As the Crow Flies (86 page)

“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 spouess stone floor.

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

“Why
so much?” he asked. “And after so long?”

“You
did her a great service,” said Charlie, “and she simply wished to repay you.”

The
old man began to look more suspiciously at Charlie.

“She
paid me at the time,” he said.

“I
realize that,” said Charlie, “but... “

“And
I’ve kept my mouth shut,” he said.

“That’s
just another reason why she had cause to be grateful to you,” said Charlie.

“Are
you saying that you came all the way from England, just to give me eighty-five
pounds?” said Mr. Slade. “Doesn’t make any sense to me, lad.” He suddenly
sounded a lot more awake.

“No,
no,” said Charlie, feeling that he was losing the initiative. “I’ve had a dozen
other bequests to deliver before coming out here, but you weren’t that easy to
find.”

“I’m
not surprised. I’ve stopped driving these twenty years.”

“You’re
from Yorkshire, aren’t you?” said Charlie with a grin. “I’d know that accent
anywhere.”

“Aye,
lad, and you’re from London. Which means you’re not to be trusted. So why did
you really come to see me? Because it wasn’t to give us eighty-five pounds,
that’s for sure.”

“I
can’t find the little girl who was with Mrs. Trentham when you drove her,” said
Charlie, risking everything. “You see, she’s been left a large inheritance.”

“Fancy
that, Walter,” said Mrs. Slade.

Walter
Slade’s face registered nothing.

“And
it’s my duty somehow to locate her and then inform the lady of her good
fortune.”

Slade’s
face remained impassive as Charlie battled on. “And I thought you’d be the one
person who might be able to help.

“No,
I won’t,” Slade replied. “What’s more you can have your money back,” he added,
throwing the notes at Charlie’s feet. “And don’t bother to show your face round
these parts again, with your phony trumped-up stories about fortunes. Show the
gentleman the door, Elsie.”

Mrs.
Slade bent down and carefully picked up the scattered notes before passing them
up to Charlie. When she had handed over the last one, she silently led the
stranger back towards the front door.

“I
do apologize, Mrs. Slade,” said Charlie. “I had no intention of offending your
husband.”

“I
know, sir,” said Mrs. Slade. “But then Walter has always been so proud. Heaven
knows, we could have done with the money.” Charlie smiled as he stuffed the
bundle of notes into the old lady’s pinafore and quickly put a finger up to his
lips. “If you don’t tell him, I won’t,” he said. He gave a slight bow before
turning to walk back down the Tittle path towards the car.

“I
never saw no little girl,” she said in a voice that barely carried. Charlie
froze on the spot. “But Walter once took a snooty lady up to that orphanage on
Park Hill in Melbourne. I know because I was walking out with the gardener at
the time, and he told me.”

Charlie
turned to thank her, but she had already closed the door and disappeared back
into the house.

Charlie
climbed into the car, penniless and with just one name to cling to, aware that
the old man could undoubtedly have solved the entire mystery for him. Otherwise
he would have said “No, I can’t” and not “No, I won’t” when he had asked for
his help.

He
cursed his stupidity several times on the long journey back to the city.

“Roberts,
is there an orphanage in Melbourne?” were Charlie’s opening words as he strode
into the lawyer’s office.

“St.
Hilda’s,” said Neil Mitchell, before his partner could consider the question. “Yes,
it’s up on Park Hill somewhere. Why?”

“That’s
the one,” said Charlie, checking his watch. “It’s about seven o’clock in the
morning London time and I’m shattered, so I’m off to my hotel to try and grab
some sleep. In the meantime I need a few questions answered. To start with, I
want to know everything that can possibly be found out about St. Hilda’s
starting with the names of every member of staff who worked there between 1923
and 1927, from the head honcho down to the scullery maid. And if anyone’s still
around from that period find them because I want to see them and within the
next twenty-four hours.”

Two
of the staff in Mitchell’s office had begun scribbling furiously as they tried
to take down every word Sir Charles said.

“I
also want to know the name of every child registered at that orphanage between
1923 and 1927. Remember, we’re looking for a girl who couldn’t have been more
than two years old, and may have been called Margaret Ethel. And when you’ve
found the answers to all those questions wake me whatever time it is.”

T
revor Roberts
arrived back at Charlie’s hotel a few minutes before eight the following
morning to find his client Bucking into a large breakfast of eggs, tomato,
mushrooms and bacon. Although Roberts looked unshaven and tired, he was the
bearer of news.

