As the Crow Flies (91 page)

“Perhaps
not,” said Cathy. “But I’m still certain I want to be there, not just learn
about the outcome later, second-hand.”

“Good
girl,” said Charlie. “The meeting will be at three in Baverstock’s office, when
we will get the chance to present our case. Trentham’s lawyer will be joining
us at four. I’ll pick you up at two-thirty, but if you want to change your mind
before then, it won’t worry me in the slightest.”

Becky
turned to see how Cathy had reacted to this suggestion and was disappointed.

When
Charlie marched into his office at exactly eight-thirty, Daphne and Arthur
Selwyn were already waiting for him as instructed.

“Coffee
for three and please, no interruptions,” Charlie told Jessica, placing his
night’s work on the desk in front of him.

“So
where do we start?” asked Daphne, and for the next hour and a half they
rehearsed questions, statements and tactics that could be used when dealing
with Trentham and Birkenshaw, trying to anticipate every situation that might
arise.

By
the time a light lunch was sent in just before twelve they all felt drained; no
one spoke for some time.

“It’s
important for you to remember that you’re dealing with a different Trentham
this time,” said Arthur Selwyn eventually, as he dropped a sugar lump into his
coffee.

“They’re
all as bad as each other as far as I’m concerned,” said Charlie.

“Perhaps
Nigel’s every bit as resolute as his brother, but I don’t believe for one
moment that he has his mother’s cunning or Guy’s ability to think on his feet.”

“Just
what are you getting at, Arthur?” asked Daphne.

“When
you all meet this afternoon Charlie must keep Trentham talking as much as
possible, because I’ve noticed over the years during board meetings that he
often says one sentence too many and simply ends up defeating his own case. I’ll
never forget the time he was against the staff having their own canteen because
of the loss of revenue it was bound to incur, until Cathy pointed out that the
food came out of the same kitchen as the restaurant and we actually ended up
making a small profit on what would otherwise have been thrown away.

Charlie
considered this statement as he took another bite out of his sandwich.

“Wonder
what his advisers are telling him are my weak points.”

“Your
temper,” said Daphne. “You’ve always lived on a short fuse. So don’t give them
the chance to light it.”

At
one o’clock Daphne and Arthur Selwyn left Charlie in peace. After the door had
closed behind them Charlie removed his jacket, went over to the sofa, lay down
and for the next hour slept soundly. At two o’clock Jessica woke him. He smiled
up at her, feeling fully refreshed: another legacy from the war.

He
returned to his desk and read through his notes once again before leaving his
office to walk three doors down the corridor and pick up Cathy. He quite
expected her to have changed her mind but she already had her coat on and was
sitting waiting for him. They drove over to Baverstock’s office, arriving a
full hour before Trentham and Birkenshaw were due to put in an appearance.

The
old lawyer listened carefully to Charlie as he presented his case, occasionally
nodding or making further notes, though from the expression on his face Charlie
had no way of knowing what he really felt.

When
Charlie had come to the end of his monologue Baverstock put his fountain pen
down on the desk and leaned back in his chair. For some time he didn’t speak.

“I
am impressed by the logic of your argument, Sir Charles,” he said eventually,
as he leaned forward and placed the palms of his hands on the desk in front of
him. “And indeed with the evidence you have gathered. However, I’m bound to say
that without the corroboration of your main witness and also with no written
affidavits from either Walter Slade or Miss Benson Mr. Birkenshaw will be quick
to point out that your claim is based almost entirely on circumstantial
evidence.

“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 Nieel 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 client his legal rights?”

“Certainly
not. However, if because of his unwillingness to offer any opinion I feel
unable to come to a decision myself I may have to recommend to both parties
that this matter be settled in a court of law, as stated clearly in clause
twenty-seven of Sir Raymond’s will.”

Yet
another clause that he didn’t know about, Charlie reflected ruefully.

“But
such a case might take years just to reach the courts,” Birkenshaw pointed out.
“Furthermore, it could end up in vast expenses to both sides. I cannot believe
that would have been Sir Raymond’s purpose.”

“That
may be so,” said Baverstock. “But at least it would ensure that your client was
given the opportunity to explain those quarterly payments to a jury that is, if
he knew anything about them.”

For
the first time Birkenshaw seemed to hesitate but Trentham still didn’t speak.
He just sat there, drawing on a second cigarette.