As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Nonetheless,” he continued, “we shall have to see what the other side has to offer. I find it hard to believe following my conversation with Birkenshaw on Saturday night that your findings will come as a complete revelation to his client.”

  The clock on his mantelpiece struck a discreet four chimes; Baverstock checked his pocket watch. There was no sign of the other side and soon the old solicitor started drumming his fingers on the desk. Charlie began to wonder if this was simply tactics on behalf of his adversary.

  Nigel Trentham and his lawyer finally appeared at twelve minutes past four; neither of them seemed to feel it was necessary to apologize for their lateness.

  Charlie stood up when Mr. Baverstock introduced him to Victor Birkenshaw, a tall, thin man, not yet fifty, prematurely balding with what little hair he had left combed over the top of his head in thin gray strands. The only characteristic he seemed to have in common with Baverstock was that their clothes appeared to have come from the same tailor. Birkenshaw sat down in one of the two vacant seats opposite the old lawyer without acknowledging that Cathy was even in the room. He removed a pen from his top pocket, took out a pad from his briefcase and rested it on his knee.

  “My client, Mr. Nigel Trentham, has come to lay claim to his inheritance as the rightful heir to the Hardcastle Trust,” he began, “as clearly stated in Sir Raymond’s last will and testament.”

  “Your client,” said Baverstock, picking up Birkenshaw’s rather formal approach, “may I remind you, is not named in Sir Raymond’s will, and a dispute has now arisen as to who is the rightful next of kin. Please don’t forget that Sir Raymond insisted that I call this meeting, should the need arise, in order to adjudicate on his behalf.”

  “My client,” came back Birkenshaw, “is the second son of the late Gerald and Margaret Ethel Trentham and the grandson of Sir Raymond Hardcastle. Therefore, following the death of Guy Trentham, his elder brother, he must surely be the legitimate heir.”

  “Under the terms of the will, I am bound to accept your client’s claim,” agreed Baverstock, “unless it can be shown that Guy Trentham is survived by a child or children. We already know that Guy was the father of Daniel Trumper—”

  “That has never been proven to my client’s satisfaction,” said Birkenshaw, busily writing down Baverstock’s words.

  “It was proven sufficiently to Sir Raymond’s satisfaction for him to name Daniel in his will in preference to your client. And following the meeting between Mrs. Trentham and her grandson we have every reason to believe that she also was in no doubt as to who Daniel’s father was. Otherwise why did she bother to come to an extensive agreement with him?”

  “This is all conjecture,” said Birkenshaw. “Only one fact is certain: the gentleman in question is no longer with us, and as far as anyone knows produced no children of his own.” He still did not look in Cathy’s direction while she sat listening silently as the ball was tossed back and forth between the two professionals.

  “We were happy to accept that without question,” said Charlie, intervening for the first time. “But what we didn’t know until recently was that Guy Trentham had a second child called Margaret Ethel.”

  “What proof do you have for such an outrageous claim?” said Birkenshaw, sitting bolt upright.

  “The proof is in the bank statement that I sent round to your home on Sunday morning.”

  “A statement, I might say,” said Birkenshaw, “that should not have been opened by anyone other than my client.” He glanced towards Nigel Trentham, who was busy lighting a cigarette.

  “I agree,” said Charlie, his voice rising. “But I thought I’d take a leaf out of Mrs. Trentham’s book for a change.”

  Baverstock winced, fearing his friend might be on the verge of losing his temper.

  “Whoever the girl was,” continued Charlie, “she somehow managed to get her name onto police files as Guy Trentham’s only surviving child and to paint a picture that remained on the dining room wall of a Melbourne orphanage for over twenty years. A painting, I might add, that could not be reproduced by anyone other than the person who originally created it. Better than a fingerprint, wouldn’t you say? Or is that also conjecture?”

  “The only thing the painting proves,” retorted Birkenshaw, “is that Miss Ross resided at an orphanage in Melbourne at some time between 1927 and 1946. However, I’m given to understand that she is quite unable to recall any details of her life at that orphanage, or indeed anything about its principal. Is that not the case, Miss Ross?” He turned to face Cathy directly for the first time.

