As the Crow Flies (58 page)

“Sounds
familar,” said a voice on the other end of the line. “But can’t remember why.
You could try Brad Morris, though. He ran this office around that time, so he
may be able to help you. You’ll find his number in the book.”

Daniel
looked up his number. When he was put through to Mr. Morris, his conversation
with the old man was so short that it didn’t require a second coin.

“Does
the name ‘Guy Trentham’ mean anything to you?” he asked once again.

“The
Englishman?”

“Yes,”
Daniel replied, feeling his pulse quicken.

“Spoke
with a posh accent and told everyone he was a major?”

“Might
well have done.”

“Then
try the jailhouse, because that’s where he finished up.” Daniel would have
asked why but the line had already gone dead.

He
was still shaking from head to toe when he dragged his trunk out of the station
and checked into the Railway Hotel on the other side of the road. Once again,
he lay on a single bed, in a small dark room, trying to make up his mind
whether he should continue with his inquiries or simply avoid the truth and do
as Sylvia had advised, take the first boat back to England.

He
fell asleep in the early evening, but woke again in the middle of the night to
find he was still fully dressed. By the time the early morning sun shone
through the window he had made up his mind. He didn’t want to know, he didn’t
need to know, and he would return to England immediately.

But
first he decided to have a bath, and a change of clothes, and by the time he
had done that he had also changed his mind.

Daniel
came down to the lobby half an hour later and asked the receptionist where the
main police station was located. The man behind the desk directed him down the
road to Bourke Street.

“Was
your room that bad?” he inquired.

Daniel
gave a false laugh. He set off slowly and full of apprehension in the direction
he had been shown. It took him only a few minutes to reach Bourke Street but he
circled the block several times before he finally climbed the stone steps of
the police station and entered the building.

The
young duly sergeant showed no recognition when he heard the name of “Trentham”
and simply inquired who it was who wanted to know.

“A
relation of his from England,” replied Daniel. The sergeant left him at the
counter and walked over to the far side of the room to speak to a senior
officer seated behind a desk, who was patiently turning over photographs. The
officer stopped what he was doing and lis tened carefully, then appeared to ask
the sergeant something. In response the sergeant turned and pointed at Daniel.
Bastard, thought Daniel. You’re a little bastard. A moment later the sergeant
returned to the front desk.

“We’ve
closed the file on Trentham,” he said. “Any further inquiries would have to be
made at the Prison Department.”

Daniel
almost lost his voice, but somehow managed, “Where’s that?”

“Seventh
floor,” he said, pointing up.

When
he stepped out of the lift on the seventh floor Daniel was confronted by a
larger-than-life poster showing a warm-faced man bearing the name Hector Watts,
Inspector-General of Prisons.

Daniel
walked over to the inquiry desk and asked if he could see Mr. Watts.

“Do
you have an appointment?”

“No,”
said Daniel.

“Then
I doubt... “

“Would
you be kind enough to explain to the inspector-general that I have traveled
from England especially to see him?”

Daniel
was kept waiting for only a few moments before he was shown up to the eighth
floor. The same warm smile that appeared in the picture now beamed down at him
in reality, even if the lines in the face were a little deeper. Daniel judged
Hector Watts to be near his sixtieth birthday and, although overweight, he
still looked as if he could take care of himself.

“Which
part of England do you come from?” Watts asked.

“Cambridge,”
Daniel told him. “I teach mathematics at the university.”

“I’m
from Glasgow myself,” Watts said. “Which won’t come as a surprise to you, with
my name and accent. So, please have a seat and tell me what I can do for you.”

“I’m
trying to trace a Guy Trentham, and the Police Department have referred me to
you.”

“Oh,
yes, I remember that name. But why do I remember it?” The Scotsman rose from
his desk and went over to a row of filing cabinets that lined the wall behind
him. He pulled open the one marked “STV,” and extracted a large box file.

“Trentham,”
he repeated, as he thumbed through the papers inside the box, before finally
removing two sheets. He returned to his desk and, having placed the sheets in
front of him, began reading. After he had absorbed the details, he looked up
and studied Daniel more carefully.

“Been
here long, have you, laddie?”

“Arrived
in Sydney less than a week ago,” said Daniel, puzzled by the question.

“And
never been to Melbourne before?”

“No,
never.”

“So
what’s the reason for your inquiry?”

“I
wanted to find out anything I could about Captain Guy Trentham.”

“Why?”
asked the inspector-general. “Are you a Joumo?”

“No,”
said Daniel, “I’m a teacher but... “

“Then
you must have had a very good reason for traveling this far.”

“Curiosity,
I suppose,” said Daniel. “You see, although I never knew him, Guy Trentham was
my father.”

The
head of the prison service looked down at the names listed on the sheet as next
of kin: wife, Anna Helen, (deceased), one daughter, Margaret Ethel. There was
no mention of a son. He looked back up at Daniel and, after a few moments of
contemplation, came to a decision.

“I’m
sorry to tell you, Mr. Trentham, that your father died while he was in police
custody.”

Daniel
was stunned, and began shaking.

Watts
looked across his desk and added, “I’m sorry to have to give you such unhappy
news, especially when you’ve traveled all this way.”

“What
was the cause of his death?” Daniel whispered.

The
inspector-general turnd the page, checked the bottom line of the charge sheet
in front of him and reread the words: Hanged by the neck until dead. He looked
back up at Daniel.

“A
heart attack,” he said.

