As the Crow Flies Read online

  “If you can locate where the lady is seated, one of my staff will discreetly pull her out.” He turned to listen to the strains of the final movement for a few seconds before adding, “You’ve got about ten minutes before the concert ends, twelve at the most. There are no encores planned for tonight.”

  “You take the stalls, Becky, and I’ll cover the dress circle.” Charlie began to focus the little opera glasses on the audience seated below them.

  They both covered the one thousand, nine hundred seats, first quickly then slowly up and down each row. Neither could spot Cathy in the stalls or dress circle.

  “Try the boxes on the other side, Sir Charles,” suggested the manager.

  Two pairs of glasses swung over to the far side of the theater. There was still no sign of Cathy, so Charlie and Becky turned their attention back to the main auditorium, once again scanning quickly over the seats.

  The conductor brought his baton down for the final time at ten thirty-two and the applause followed in waves as Charlie and Becky searched the standing throng until the lights eventually went up and the audience began to make their way out of the theater.

  “You keep on looking, Becky. I’ll go out front and see if I can spot them as they’re leaving.” He dashed out of the ceremonial box and down the stairs followed by Jackson, nearly knocking over a man who was leaving the box below them. Charlie turned to apologize.

  “Hello, Charlie, I didn’t know you liked Mozart,” a voice said.

  “I never used to but suddenly he’s top of the pops,” said Charlie, unable to mask his delight.

  “Of course,” said the manager. “The one place you couldn’t see was the box below ours.”

  “May I introduce—”

  “We haven’t time for that,” said Charlie. “Just follow me.” He grabbed Cathy by the arm. “Mr. Jackson, would you be kind enough to ask my wife to explain to this gentleman why I need Cathy. You can have her back after midnight,” said Charlie, smiling at the bemused young man. “And thank you, Mr. Jackson.”

  He checked his watch: ten-forty. “We still have enough time.”

  “Enough time for what, Charlie?” said Cathy as she found herself being pulled across the foyer and out onto Belvedere Road. The uniformed man was now standing to attention by the car.

  “Thank you, Ron,” said Charlie as he tried to open the front door. “Damn, Becky’s locked it,” he said. He turned to watch a cab as it came off the waiting rank. He hailed it.

  “I say, old fellow,” said a man standing in the front of the taxi queue, “I think you’ll find that’s my cab.”

  “She’s just about to give birth,” said Charlie as he opened the door and pushed the wafer-thin Cathy into the back of the taxi.

  “Oh, jolly good luck,” said the man, taking a pace backwards.

  “Where to, guvn’r?” asked the cabbie.

  “Number 110 High Holborn and don’t hang about,” said Charlie.

  “I think we’re more likely to find a solicitor than a gynecologist at that particular address,” suggested Cathy. “And I do hope you’ve a worthwhile explanation as to why I’m missing dinner with the one man who’s asked me out on a date in weeks.”

  “Not right now,” Charlie confessed. “All I need you to do for the moment is sign a document before midnight, then I promise the explanations will follow.”

  The taxi pulled up outside the solicitor’s office a few minutes after eleven. Charlie stepped out of the cab to find Baverstock was standing by the door waiting to greet them.

  “That’ll be eight and six, guvn’r.”

  “Oh, God,” said Charlie, “I haven’t got any money.”

  “That’s the way he treats all his girls,” said Cathy, as she passed the cabbie a ten-shilling note.

  They both followed Baverstock through to his office where a set of documents was already laid out on his desk. “Since you called I have had a long conversation with my nephew in Australia,” said Baverstock, facing Charlie. “So I think I’m well acquainted with everything that took place while you were over there.”

  “Which is more than I am,” said Cathy, sounding bewildered.

  “All in good time,” said Charlie. “Explanations later.” He turned back to Baverstock. “So what happens now?”

  “Miss Ross must sign here, here and here,” the solicitor said without further explanation, indicating a space between two penciled crosses at the bottom of three separate sheets of paper. “As you are in no way related to the beneficiary or a beneficiary yourself, Sir Charles, you may care to act as the witness to Miss Ross’ signature.”

  Charlie nodded, placed a pair of opera glasses beside the contract and took a pen from his inside pocket.

  “You’ve always taught me in the past, Charlie, to read documents carefully before putting my signature to them.”

  “Forget everything I’ve taught you in the past, my girl, and just sign where Mr. Baverstock is pointing.”

  Cathy signed all three documents without another word.

  “Thank you, Miss Ross,” said Mr. Baverstock. “And now if you could both bear with me for one moment, I must inform Mr. Birkenshaw of what has taken place.”

  “Birkenshaw?” said Charlie.

  “Mr. Trentham’s solicitor. I must obviously let him know immediately that his client is not the only person who has registered a claim to the Hardcastle estate.”

  Cathy, looking even more bewildered, turned to Charlie.

  “Later,” said Charlie. “I promise.”

  Baverstock dialed the seven digits of a Chelsea number.

  No one spoke as they waited for the telephone to be answered. Eventually Mr. Baverstock heard a sleepy voice say, “Kensington 7192.”

  “Good evening, Birkenshaw, Baverstock here. Sorry to have to bother you at this time of night. Indeed, I wouldn’t have done so if I hadn’t considered the circumstances fully warranted such an intrusion on your privacy. But may I first ask what time you make it?”

  “Have I heard you correctly?” said Birkenshaw, his voice now sounding more alert. “You’ve telephoned me in the middle of the night to ask what the time is?”

  “Precisely,” said Baverstock. “You see, I need to confirm that it is still before the witching hour. So do be a good fellow and tell me what time you make it.”

  “I make it eleven-seventeen, but I fail to understand—”

  “I make it eleven-sixteen,” said Baverstock, “but on the matter of time I am happy to bow to your superior judgment. The purpose of this call, by the way,” he continued, “is to let you know that a second person—who appears to be a more direct descendant of Sir Raymond than your client—has laid claim to the Hardcastle estate.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I suspect you already know that,” replied the old lawyer before he replaced the telephone. “Damn,” he said, looking across at Charlie, “I should have recorded the conversation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Birkenshaw is never going to admit that he said ‘her.’”

  CHAPTER

  47

  “Are you saying that Guy Trentham was my father?” asked Cathy. “But how…?”

  After waking up Dr. Atkins, a man more used to being disturbed during the night, Charlie felt able to explain to Cathy what he had discovered during his visit to Australia, and how everything had been borne out by the information she had supplied to Becky when she first applied for a job at Trumper’s. Baverstock listened intently, nodding from time to time, while regularly checking the copious notes he had made following a long conversation with his nephew in Sydney.

  Cathy listened to everything Charlie had to report and although she now had some recollections of her life in Australia, she was still fairly vague about her days at the University of Melbourne and could remember almost nothing of St. Hilda’s. The name “Miss Benson” just didn’t register at all.

  “I’ve tried so hard to recall more details of what happened before I came to England, but n