  She nodded her reluctant agreement, but still didn’t speak.

  “Some witness,” said Birkenshaw, not attempting to disguise the sarcasm. “She can’t even support the story you are putting forward on her behalf. Her name is Cathy Ross, that much we do know, despite your so-called evidence there’s nothing to link her with Sir Raymond Hardcastle.”

  “There are several people who can support her ‘story,’ as you call it,” said Charlie, jumping back in. Baverstock raised an eyebrow, as no evidence had been placed before him to corroborate such a statement, even if he did want to believe what Sir Charles was saying.

  “Knowing that she was brought up in an orphanage in Melbourne doesn’t add up to corroboration,” said Birkenshaw, pushing back a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “I repeat, even if we were to accept all your wild claims about some imagined meeting between Mrs. Trentham and Miss Benson, that still doesn’t prove Miss Ross is of the same blood as Guy Trentham.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to check her blood group for yourself?” said Charlie. This time Mr. Baverstock raised both eyebrows: the subject of blood groups had never been referred to by either party before.

  “A blood group, I might add, Sir Charles, that is shared by half the world’s population.” Birkenshaw tugged the lapels of his jacket.

  “Oh, so you’ve already checked it?” said Charlie with a look of triumph. “So there must be some doubt in your mind.”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind as to who is the rightful heir to the Hardcastle estate,” Birkenshaw said, before turning to face Baverstock. “How long are we expected to drag out this farce?” His question was followed by an exasperated sigh.

  “As long as it takes for someone to convince me who is the rightful heir to Sir Raymond’s estate,” said Baverstock, his voice remaining cold and authoritative.

  “What more do you want?” Birkenshaw asked. “My client has nothing to hide, whereas Miss Ross seems to have nothing to offer.”

  “Then perhaps you could explain, Birkenshaw, to my satisfaction,” said Baverstock, “why Mrs. Ethel Trentham made regular payments over several years to a Miss Benson, the principal of St. Hilda’s Orphanage in Melbourne, where I think we all now accept Miss Ross lived between 1927 and 1946?”

  “I didn’t have the privilege of representing Mrs. Trentham, or indeed Miss Benson, so I’m in no position to offer an opinion. Nor, sir, for that matter, are you.”

  “Perhaps your client is aware of the reason for those payments and would care to offer an opinion,” interjected Charlie. They both turned to Nigel Trentham, who calmly stubbed out the remains of his cigarette but still made no attempt to speak.

  “There’s no reason why my client should be expected to answer any such hypothetical question,” Birkenshaw suggested.

  “But if your client is so unwilling to speak for himself,” said Baverstock, “it makes it all the more difficult for me to accept that he has nothing to hide.”

  “That, sir, is unworthy of you,” said Birkenshaw. “You of all people are well aware that when a client is represented by a lawyer it is understood he may not necessarily wish to speak. In fact, it was not even obligatory for Mr. Trentham to attend this meeting.”

  “This isn’t a court of law,” said Baverstock sharply. “In any case, I suspect Mr. Trentham’s grandfather would not have approved of such tactics.”

  “Are you denying my c
lient his legal rights?”

  “Certainly not. However, if because of his unwillingness to offer any opinion I feel unable to come to a decision myself I may have to recommend to both parties that this matter be settled in a court of law, as stated clearly in clause twenty-seven of Sir Raymond’s will.”

  Yet another clause that he didn’t know about, Charlie reflected ruefully.

  “But such a case might take years just to reach the courts,” Birkenshaw pointed out. “Furthermore, it could end up in vast expenses to both sides. I cannot believe that would have been Sir Raymond’s purpose.”

  “That may be so,” said Baverstock. “But at least it would ensure that your client was given the opportunity to explain those quarterly payments to a jury—that is, if he knew anything about them.”

  For the first time Birkenshaw seemed to hesitate but Trentham still didn’t speak. He just sat there, drawing on a second cigarette.

