As the Crow Flies Read online

  Mr. Baverstock took over an hour performing what seemed to me a simple enough responsibility, though to be fair he managed with some considerable dexterity not to reveal the name of Daniel Trumper when it came to explaining what would eventually happen to the estate. My mind began to wander as minor relations were informed of the thousand-pound windfalls they would inherit and was only brought sharply back to the droning voice of Mr. Baverstock when he uttered my own name.

  “Mrs. Gerald Trentham and Miss Amy Hardcastle will both receive during their lifetimes in equal part any income derived from the Trust.” The solicitor stopped to turn a page before placing the palms of his hands on the desk. “And finally, the house, the estate in Yorkshire and all its contents plus the sum of twenty thousand pounds,” he continued, “I bequeath to my elder daughter, Miss Amy Hardcastle.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  “Good morning, Mr. Sneddles.”

  The old bibliophile was so surprised the lady knew his name that for a moment he just stood and stared at her.

  Eventually he shuffled across to greet the lady, giving her a low bow. She was, after all, the first customer he had seen for over a week—that is if he did not count Dr. Halcombe, the retired headmaster, who would happily browse around the shop for hours on end but who had not actually purchased a book since 1937.

  “Good morning, madam,” he said in turn. “Was there a particular volume that you were hoping to find?” He looked at the lady, who wore a long lace dress and a large wide-brimmed hat with a veil that made it impossible to see her face.

  “No, Mr. Sneddles,” said Mrs. Trentham. “I have not come to purchase a book, but to seek your services.” She stared at the stooping old man in his mittens, cardigan and overcoat, which she assumed he was wearing because he could no longer afford to keep the shop heated. Although his back seemed to be permanently semicircular and his head stuck out like a tortoise’s from its overcoat shell, his eyes were clear and his mind appeared sharp and alert.

  “My services, madam?” the old man repeated.

  “Yes. I have inherited an extensive library that I require to be catalogued and valued. You come highly recommended.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so, madam.”

  Mrs. Trentham was relieved that Mr. Sneddles did not inquire as to who had made the particular recommendation.

  “And where is this library, might I be permitted to ask?”

  “A few miles east of Harrogate. You will find that it is quite an extraordinary collection. My late father, Sir Raymond Hardcastle—you may have heard of him?—devoted a considerable part of his life to putting it together.”

  “Harrogate?” said Sneddles as if it was a few miles east of Bangkok.

  “Of course I would cover all your expenses, however long the enterprise might take.”

  “But it would mean having to close the shop,” he murmured as if talking to himself.

  “I would naturally also compensate you for any loss of earnings.”

  Mr. Sneddles removed a book from the counter and checked its spine. “I fear it’s out of the question, madam, quite impossible, you see—”

  “My father specialized in William Blake, you know. You will find that he managed to get hold of every first edition, some still in mint condition. He even secured a handwritten manuscript of…”

  Amy Hardcastle had gone to bed even before her sister arrived back in Yorkshire that evening.

  “She gets so tired nowadays,” the housekeeper explained.

  Mrs. Trentham was left with little choice but to have a light supper on her own before retiring to her old room a few minutes after ten. As far as she could tell nothing had changed: the view over the Yorkshire dales, the black clouds, even the picture of York Minster that hung above the walnut-framed bed. She slept soundly enough and returned downstairs at eight the following morning. The cook explained to her that Miss Amy had not yet risen so she ate breakfast alone.

  Once all the covered dishes had been cleared away Mrs. Trentham sat in the drawing room reading the Yorkshire Post while she waited for her sister to make an appearance. When over an hour later the old cat wandered in, Mrs. Trentham shooed the animal away with a vicious wave of the folded newspaper. The grandfather clock in the hall had already struck eleven when Amy finally entered the room. She walked slowly towards her sister with the aid of a stick.

  “I’m so sorry, Ethel, that I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived last night,” she began. “I fear my arthritis has been playing me up again.”

  Mrs. Trentham didn’t bother to reply, but watched her sister as she hobbled towards her, unable to believe the deterioration in her condition in less than three months.

  Although Amy had in the past appeared slight she was now frail. And even if she had always been quiet she was now almost inaudible. If she had been perhaps a little pale, she was now gray and the lines on her face were so deeply etched she looked far older than her sixty-nine years.

  Amy lowered herself onto the chair next to her sister and for some seconds continued to breathe deeply, leaving her visitor in no doubt that the walk from the bedroom to the drawing room had been something of an ordeal.

  “It’s so kind of you to leave your family and come up to be with me in Yorkshire,” Amy said as the tortoise-shell cat climbed onto her lap. “I must confess that since dear Papa died I don’t know where to turn.”

  “That’s quite understandable, my dear.” Mrs. Trentham smiled thinly. “But I felt it was nothing more than my duty to be with you—as well as being a pleasure, of course. In any case, Father warned me this might happen once he had passed away. He gave me specific instructions, you know, as to exactly what should be done in the circumstances.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad to hear that.” Amy’s face lit up for the first time. “Please do tell me what Papa had in mind.”

  “Father was adamant that you should sell the house as quickly as possible and either come and live with Gerald and me at Ashurst—”

  “Oh, I could never dream of putting you to so much trouble, Ethel.”

  “—or alternatively you could move into one of those nice little hotels on the coast that cater specially for retired couples and single people. He felt that way you could at least make new friends and indeed even have an extended lease on life. I would naturally prefer you to join us in Buckingham, but what with the bombs—”

  “He never mentioned selling the house to me,” murmured Amy anxiously. “In fact, he begged me—”

  “I know, my dear, but he realized only too well what a strain his death would be on you and asked me to break the news gently. You will no doubt recall the long meeting we held in his study when I last came up to see him.”

  Amy nodded her acknowledgment but the look of bewilderment remained on her face.

  “I remember every word he said,” Mrs. Trentham went on. “Naturally, I shall do my utmost to see his wishes are carried out.”

  “But I wouldn’t know how or where to begin.”

  “There’s no need for you to give it a second thought, my dear.” She patted her sister’s arm. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”

  “But what will happen to the servants and my dear Garibaldi?” Amy asked anxiously as she continued stroking the cat. “Father would never forgive me if they weren’t all properly taken care of.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Mrs. Trentham said. “However, as always he thought of everything and gave me explicit instructions as to what should be done with all the staff.”

  “How thoughtful of dear Papa. However, I am not altogether certain…”

  It took Mrs. Trentham two more days of patient encouragement before she was finally able to convince her sister that her plans for the future would all work out for the best and, more important, it was what “dear Papa” wanted.

  From that moment on Amy only came down in the afternoons to take a short walk around the garden and occasionally attend to the petunias. Whenever Mrs. Trentham came across her