As the Crow Flies Read online

  “Nonetheless,” he continued, “we shall have to see what the other side has to offer. I find it hard to believe following my conversation with Birkenshaw on Saturday night that your findings will come as a complete revelation to his client.”

  The clock on his mantelpiece struck a discreet four chimes; Baverstock checked his pocket watch. There was no sign of the other side and soon the old solicitor started drumming his fingers on the desk. Charlie began to wonder if this was simply tactics on behalf of his adversary.

  Nigel Trentham and his lawyer finally appeared at twelve minutes past four; neither of them seemed to feel it was necessary to apologize for their lateness.

  Charlie stood up when Mr. Baverstock introduced him to Victor Birkenshaw, a tall, thin man, not yet fifty, prematurely balding with what little hair he had left combed over the top of his head in thin gray strands. The only characteristic he seemed to have in common with Baverstock was that their clothes appeared to have come from the same tailor. Birkenshaw sat down in one of the two vacant seats opposite the old lawyer without acknowledging that Cathy was even in the room. He removed a pen from his top pocket, took out a pad from his briefcase and rested it on his knee.

  “My client, Mr. Nigel Trentham, has come to lay claim to his inheritance as the rightful heir to the Hardcastle Trust,” he began, “as clearly stated in Sir Raymond’s last will and testament.”

  “Your client,” said Baverstock, picking up Birkenshaw’s rather formal approach, “may I remind you, is not named in Sir Raymond’s will, and a dispute has now arisen as to who is the rightful next of kin. Please don’t forget that Sir Raymond insisted that I call this meeting, should the need arise, in order to adjudicate on his behalf.”

  “My client,” came back Birkenshaw, “is the second son of the late Gerald and Margaret Ethel Trentham and the grandson of Sir Raymond Hardcastle. Therefore, following the death of Guy Trentham, his elder brother, he must surely be the legitimate heir.”

  “Under the terms of the will, I am bound to accept your client’s claim,” agreed Baverstock, “unless it can be shown that Guy Trentham is survived by a child or children. We already know that Guy was the father of Daniel Trumper—”

  “That has never been proven to my client’s satisfaction,” said Birkenshaw, busily writing down Baverstock’s words.

  “It was proven sufficiently to Sir Raymond’s satisfaction for him to name Daniel in his will in preference to your client. And following the meeting between Mrs. Trentham and her grandson we have every reason to believe that she also was in no doubt as to who Daniel’s father was. Otherwise why did she bother to come to an extensive agreement with him?”

  “This is all conjecture,” said Birkenshaw. “Only one fact is certain: the gentleman in question is no longer with us, and as far as anyone knows produced no children of his own.” He still did not look in Cathy’s direction while she sat listening silently as the ball was tossed back and forth between the two professionals.

  “We were happy to accept that without question,” said Charlie, intervening for the first time. “But what we didn’t know until recently was that Guy Trentham had a second child called Margaret Ethel.”

  “What proof do you have for such an outrageous claim?” said Birkenshaw, sitting bolt upright.

  “The proof is in the bank statement that I sent round to your home on Sunday morning.”

  “A statement, I might say,” said Birkenshaw, “that should not have been opened by anyone other than my client.” He glanced towards Nigel Trentham, who was busy lighting a cigarette.

  “I agree,” said Charlie, his voice rising. “But I thought I’d take a leaf out of Mrs. Trentham’s book for a change.”

  Baverstock winced, fearing his friend might be on the verge of losing his temper.

  “Whoever the girl was,” continued Charlie, “she somehow managed to get her name onto police files as Guy Trentham’s only surviving child and to paint a picture that remained on the dining room wall of a Melbourne orphanage for over twenty years. A painting, I might add, that could not be reproduced by anyone other than the person who originally created it. Better than a fingerprint, wouldn’t you say? Or is that also conjecture?”

  “The only thing the painting proves,” retorted Birkenshaw, “is that Miss Ross resided at an orphanage in Melbourne at some time between 1927 and 1946. However, I’m given to understand that she is quite unable to recall any details of her life at that orphanage, or indeed anything about its principal. Is that not the case, Miss Ross?” He turned to face Cathy directly for the first time.

  She nodded her reluctant agreement, but still didn’t speak.

  “Some witness,” said Birkenshaw, not attempting to disguise the sarcasm. “She can’t even support the story you are putting forward on her behalf. Her name is Cathy Ross, that much we do know, despite your so-called evidence there’s nothing to link her with Sir Raymond Hardcastle.”

  “There are several people who can support her ‘story,’ as you call it,” said Charlie, jumping back in. Baverstock raised an eyebrow, as no evidence had been placed before him to corroborate such a statement, even if he did want to believe what Sir Charles was saying.

  “Knowing that she was brought up in an orphanage in Melbourne doesn’t add up to corroboration,” said Birkenshaw, pushing back a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “I repeat, even if we were to accept all your wild claims about some imagined meeting between Mrs. Trentham and Miss Benson, that still doesn’t prove Miss Ross is of the same blood as Guy Trentham.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to check her blood group for yourself?” said Charlie. This time Mr. Baverstock raised both eyebrows: the subject of blood groups had never been referred to by either party before.

  “A blood group, I might add, Sir Charles, that is shared by half the world’s population.” Birkenshaw tugged the lapels of his jacket.

  “Oh, so you’ve already checked it?” said Charlie with a look of triumph. “So there must be some doubt in your mind.”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind as to who is the rightful heir to the Hardcastle estate,” Birkenshaw said, before turning to face Baverstock. “How long are we expected to drag out this farce?” His question was followed by an exasperated sigh.

  “As long as it takes for someone to convince me who is the rightful heir to Sir Raymond’s estate,” said Baverstock, his voice remaining cold and authoritative.

  “What more do you want?” Birkenshaw asked. “My client has nothing to hide, whereas Miss Ross seems to have nothing to offer.”

  “Then perhaps you could explain, Birkenshaw, to my satisfaction,” said Baverstock, “why Mrs. Ethel Trentham made regular payments over several years to a Miss Benson, the principal of St. Hilda’s Orphanage in Melbourne, where I think we all now accept Miss Ross lived between 1927 and 1946?”

  “I didn’t have the privilege of representing Mrs. Trentham, or indeed Miss Benson, so I’m in no position to offer an opinion. Nor, sir, for that matter, are you.”

  “Perhaps your client is aware of the reason for those payments and would care to offer an opinion,” interjected Charlie. They both turned to Nigel Trentham, who calmly stubbed out the remains of his cigarette but still made no attempt to speak.

  “There’s no reason why my client should be expected to answer any such hypothetical question,” Birkenshaw suggested.

  “But if your client is so unwilling to speak for himself,” said Baverstock, “it makes it all the more difficult for me to accept that he has nothing to hide.”

  “That, sir, is unworthy of you,” said Birkenshaw. “You of all people are well aware that when a client is represented by a lawyer it is understood he may not necessarily wish to speak. In fact, it was not even obligatory for Mr. Trentham to attend this meeting.”

  “This isn’t a court of law,” said Baverstock sharply. “In any case, I suspect Mr. Trentham’s grandfather would not have approved of such tactics.”

  “Are you denying my c