  “A jury might also consider Miss Ross to be nothing more than an opportunist,” suggested Birkenshaw, changing tack. “An opportunist who, having stumbled upon rather a good tale, managed to get herself over to England where she then made the facts fit in neatly with her own circumstances.”

  “Very neatly indeed,” said Charlie. “Didn’t she do well at the age of three to get herself registered at an orphanage in Melbourne? At exactly the same time as Guy Trentham was locked up in the local jail—”

  “Coincidence,” said Birkenshaw.

  “—having been left there by Mrs. Trentham, who then makes out a quarterly payment to the principal of that orphanage which mysteriously ceases the moment Miss Benson dies. That must have been some secret she was keeping.”

  “Once again circumstantial and, what’s more, inadmissible,” said Birkenshaw.

  Nigel Trentham leaned forward and was about to make a comment when his lawyer placed his right hand firmly on his arm. “We shall not fall for those sort of bully-boy tactics, Sir Charles, that I suspect are more commonplace in the Whitechapel Road than in Lincoln’s Inn.”

  Charlie leaped out of his chair, his fist clenched, and took a pace towards Birkenshaw.

  “Calm yourself, Sir Charles,” said Baverstock sharply.

  Charlie reluctantly came to a halt a couple of feet in front of Birkenshaw, who did not flinch. After a moment’s hesitation he recalled Daphne’s advice and returned to his chair. Trentham’s lawyer continued to stare defiantly at him.

  “As I was saying,” said Birkenshaw, “my client has nothing to hide. And he will certainly not find it necessary to resort to physical violence to prove his case.”

  Charlie unclenched his fist but did not lower his voice: “I do hope your client will resort to answering leading counsel when he inquires as to why his mother continued to pay large sums of money to someone from the other side of the world whom she, so you claim, never met. And why a Mr. Walter Slade, a chauffeur with the Victoria Country Club, took Mrs. Trentham to St. Hilda’s on 20 April 1927 accompanied by a little girl of Cathy’s age called Margaret, but left without her. And I’ll bet if we ask a judge to delve into Miss Benson’s bank account, we’ll find that those payments go back to within a day of when Miss Ross was registered at St. Hilda’s. After all, we already know that the banker’s order was canceled the week Miss Benson died.”

  Once again Baverstock appeared horrified by Charlie’s reckless nerve, and raised a hand in the hope that he might stop any further outbursts.

  Birkenshaw in contrast couldn’t resist a wry smile. “Sir Charles, in default of your being represented by a lawyer, I really should remind you of one or two home truths. For a start, let me make one point abundantly clear: my client has assured me that he had never heard of Miss Benson until yesterday. In any case, no English judge has the jurisdiction to delve into an Australian bank account unless they have reason to believe a crime has been committed in both countries. What is more, Sir Charles, two of your key witnesses are sadly in their graves while the third, Mr. Walter Slade, will not be making any trips to London. What is more, you won’t be able to subpoena him.

  “So now let us turn to your claim, Sir Charles, that a jury would be surprised if my client did not appear in the witness box to answer on behalf of his mother. I suspect they would be even more staggered to learn that the principal witness in this case, the claimant, was also unwilling to take the stand to answer on her own behalf because she has little or no recollection of what actually took place at the time in question. I do not believe that you could find a counsel in the land who would be willing to put Miss Ross through such an ordeal if the only words she is likely to utter in reply to every question put to her in the witness box were, ‘Sorry, I can’t remember.’ Or is it possible that she simply has nothing credible to say? Let me assure you, Sir Charles, we would be only too happy to go to court, because you would be laughed out of it.”

  Charlie could tell from the look on Baverstock’s face that he was beaten. He glanced sadly across at Cathy, whose expression had not changed for the past hour.

  Baverstock slowly removed his spectacles and made great play of cleaning them with a handkerchief he had taken out of his top pocket. Eventually he spoke: “I confess, Sir Charles, that I cannot see any good reason to take up the courts’ time with this case. In fact, I believe it would be irresponsible of me to do so, unless of course Miss Ross is able to produce some fresh evidence of her identity that has so far not been considered or at least can corroborate all the statements you have made on her behalf.” He turned to Cathy. “Miss Ross, is there anything you would like to say at this juncture?”

