As the Crow Flies Read online

  The assistant continued to leaf through the files.

  “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Culver, “and very good she was too, Sir Charles. We still have an example of her work hanging in the dining room, a woodland scene influenced by Sisley, I suspect. Indeed, I would go as far as to say—”

  “May I be allowed to see the picture, Mrs. Culver?”

  “Of course, Sir Charles.” The principal removed a key from the top right hand drawer of her desk and said, “Please follow me.”

  Charlie rose unsteadily to his feet and accompanied Mrs. Culver as she marched out of her study and down a long corridor towards the dining room, the door of which she proceeded to unlock. Trevor Roberts, striding behind Charlie, continued to look puzzled, but refrained from asking any questions.

  As they entered the dining room Charlie stopped in his tracks and said, “I could spot a Ross at twenty paces.”

  “I beg your pardon, Sir Charles?”

  “It’s not important, Mrs. Culver,” Charlie said as he stood in front of the picture and stared at a woodland scene of dappled browns and greens.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it, Sir Charles? A real understanding of the use of color. I would go as far as to say—”

  “I wonder, Mrs. Culver, if you would consider that picture to be a fair exchange for a minibus?”

  “A very fair exchange,” said Mrs. Culver without hesitation. “In fact I feel sure…”

  “And would it be too much to ask that you write on the back of the picture, ‘Painted by Miss Cathy Ross,’ along with the dates that she resided at St. Hilda’s?”

  “Delighted, Sir Charles.” Mrs. Culver stepped forward and lifted the picture off its hook, then turned the frame round for all to see. What Sir Charles had requested, although faded with age, was already written and clearly legible to the naked eye.

  “I do apologize, Mrs. Culver,” said Charlie. “By now I should know better of you.” He removed his wallet from an inside pocket, signed a blank check and passed it over to Mrs. Culver.

  “But how much—?” began the astonished principal.

  “Whatever it costs,” was all Charlie replied, having finally found a way of rendering Mrs. Culver speechless.

  The three of them returned to the principal’s study where a pot of tea was waiting. One of the assistants set about making two copies of everything in Cathy’s file while Roberts rang ahead to the nursing home where Miss Benson resided to warn the matron to expect them within the hour. Once both tasks had been completed Charlie thanked Mrs. Culver for her kindness and bade her farewell. Although she had remained silent for some time she somehow managed, “Thank you, Sir Charles. Thank you.”

  Charlie clung tightly to the picture as he walked out of the orphanage and back down the path. Once he was in the car again he instructed the driver to guard the package with his life.

  “Certainly, sir. And where to now?”

  “Maple Lodge Residential Home, on the north side,” instructed Roberts, who had climbed into the other side. “I do hope you’re going to explain to me what happened back there at St Hilda’s. Because I am, as the Good Book would have it, ‘sore amazed.’”

  “I’ll tell you as much as I know myself,” said Charlie. He began to explain how he had first met Cathy almost fifteen years before at a housewarming party in his home at Eaton Square. He continued with his story uninterrupted until he had arrived at the point when Miss Ross had been appointed a director of Trumper’s and how since Daniel’s suicide she had been unable to tell them much about her background because she still hadn’t fully recovered her memory of those events that had taken place before she came to England. The lawyer’s opening response to this information took Charlie by surprise.

  “You can be sure it wasn’t a coincidence that Miss Ross visited England in the first place, or for that matter that she applied for a job at Trumper’s.”

  “What are you getting at?” said Charlie.

  “She must have left Australia with the sole purpose of trying to find out about her father, believing him still to be alive, perhaps even living in England. That must have been her original motivation to visit London, where she undoubtedly discovered some connection between his and your family. And if you can find that link between her father, her going to England and Trumper’s, you will then have your proof—proof that Cathy Ross is in fact Margaret Ethel Trentham.”

  “But I have no idea what that link could be,” said Charlie. “And now that Cathy remembers so little of her early life in Australia I may never be able to find out.”

  “Well, let’s hope Miss Benson can point us in the right direction,” said Roberts. “Although, as I warned you earlier, no one who knew her at St. Hilda’s has a good word to say for the woman.”

  “If Walter Slade’s anything to go by, it won’t be that easy to get the time of day out of her. It’s becoming obvious that Mrs. Trentham cast a spell over everyone she came into contact with.”

  “I agree,” said the lawyer. “That’s why I didn’t reveal to Mrs. Campbell, the matron of Maple Lodge, our reason for wanting to visit the home. I couldn’t see any point in warning Miss Benson of our impending arrival. It would only give her enough time to have all her answers well prepared.”

  Charlie grunted his approval. “But have you come up with any ideas as to what approach we should take with her?” he asked, “because I certainly made a balls-up of my meeting with Walter Slade.”

  “No, I haven’t. We’ll just have to play it by ear and hope she’ll prove to be cooperative. Though heaven knows which accent you will be required to call on this time, Sir Charles.”

  Moments later they were driven between two massive wrought-iron gates and on down a long shaded drive which led to a large turn-of-the-century mansion set in several acres of private grounds.

  “This can’t come cheap,” said Charlie.

  “Agreed,” said Roberts. “And unfortunately they don’t look as if they’re in need of a minibus.”

  The car drew up outside a heavy oak door. Trevor Roberts jumped out and waited until Charlie had joined him before pressing the bell.

  They did not have long to wait before a young nurse answered their call, then promptly escorted them down a highly polished tiled corridor to the matron’s office.

  Mrs. Campbell was dressed in the familiar starched blue uniform, white collar and cuffs associated with her profession. She welcomed Charlie and Trevor Roberts in a deep Scottish burr, and had it not been for the uninterrupted sunshine coming through the windows, Charlie might have been forgiven for thinking that the matron of Maple Lodge Residential Home was unaware that she had ever left Scotland.

  After the introductions had been completed Mrs. Campbell asked how she could be of help.

  “I was hoping you might allow us to have a word with one of your residents.”

  “Yes, of course, Sir Charles. May I inquire who it is you wish to see?” she asked.

  “A Miss Benson,” explained Charlie. “You see—”

  “Oh, Sir Charles, haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard?” said Charlie.

  “Yes. Miss Benson’s been dead this past week. In fact, we buried her on Thursday.”

  For a second time that day Charlie’s legs gave way and Trevor Roberts had quickly to take his client by the elbow and guided him to the nearest chair.

  “Oh, I am sorry,” said the matron. “I had no idea you were such a close friend.” Charlie didn’t say anything. “And have you come all the way from London especially to see her?”

  “Yes, he did,” said Trevor Roberts. “Has Miss Benson had any other visitors from England recently?”

  “No,” said the matron without hesitation. “She received very few callers towards the end. One or two from Adelaide but never one from Britain,” she added with an edge to her voice.

  “And did she ever mention to you anyone called Cathy Ross or Margaret Trentham?”

  Mrs. Campbell thought deeply for a moment. “No,” she said eventually. �€