As the Crow Flies Read online

  “Agreed.”

  Mrs. Trentham walked shakily towards the writing desk. She sat down, opened the center drawer, and took out two sheets of purple-headed paper. Painstakingly she wrote out separate agreements before passing them over for Daniel to consider. He read through the drafts slowly. She had covered all the points he had demanded and had left nothing out, including the one rather long-winded clause she had herself insisted upon. Daniel nodded his agreement and passed the two pieces of paper back to her.

  She signed both copies, then handed Daniel her pen. He in turn added his signature below hers on both sheets of paper. She returned one of the agreements to Daniel before rising to pull the bell rope by the mantelpiece. The butler reappeared a moment later.

  “Gibson, we need you to witness our signatures on two documents. Once you have done that the gentleman will be leaving,” she announced. The butler penned his signature on both sheets of paper without question or comment.

  A few moments later Daniel found himself out on the street with an uneasy feeling everything hadn’t gone exactly as he had anticipated. Once he was seated in a taxi and on his way back to the Dorchester Hotel he reread the sheet of paper they had both signed. He could not reasonably have asked for more but remained puzzled by the clause Mrs. Trentham had insisted on inserting as it made no sense to him. He pushed any such disquiet to the back of his mind.

  On arrival at the Dorchester Hotel, in the privacy of Room 309 he quickly changed out of the uniform and back into his civilian clothes. He felt clean for the first time that day. He then placed the uniform and cap in his suitcase before going back down to reception, where he handed in the key, paid the bill in cash and checked out.

  Another taxi returned him to Kensington, where the hairdresser was disappointed to be told that his new customer now wished all signs of the bleach to be removed, the waves to be straightened out and the parting to be switched back.

  Daniel’s final stop before returning home was to a deserted building site in Pimlico. He stood behind a large crane and when he was certain no one could see him he dropped the uniform and cap into a rubbish tip and set light to the photograph.

  He stood shivering as he watched his father disappear in a purple flame.

  MRS. TRENTHAM

  1938–1948

  CHAPTER

  32

  “My purpose in inviting you up to Yorkshire this weekend is to let you know exactly what I have planned for you in my will.”

  My father was seated behind his desk while I sat in a leather chair facing him, the one my mother had always favored. He had named me “Margaret Ethel” after her but there the resemblance ended as he never stopped reminding me. I watched him as he carefully pressed some tobacco down into the well of his briar pipe, wondering what he could possibly be going to say. He took his time before looking up at me again and announcing, “I have made the decision to leave my entire estate to Daniel Trumper.”

  I was so stunned by this revelation that it was several seconds before I could think of an acceptable response.

  “But, Father, now that Guy has died surely Nigel must be the legitimate heir?”

  “Daniel would have been the legitimate heir if your son had done the honorable thing. Guy should have returned from India and married Miss Salmon the moment he realized she was having his child.”

  “But Trumper is Daniel’s father,” I protested. “Indeed, he has always admitted as much. The birth certificate—”

  “He has never denied it, I grant you that. But don’t take me for a fool, Ethel. The birth certificate only proves that, unlike my late grandson, Charlie Trumper has some sense of responsibility. In any case, those of us who have watched Guy in his formative years and have also followed Daniel’s progress can be in little doubt about the relationship between the two men.”

  I wasn’t certain I had heard my father correctly. “You’ve actually seen Daniel Trumper?”

  “Oh, yes,” he replied matter-of-factly, picking up a box of matches from his desk. “I made a point of visiting St. Paul’s on two separate occasions. Once when the boy was performing in a concert I was able to sit and watch him at close quarters for over two hours—he was rather good, actually. And then a year later on Founders’ Day when he was awarded the Newton Mathematics Prize, I shadowed him while he accompanied his parents to afternoon tea in the headmaster’s garden. So I can assure you that not only does he look like Guy, but he’s also inherited some of his late father’s mannerisms.”

  “But surely Nigel deserves to be treated as his equal?” I protested, racking my brains to think of some rational response that would make my father reconsider his position.

  “Nigel is not his equal and never will be,” replied my father, as he struck a match before beginning that endless sucking that always preceded his attempt to light a pipe. “Don’t let’s fool ourselves, Ethel. We’ve both known for some time that the lad isn’t even worthy of a place on the board of Hardcastle’s, let alone to be considered as my successor.”

  While my father puffed energetically at his pipe, I stared blindly at the painting of two horses in a paddock that hung on the wall behind him and tried to collect my thoughts.

  “I’m sure you haven’t forgotten, my dear, that Nigel even failed to pass out of Sandhurst, which I’m told takes some doing nowadays. I have also recently been informed that he’s only holding down his present job with Kitcat and Aitken because you led the senior partner to believe that in time they will be administering the Hardcastle portfolio.” He punctuated each statement with a puff from his pipe. “And I can assure you that will not be the case.”

  I found myself unable to look straight at him. Instead my eyes wandered from the Stubbs on the wall behind his desk to the row upon row of books he had spent a lifetime collecting. Dickens, every first edition; Henry James, a modern author he admired, and countless Blakes of every description from treasured handwritten letters to memorial editions. Then came the second blow.

  “As there isn’t a member of the family who can readily replace me as head of the firm,” he continued, “I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that with war daily becoming more likely I will have to reconsider the future of Hardcastle’s.” The pungent smell of tobacco hung in the air.

  “You would never allow the business to fall into anyone else’s hands?” I said in disbelief. “Your father would—”

  “My father would have done what was best for all concerned, and no doubt expectant relations would have been fairly low down on his list of priorities.” His pipe refused to stay alight so a second match was brought into play. He gave a few more sucks before a look of satisfaction appeared on his face and he began to speak again. “I’ve sat on the boards of Harrogate Haulage and the Yorkshire Bank for several years, and more recently John Brown Engineering where I think I’ve finally found my successor. Sir John’s son may not be an inspired chairman of the company but he’s capable, and more important, he’s a Yorkshireman. Anyway I have come to the conclusion that a merger with that company will be best for all concerned.”

  I was still unable to look directly at my father as I tried to take in all that he was saying.

  “They’ve made me a handsome offer for my shares,” he added, “which will in time yield an income for you and Amy that will more than take care of your needs once I’ve gone.”

  “But, Father, we both hope you will live for many more years.”

  “Don’t bother yourself, Ethel, with trying to flatter an old man who knows death can’t be far away. I may be ancient but I’m not yet senile.”

  “Father,” I protested again but he simply returned to the sucking of his pipe, showing total lack of concern at my agitation. So I tried another ploy.

  “Does that mean Nigel will receive nothing?”

  “Nigel will receive what I consider right and proper in the circumstances.”

  “I’m not sure I fully understand you, Father.”

  “Then I shall explain. I’ve left him f