  All four men turned their attention to Cathy, who was sitting quietly, rubbing a thumb against the inside of her forefinger, just below her chin. “I apologize, Miss Ross,” said Baverstock. “I didn’t realize that you had been trying to gain my attention.”

  “No, no, it is I who should apologize, Mr. Baverstock,” said Cathy. “I always do that when I’m nervous. It reminds me of the piece of jewelry that my father gave me when I was a child.”

  “The piece of jewelry your father gave you?” said Mr. Baverstock quietly, not sure that he had heard her correctly.

  “Yes,” said Cathy. She undid the top button of her blouse and took out the miniature medal that hung from the end of a piece of string.

  “Your father gave you that?” said Charlie.

  “Oh, yes,” said Cathy. “It’s the only tangible memory I have of him.”

  “May I see the necklace, please?” asked Baverstock.

  “Certainly,” said Cathy, slipping the thin gold chain over her head and passing the medal to Charlie. He examined the miniature for some time before handing it on to Mr. Baverstock.

  “Although I’m no expert on medals I think it’s a miniature MC,” said Charlie.

  “Wasn’t Guy Trentham awarded the MC?” asked Baverstock.

  “Yes, he was,” said Birkenshaw, “and he also went to Harrow, but simply wearing their old school tie doesn’t prove my client was his brother. In fact, it doesn’t prove anything and certainly couldn’t be produced as evidence in a court of law. After all, there must be hundreds of MCs still around. Indeed, Miss Ross could have picked up such a medal in any junk shop in London once she’d planned to make the facts surrounding Guy Trentham fit in with her background. You can’t really expect us to fall for that old trick, Sir Charles.”

  “I can assure you, Mr. Birkenshaw, that this particular medal was given to me by my father,” said Cathy, looking directly at the lawyer. “He may not have been entitled to wear it, but I will never forget him placing it around my neck.”

  “That can’t possibly be my brother’s MC,” said Nigel Trentham, speaking for the first time. “What’s more, I can prove it.”

  “You can prove what?” asked Baverstock.

  “Are you certain—?” began Birkenshaw, but this time it was Trentham who placed a hand firmly on his lawyer’s arm.

  “I will prove to your satisfaction, Mr. Baverstock,” continued Trenth
am, “that the medal you now have in front of you could not have been the MC won by my brother.”

  “And just how do you propose to do that?” asked Baverstock.

  “Because Guy’s medal was unique. After he had been awarded his MC my mother sent the original to Spinks and at her request they engraved Guy’s initials down the edge of one of the arms. Those initials can only be seen under a magnifying glass. I know, because the medal he was presented with on the Marne still stands on the mantelpiece of my home in Chester Square. If a miniature had ever existed my mother would have had his initials engraved on it in exactly the same way.”

  No one spoke as Baverstock opened a drawer in his desk and took out an ivory-handled magnifying glass that he normally used to decipher illegible handwriting. He held up the medal to the light and studied the edges of the little silver arms one by one.

  “You’re quite right,” admitted Baverstock, as he looked back up at Trentham. “Your case is proven.” He passed both the medal and the magnifying glass over to Mr. Birkenshaw, who in turn studied the MC for some time before returning the medal to Cathy with a slight bow of the head. He turned to his client and asked, “Were your brother’s initials ‘G.F.T.’?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Guy Francis Trentham.”

  “Then I can only wish that you had kept your mouth shut.”

  BECKY

  1964–1970

  CHAPTER

  48

  When Charlie burst into the drawing room that evening it was the first time that I really believed Guy Trentham was finally dead.

  I sat in silence while my husband strode around the room recalling with relish every last detail of the confrontation that had taken place in Mr. Baverstock’s office earlier that afternoon.

  I have loved four men in my life with emotions ranging from adoration to devotion, but only Charlie encompassed the entire spectrum. Yet, even in his moment of triumph, I knew it would be left to me to take away from him the thing he most loved.