As the Crow Flies (87 page)

“Where
she studied history of art and English.”

The
assistant’s eyes again scanned the papers in front of him. “That’s correct,
sir,” he said, unable to hide his surprise.

“And
did she play tennis, by any chance?”

“The
occasional match for the university second six.”

“But
could she paint?” asked Charlie.

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 resumed 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 arrive, 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 ballsup 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. “At least, not
to my recollection.”

“Then
I think perhaps we should leave, Sir Charles, as there’s no point in taking up
any more of Mrs. Campbell’s time.”

“I
agree,” said Charlie quietly. “And thank you, Matron.” Roberts helped him to
his feet and Mrs. Campbell accompanied them both back along the corridor
towards the front door.

“Will
you be returning to Britain shortly, Sir Charles?” she asked.

“Yes,
probably tomorrow.”

“Would
it be a terrible inconvenience if I were to ask you to post a letter for me
once you are back in London?”

“It
would be my pleasure,” said Charlie.

“I
wouldn’t have bothered you with this task in normal circumstances,” said the
matron, “but as it directly concerns Miss Benson...”

Both
men stopped in their tracks and stared down at the prim Scottish lady. She also
came to a halt and held her hands together in front of her.

“It’s
not simply that I wish to save the postage, you understand, Sir Charles, which
is what most folk would accuse my clan of. In fact, the exact opposite is the
case, for my only desire is to make a speedy refund to Miss Benson’s
benefactors.”

“Miss
Benson’s benefactors?” said Charlie and Roberts in unison.

“Aye,”
the matron said, standing her full height of five feet and half an inch. “We
are not in the habit at Maple Lodge of charging residents who have died, Mr.
Roberts. After all, as I’m sure you would agree, that would be dishonest.”

“Of
course it would be Matron.”

“And
so, although we insist on three months’ payment in advance, we also refund any
sums left over when a resident has passed away. After any outstanding bills
have been covered, you understand.”

“I
understand,” said Charlie as he stared down at the lady, a look of hope in his
eyes.

“So
if you will be kind enough to wait just a wee moment, I’ll be away and retrieve
the letter from my office.” She turned and headed back to her room a few yards
farther down the corridor.

“Start
praying,” said Charlie.

“I
already have,” said Roberts.

Mrs.
Campbell returned a few moments later holding an envelope, which she handed
over for Charlie’s safekeeping. In a bold copperplate hand were written the
words: “The Manager, Courts and Company, The Strand, London WC2.”

“I
do hope you won’t find my request too much of an imposition, Sir Charles.”

“It’s
a greater pleasure than you may ever realize, Mrs. Campbell,” Charlie assured
her, as he bade the matron farewell.

Once
they were back in the car, Roberts said, “It would be quite unethical of me to
advise you as to whether you should or should not open that letter, Sir
Charles. However...”

But
Charlie had already ripped open the envelope and was pulling out its contents.

A
check for niney-two pounds was attached to a detailed, itemized bill for the
years 1953 to 1964: in full and final settlement for the account of Miss Rachel
Benson.

“God
bless the Scots and their puritan upbringing,” said Charlie, when he saw to
whom the check had been made out.

“
Of you were
quick, Sir Charles, you could still catch the earlier flight,” said Trevor
Roberts as the car pulled into the hotel forecourt.

“Then
I’ll be quick,” said Charlie, “as I’d like to be back in London as soon as
possible.”

“Right,
I’ll check you out, then phone the airport to see if they can change your
reservation.”

“Good.
Although I’ve a couple of days to spare there are still some loose ends I’d
like to tidy up at the London end.”

Charlie
had jumped out of the car even before the driver could reach the door to open
it for him. He made a dash for his room and quickly threw all his possessions
into a suitcase. He was back in the lobby twelve minutes later, had settled the
bill and was making a dash towards the hotel entrance within fifteen. The
driver was not only standing by the car waiting for him but the boot was
already open.

Once
the third door had been closed, the chauffeur immediately accelerated out of
the hotel forecourt and swung the car into the fast lane, as he headed towards
the freeway.

“Passport
and ticket?” said Roberts.

Charlie
smiled and removed them both from an inside pocket like a child having his prep
list checked.