the hotel forecourt.
“Then I’ll be quick,” said Charlie, “as I’d like to be back in London as soon as possible.”
“Right, I’ll check you out, then phone the airport to see if they can change your reservation.”
“Good. Although I’ve a couple of days to spare there are still some loose ends I’d like to tidy up at the London end.”
Charlie had jumped out of the car even before the driver could reach the door to open it for him. He made a dash for his room and quickly threw all his possessions into a suitcase. He was back in the lobby twelve minutes later, had settled the bill and was making a dash towards the hotel entrance within fifteen. The driver was not only standing by the car waiting for him but the boot was already open.
Once the third door had been closed, the chauffeur immediately accelerated out of the hotel forecourt and swung the car into the fast lane, as he headed towards the freeway.
“Passport and ticket?” said Roberts.
Charlie smiled and removed them both from an inside pocket like a child having his prep list checked.
“Good, now let’s hope we can still reach the airport in time.”
“You’ve done wonders,” said Charlie.
“Thank you, Sir Charles,” said Roberts. “But you must understand that despite your gathering a considerable amount of evidence to substantiate your case, most of it remains at best circumstantial. Although you and I may be convinced that Cathy Ross is in fact Margaret Ethel Trentham, with Miss Benson in her grave and Miss Ross unable to recall all the relevant details of her past there’s no way of predicting whether a court would find in your favor.”
“I hear what you’re saying,” said Charlie. “But at least I now have something to bargain with. A week ago I had nothing.”
“True. And having watched you operate over the past few days I’m bound to say that I’d give you odds of better than fifty-fifty. But whatever you do, don’t let that picture out of your sight: it’s as convincing as any fingerprint. And see that at all times you keep Mrs. Campbell’s letter in a safe place until you’ve been able to make a copy. Also be sure that the original plus the accompanying cheque are then posted on to Coutts. We don’t want you arrested for stealing ninety-two pounds. Now, is there anything else I can do for you at this end?”
“Yes, you could try to get a written statement out of Walter Slade admitting that he took Mrs. Trentham and a little girl called Margaret to St. Hilda’s, and that she left without her charge. You might also attempt to pin Slade down to a date.”
“That might not prove easy after your encounter,” suggested Roberts.
“Well, at least have a go. Then see if you can find out if Miss Benson was in receipt of any other payments from Mrs. Trentham before 1953 and if so the amounts and dates. I suspect she’s been receiving a banker’s order every quarter for over thirty-five years, which would explain why she was able to end her days in such comparative luxury.”
“Agreed, but once again it’s entirely circumstantial and there’s certainly no way that any bank would allow me to delve into Miss Benson’s private account.”
“I accept that,” said Charlie. “But Mrs. Culver should be able to let you know what Miss Benson was earning while she was principal and if she appeared to live beyond her salary. After all, you can always find out what else St. Hilda’s needs other than a minibus.”
Roberts began to make notes as Charlie rattled out a series of further suggestions.
“If you were able to wrap up Slade and prove there were any previous payments made to Miss Benson, I would then be in a far stronger position to ask Nigel Trentham to explain why his mother was willing to keep on doling out money to someone who was principal of an orphanage situated on the other side of the globe if it wasn’t for his elder brother’s offspring.”
“I’ll do what I can,” promised Roberts. “If I come up with anything I’ll contact you in London on your return.”
“Thank you,” said Charlie. “Now, is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes, Sir Charles. Would you be good enough to pass on my kindest regards to Uncle Ernest?”
“Uncle Ernest?”
“Yes, Ernest Baverstock.”
“Kindest regards be damned. I shall report him to the Law Society for nepotism.”
“I must advise you that there is no case to answer, Sir Charles, as nepotism is not yet a crime. Though to be honest it’s my mother who’s to blame. You see, she produced three sons—all lawyers, and the other two are now representing you in Perth and Brisbane.”
The car drew up to the curb alongside the Qantas terminal. The driver jumped out and removed the suitcases from the boot as Charlie ran off in t
he direction of the ticket counter, with Roberts a yard behind carrying Cathy’s picture.
“Yes, you can still make the early flight to London,” the girl at the check-in desk assured Charlie. “But please be quick as we’ll be closing the gates in a few minutes’ time.” Charlie breathed a sigh of relief and turned to say goodbye to Trevor Roberts as the driver arrived with his suitcase and placed it on the weighing machine.
“Damn,” said Charlie. “Can you lend me ten pounds?”
Roberts removed the notes from his wallet and Charlie quickly passed them on to the driver, who touched his cap and returned to the car.
“How do I ever begin to thank you?” he said as he shook Trevor Roberts by the hand.
“Thank Uncle Ernest, not me,” said Roberts. “He talked me into dropping everything to take on this case.”
Twenty minutes later Charlie was climbing up the steps of Qantas Flight 102 ready for the first stage of his journey back to London.
As the plane lifted off ten minutes after schedule, Charlie settled back and tried, with the knowledge he had gained in the last three days, to begin fitting the pieces together. He accepted Roberts’ theory that it was no coincidence that Cathy had come to work at Trumper’s. She must have discovered some connection between them and the Trenthams, even if Charlie couldn’t work out exactly what that connection was or her reason for not telling either of them in the first place. Telling them…? What right did he have to comment? If only he had told Daniel, the boy might still be alive today. Because one thing was certain: Cathy could not have realized that Daniel was her half-brother, although he now feared that Mrs. Trentham must have found out, then let her grandson know the awful truth.
“Evil woman,” said Charlie to himself.
“I beg your pardon,” said the middle-aged lady who was seated on his left.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Charlie. “I wasn’t referring to you.” He returned to his reverie. Mrs. Trentham must have somehow stumbled on that truth. But how? Did Cathy go to see her as well? Or was it simply the announcement of their engagement in The Times that alerted Mrs. Trentham to an illegal liaison that Cathy and Daniel could not have been aware of themselves? Whatever the reason, Charlie realized that his chances of piecing together the complete story were now fairly remote, with Daniel and Mrs. Trentham in their graves and Cathy still unable to recall much of what had happened to her before she arrived in England.
As the Crow Flies Page 62
