As the Crow Flies Read online

  That night Daphne threw a birthday party in Charlie’s honor at her home in Eaton Square. No one mentioned the name of “Trentham” until the port had been passed round for a second time, when a slightly maudlin Charlie recited the relevant clause in Sir Raymond’s will, which he explained had been put there with the sole purpose of trying to save him.

  “I give you Sir Raymond Hardcastle,” said Charlie, raising his glass. “A good man to have on your team.”

  “Sir Raymond,” the guests echoed, all raising their glasses, with the exception of Daphne.

  “What’s the problem, old gel?” asked Percy. “Port not up to scratch?”

  “No, as usual it’s you lot who aren’t. You’ve all totally failed to work out what Sir Raymond expected of you.”

  “What are you on about, old gel?”

  “I should have thought it was obvious for anyone to see, especially you, Charlie,” she said, turning from her husband to the guest of honor.

  “I’m with Percy—I haven’t a clue what you’re on about.”

  By now everyone round the table had fallen silent, while they concentrated on what Daphne had to say.

  “It’s quite simple really,” continued Daphne. “Sir Raymond obviously didn’t consider it likely that Mrs. Trentham would outlive Daniel.”

  “So?” said Charlie.

  “And I also doubt if he thought for one moment that Daniel would have any children before she died.”

  “Possibly not,” said Charlie.

  “And we are all painfully aware that Nigel Trentham was a last resort—otherwise Sir Raymond would happily have named him in his will as the next beneficiary and not have been willing to pass his fortune on to an offspring of Guy Trentham, whom he had never even met. ‘He also wouldn’t have added the words: should he have no issue, then the estate shall pass to my closest living descendant.’”

  “Where’s all this leading?” asked Becky.

  “Back to the clause Charlie has just recited. ‘Please go to any lengths you feel necessary to find someone entitled to make a claim on my inheritance.’” Daphne read from the jottings she had scribbled in ballpoint on her damask tablecloth. “Are those the correct words, Mr. Baverstock?” she asked.

  “They are, Lady Wiltshire, but I still don’t see—”

  “Because you’re as blind as Charlie,” said Daphne. “Thank God one of us is still sober. Mr. Baverstock, please remind us all of Sir Raymond’s instructions for placing the advertisement.”

  Mr. Baverstock touched his lips with his napkin, folded the linen square neatly and placed it in front of him. “An advertisement should be placed in The Times, the Telegraph and the Guardian and any other newspaper I consider relevant and appropriate.”

  “That you consider ‘relevant and appropriate,’” said Daphne, slowly enunciating each word. “As broad a hint as you might hope from a sober man, I would have thought.” Every eye was now fixed on Daphne and no one attempted to interrupt her. “Can’t you see those are the crucial words?” she asked. “Because if Guy Trentham did have any other children, you certainly wouldn’t find them by advertising in the London Times, the Telegraph, the Guardian, the Yorkshire Post or for that matter the Huddersfield Daily Examiner.”

  Charlie dropped his slice of birthday cake back onto his plate and looked across at Mr. Baverstock. “Good heavens, she’s right, you know.”

  “She certainly may not be wrong,” admitted Baverstock, shuffling uneasily in his chair. “And I apologize for my lack of imagination, because as Lady Wiltshire rightly points out I’ve been a blind fool by not following my master’s instructions when he advised me to use my common sense. He so obviously worked out that Guy might well have fathered other children and that such offspring were most unlikely to be found in England.”

  “Well done, Mr. Baverstock,” said Daphne. “I do believe I should have gone to university and read for the bar.”

  Mr. Baverstock felt unable to correct her on this occasion.

  “There may still be time,” said Charlie. “After all, there’s another six weeks left before the inheritance has to be handed over, so let’s get straight back to work. By the way, thank you,” he added, bowing towards Daphne.

  Charlie rose from his chair and headed towards the nearest phone. “The first thing I’m going to need is the sharpest lawyer in Australia.” Charlie checked his watch. “And preferably one who doesn’t mind getting up early in the morning.”

  Mr. Baverstock cleared his throat.

  During the next two weeks large box advertisements appeared in every newspaper on the Australian continent with a circulation of over fifty thousand. Each reply was quickly followed up with an interview by a firm of solicitors in Sydney that Mr. Baverstock had been happy to recommend. Every evening Charlie was telephoned by Trevor Roberts, the senior partner, who remained on the end of the line for several hours when Charlie would learn the latest news that had been gathered from their offices in Sydney, Melbourne, Perth, Brisbane and Adelaide. However, after three weeks of sorting out the cranks from the genuine inquirers Roberts came up with only three candidates who fulfilled all the necessary criteria. However, once they had been interviewed by a partner of the firm they also failed to prove any direct relationship with any member of the Trentham family.

  Roberts had discovered that there were seventeen Trenthams on the national register, most of them from Tasmania, but none of those could show any direct lineage with Guy Trentham or his mother, although one old lady from Hobart who had emigrated from Ripon after the war was able to present a legitimate claim for a thousand pounds, as it turned out she was a third cousin of Sir Raymond.

  Charlie thanked Mr. Roberts for his continued diligence but told him not to let up, as he didn’t care how many staff were allocated to the job night or day.

  At the final board meeting to be called before Nigel Trentham officially came into his inheritance, Charlie briefed his colleagues on the latest news from Australia.

  “Doesn’t sound too hopeful to me,” said Newman. “After all, if there is another Trentham around he or she must be well over thirty, and surely would have made a claim by now.”

  “Agreed, but Australia’s an awfully big place and they might even have left the country.”

  “Never give up, do you?” remarked Daphne.

  “Be that as it may,” said Arthur Selwyn, “I feel the time is long overdue for us to try and come to some agreement with Trentham, if there is to be a responsible takeover of the company. In the interests of Trumper’s and its customers, I would like to see if it is at all possible for the principals involved to come to some amicable arrangement—”

  “Amicable arrangement!” said Charlie. “The only arrangement Trentham would agree to is that he sits in this chair with a built-in majority on the board while I am left twiddling my thumbs in a retirement home.”

  “That may well be the case,” said Selwyn. “But I must point out, Chairman, that we still have a duty to our shareholders.”

  “He’s right,” said Daphne. “You’ll have to try, Charlie, for the long-term good of the company you founded.” She added quietly, “However much it hurts.”

  Becky nodded her agreement and Charlie turned to ask Jessica to make an appointment with Trentham at his earliest convenience. Jessica returned a few minutes later to let the board know that Nigel Trentham had no interest in seeing any of them before the March board meeting, when he would be happy to accept their resignations in person.

  “Seventh of March: two years to the day since the death of his mother,” Charlie reminded the board.

  “And Mr. Roberts is holding for you on the other line,” Jessica reported.

  Charlie rose and strode out of the room. The moment he reached the phone he grabbed at it as a drowning sailor might a lifeline. “Roberts, what have you got for me?”

  “Guy Trentham!”

  “But he’s already buried in a grave in Ashurst.”

  “But not before his body was removed from