“We’ve
been in touch with the principal of St. Hilda’s, a Mrs. Culver, and she couldn’t
have been more cooperative.” Charlie smiled. “It turns out that nineteen
children were registered with the orphanage between 1923 and 1927. Eight boys
and eleven girls. Of the eleven girls we now know that nine of them didn’t have
a mother or father alive at the time. Of those nine we have managed to contact
seven, five of whom have a relative still alive who could vouch for who their
father was, one whose parents were killed in a car wash and the other who is an
aboriginal. The last two, however, are proving more difficult to track down, so
I thought you might like to visit St. Hilda’s and study the files yourself.”

“What
about the staff at the orphanage?”

“Only
a cook survives from around that period, and she says there never was a child
at St. Hilda’s called Trentham or any name like that, and she can’t even
remember a Margaret or an Ethel. So our last hope may prove to be a Miss
Benson.”

“Miss
Benson?”

“Yes,
she was the principal at the time and is now a resident at an exclusive old people’s
home called Maple Lodge on the other side of the city.”

“Not
bad, Mr. Roberts,” said Charlie. “But how did you manage to get Mrs. Culver to
be so cooperative at such short notice?”

“I
resorted to methods that I suspect are more familiar to the Whitechapel school
of law than Harvard, Sir Charles.”

Charlie
looked at him quizzically.

“It
seems that St. Hilda’s is currently organizing an appeal for a minibus... “

“A
minibus?”

“So
badly needed by the orphanage for trips... “

“And
so you hinted that I might be possible to help with a wheel or two if they in
return felt able to cooperate. Precisely.”

“You’re
a quick reamer, Roberts, I’ll give you that.”

“And
as there’s no more time to be wasted, we ought to leave for St. Hilda’s immediately
so you can go over those files.”

“But
our best bet must surely be Miss Benson.”

“I
agree with you, Sir Charles. And I’ve planned for us to pay her a visit this
afternoon, just as soon as you’ve finished at St. Hilda’s. By the way, when
Miss Benson was principal, she was known as ‘The Dragon’ not only by the
children but also by the staff, so there’s no reason to expect she’ll be any
more cooperative than Walter Slade.”

When
Charlie arrived at the orphanage he was greeted at the front door by the
principal. Mrs. Culver wore a smart green dress that looked as if it might have
been freshly pressed. She had obviously decided to treat her potential
benefactor as if he were Nelson Rockefeller because all that was lacking was a
red carpet as Charlie was ushered through to her study.

Two
young lawyers who had been going assiduously through files all night and
reaming all there was to know about dormitory times, exacts, kitchen duties
credits and misdemeanors stood as Charlie and Trevor Roberts entered the room.

“Any
further progress with those two names?” asked Roberts.

“Oh,
yes, down to two. Isn’t this exciting?” said Mrs. Culver, as she bustled round
the room moving anything that seemed to be out of place. “I was wondering... “

“We
have no proof as yet,” said a bleary-eyed young man, “but one of them seems to
fit the bill perfectly. We can come up with no information on the girl before
the age of two. What’s more important, she was registered with St. Hilda’s at
precisely the same time as Captain Trentham was awaiting execution.”

“And
the cook also remembers from the days when she was a scullery maid,” said Mrs.
Culver, jumping in, “that the girl came in the middle of the night, accompanied
by a well-dressed, severe looking lady who had a lah-de-dah accent who then... “

“Enter
Mrs. Trentham,” said Charlie. “Only the girl’s name is obviously not Trentham.”

The
young assistant checked the notes that lay spread across the table in front of
him. “No, sir,” he said. “This particular girl was registered under the name of
Miss Cathy Ross.”

Charlie
felt his legs give way as Roberts and Mrs. Culver rushed forward to help him
into the only comfortable chair in the room. Mrs. Culver loosened his tie and
undid his collar.

“Are
you feeling all right, Sir Charles?” she asked. “I must say you don’t look
too... “

“Right
in front of my eyes all the time,” said Charlie. “Blind as a bat is how Daphne
would rightly describe me.”

“I’m
not sure I understand,” said Roberts.

“I’m
not sure I do myself as yet.” Charlie turned back to face the anxious messenger
responsible for delivering the news.

“Did
she leave St. Hilda’s to take up a place at Melbourne University?” he asked.

This
time the assistant double-checked his notes. “Yes, sir. She signed on for the
class of ‘42, leaving in ‘46.”