D
aniel took the
sleeper back to Sydney but he didn’t sleep. All he wanted to do was get as far
away from Melbourne as he possibly could. As every mile slipped by he relaxed a
little more, and after a time was even able to eat half a sandwich from the
buffet car. When the train pulled into the station of Australia’s largest city
he jumped off, loaded his trunk into a taxi and headed straight for the port.
He booked himself on the first boat sailing to the west coast of America.

The
tiny tramp steamer, only licensed to carry four passengers, sailed at midnight
for San Francisco, and Daniel wasn’t allowed on board until he had handed over
to the captain the full fare in cash, leaving himself just enough to get back
to England as long as he wasn’t stranded anywhere on the way.

During
that bobbing, swaying, endless crossing back to Amenca Daniel spent most of his
time lying on a bunk, which gave him easily enough time to consider what he
should do with the information he now possessed. He also tried to come to terms
with the anxieties his mother must have suffered over the years and what a fine
man his stepfather was. How he hated the word “stepfather.” He would never
think of Charlie that way. If only they had taken him into their confidence
from the beginning he could surely have used his talents to help rather than
waste so much of his energy trying to find out the truth. But he was now even
more painfully aware that he couldn’t let them become aware of what he had
discovered, as he probably knew more than they did.

Daniel
doubted that his mother realized that Trentham had died in jail leaving a
string of disgrunded debtors across Victoria and New South Wales. Certainly
there had been no indication of that on the gravestone in Ashurst.

As
he stood on the deck and watched the little boat bob along on its chosen course
under the Golden Gate and into the bay, Daniel finally felt a plan beginning to
take shape.

Once
he had cleared immigration he took a bus into the center of San Francisco and
booked himself back into the hotel at which he had stayed before traveling on
to Australia. The porter produced two remaining cards and Daniel handed over
the promised ten-dollar note. He scribbled something new and posted them both
before boarding the Super Chief.

With
each hour and each day of solitude his ideas continued to develop although it
still worried him how much more information his mother must have that he still
daren’t ask her about. But now at least he was certain that his father was Guy
Trentham and had left India or England in disgrace. The fearsome Mrs. Trentham
must therefore be his grandmother, who had for some unknown reason blamed
Charlie for what had happened to her son.

On
arriving in New York Daniel was exasperated to find that the Queen Mary had
sailed for England the previous day. He transferred his ticket to the Queen
Elizabeth, leaving himself with only a few dollars in cash. His final action on
American soil was to telegraph his mother with an estimated time of arrival at
Southampton.

Daniel
began to relax for the first time once he could no longer see the Statue of
Liberty from the stern of the ocean liner. Mrs. Trentham, however, remained
constantly in his thoughts during the five-day journey. He couldn’t think of
her as his grandmother and when the time came to disembark at Southampton he
felt he needed several more questions answered by his mother before he would be
ready to carry out his plan.

As
he walked down the gangplank and back onto English soil he noticed that the
leaves on the trees had turned from green to gold in his absence. He intended
to have solved the problem of Mrs. Trentham before they had fallen.

His
mother was there on the dockside waiting to greet him. Daniel had never been
more happy to see her, giving her such a warm hug that she was unable to hide
her surprise. On the drive back to London he learned the sad news that his
other grandmother had died while he had been in America and although his mother
had received several postcards she couldn’t remember the name of either of the
professors he had said he was visiting so she had been unable to contact him to
pass on the news. However, she had enjoyed receiving so many postcards.

“There
are some more still on their way, I suspect,” said Daniel, feeling guilty for
the first time.

“Will
you have time to spend a few days with us before you return to Cambridge?”

“Yes.
I’m back a little earlier than I expected, so you could be stuck with me for a
few weeks.”

“Oh,
your father will be pleased to hear that.”

Daniel
wondered how long it would be before he could hear anyone say “your father”
without a vision of Guy Trentham forming in his mind.

“What
decision did you come to about raising the money for the new building?”

“We’ve
decided to go public,” said his mother. “In the end it was a case of simple
arithmetic. The architect has completed the outline plan, and of course your
father wants the best of everything, so I’m afraid the final cost is likely to
be nearer a half a million pounds.”

“And
are you still able to keep fifty-one percent of the new company?”

“Only
just, because based on those figures it’s going to be tight. We could even end
up having to pawn your great grandfather’s barrow.”

“And
the flats any news of them?” Daniel was gazing out of the car window for his
mother’s reaction in the reflection of the glass. She seemed to hesitate for a
moment.

“The
owners are carrying out the council’s instructions and have already begun
knocking down what remains of them.”

“Does
that mean Dad is going to be granted his planning permission?”

“I
hope so, but it now looks as if it might take a little longer than we’d
originally thought as a local resident a Mr. Simpson on behalf of the Save the
Small Shops Federation has lodged an objection to our scheme with the council.
So please don’t ask about it when you see your father. The very mention of the
flats brings him close to apoplexy.”

“And
I presume it’s Mrs. Trentham who is behind this Mr. Simpson?” was all Daniel
wanted to say but simply asked, “And how’s the wicked Daphne?”

“Still
trying to get Clarissa married off to the right man, and Clarence into the
right regiment.”

“Nothing
less than a royal duke for one and a commission in the Scots Guards for the
other would be my guess.”

“That’s
about right,” agreed his mother. “She also expects Clarissa to produce a girl
fairly quickly so she can marry her off to the future Prince of Wales.”