As the Crow Flies Read online

  The manager arrived at their table. “You asked to see me, Sir Charles?”

  “I wonder if Mr. Sinclair-Smith would care to join me for a liqueur?” said Charlie, passing the young man one of his cards.

  “I’ll have a word with him immediately, sir,” said the manager who at once turned and walked towards the other table.

  “It’s back to the lobby for you, Roberts,” said Charlie, “as I suspect that my conduct over the next half hour might just offend your professional ethics.” He glanced across the room, where the old man was now studying his card.

  Roberts sighed, rose from his chair and left.

  A large smile appeared on Mr. Sinclair-Smith’s pudgy lips. He pushed himself up out of his chair and waddled over to join his English visitor.

  “Sinclair-Smith,” he said in a high-pitched English accent before offering a limp hand.

  “Good of you to join me, old chap,” said Charlie. “I know a fellow countryman when I see one. Can I interest you in a brandy?” The waiter scurried away.

  “How kind of you, Sir Charles. I can only hope that my humble establishment has provided you with a reasonable cuisine.”

  “Excellent,” said Charlie. “But then you were recommended,” he said as he exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.

  “Recommended?” said Sinclair-Smith, trying not to sound too surprised. “May I ask by whom?”

  “My ancient aunt, Mrs. Ethel Trentham.”

  “Mrs. Trentham? Good heavens, Mrs. Trentham, we haven’t seen the dear lady since my late father’s time.”

  Charlie frowned as the old waiter returned with two large brandies.

  “I do hope she’s keeping well, Sir Charles.”

  “Never better,” said Charlie. “And she wished to be remembered to you.”

  “How kind of her,” replied Sinclair-Smith, swirling the brandy round in his balloon. “And what a remarkable memory, because I was only a young man at the time and had just started working in the hotel. She must now be…”

  “Over ninety,” said Charlie. “And do you know the family still has no idea why she ever came to Melbourne in the first place,” he added.

  “Nor me,” said Sinclair-Smith as he sipped his brandy.

  “You never spoke to her?”

  “No, never,” said Sinclair-Smith. “Although my father and your aunt had many long conversations, he never once confided in me what passed between them.”

  Charlie tried not to show his frustration at this piece of information. “Well, if you don’t know what she was up to,” he said, “I don’t suppose there’s anyone alive who does.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Sinclair-Smith. “Slade would know—that is, if he hasn’t gone completely ga-ga.”

  “Slade?”

  “Yes, a Yorkshireman who worked at the club under my father, in the days when we still had a resident chauffeur. In fact, the whole time Mrs. Trentham stayed at the club she always insisted on using Slade. Said no one else should drive her.”

  “Is he still around?” asked Charlie as he blew out another large cloud of smoke.

  “Good heavens no,” said Sinclair-Smith. “Retired years ago. Not even sure he’s still alive.”

  “Do you get back to the old country much nowadays?” inquired Charlie, convinced that he had extracted every piece of relevant information that could be gained from this particular source.

  “No, unfortunately what with…”

  For the next twenty minutes, Charlie settled back and enjoyed his cigar as he listened to Sinclair-Smith on everything from the demise of the Empire to the parlous state of English cricket. Eventually Charlie called for the bill, at which the owner took his leave and slipped discreetly away.

  The old waiter shuffled back the moment he saw another pound note appear on the tablecloth.

  “Something you needed, sir?”

  “Does the name ‘Slade’ mean anything to you?”

  “Old Walter Slade, the club’s chauffeur?”

  “That’s the man.”

  “Retired years ago.”

  “I know that much, but is he still alive?”

  “No idea,” said the waiter. “Last I heard of him he lived somewhere out in the Ballarat area.”

  “Thank you,” said Charlie, as he stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, removed another pound note and left to join Roberts in the lobby.

  “Telephone your office immediately,” he instructed his solicitor. “Ask them to track down a Walter Slade who may be living at somewhere called Ballarat.”

  Roberts hurried off in the direction of the telephone sign, while Charlie paced up and down the corridor praying the old man was still alive. His solicitor returned a few minutes later. “Am I allowed to know what you’re up to this time, Sir Charles?” he asked as he passed over a piece of paper with Walter Slade’s address printed out in capital letters.

  “No good, that’s for sure,” said Charlie, as he took in the information. “Don’t need you for this one, young man, but I will require the car. See you back at the office—and I can’t be sure when.” He gave a small wave as he pushed through the swing doors leaving a bemused Roberts standing on his own in the lobby.

  Charlie handed over the slip of paper to the chauffeur who studied the address. “But it’s nearly a hundred miles,” said the man, looking over his shoulder.

  “Then we haven’t a moment to waste, have we?”

  The driver switched on the engine and swung out of the country club forecourt. He drove past the Melbourne Cricket Ground where Charlie could see someone was 2 for 147. It annoyed him that on his first trip to Australia he didn’t even have enough time to drop in and see the test match. The journey on the north highway lasted for another hour and a half, which gave Charlie easily enough time to consider what approach he would use on Mr. Slade, assuming he wasn’t, to quote Sinclair-Smith, “completely ga-ga.” After they had sped past the sign for Ballarat, the driver pulled into a petrol station. Once the attendant had filled the tank he gave the driver some directions and it took another fifteen minutes before they came to a halt outside a small terraced house on a run-down estate.

  Charlie jumped out of the car, marched up a short, weed-covered path and knocked on the front door. He waited for some time before an old lady wearing a pinafore and a pastel-colored dress that nearly reached the ground answered his call.

  “Mrs. Slade?” asked Charlie.

  “Yes,” she replied, peering up at him suspiciously.

  “Would it be possible to have a word with your husband?”

  “Why?” asked the old lady. “You from the social services?”

  “No, I’m from England,” said Charlie. “And I’ve brought your husband a small bequest from my aunt Mrs. Ethel Trentham, who has recently died.”

  “Oh, how kind of you,” said Mrs. Slade. “Do come in.” She guided Charlie through to the kitchen, where he found an old man, dressed in a cardigan, clean check shirt and baggy trousers, dozing in a chair in front of the fireplace.

  “There’s a man come all the way from England, specially to see you, Walter.”

  “What’s that?” said the man, raising his bony fingers to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

  “A man come from England,” repeated his wife. “With a present from that Mrs. Trentham.”

  “I’m too old to drive her now.” His tired eyes blinked at Charlie.

  “No, Walter, you don’t understand. He’s a relative come all the way from England with a gift. You see, she died.”

  “Died?”

  Both of them were now staring quizzically at Charlie as he quickly took out his wallet and removed every note he possessed before handing the money over to Mrs. Slade.

  She began to count the notes slowly as Walter Slade continued to stare at Charlie, making him feel distinctly uneasy as he stood on their spotless stone floor.

  “Eighty-five pounds, Walter,” she told him, passing the money over to her husband.

  “Why so much?