“Where’s
all this leading?” asked Becky.
“Back
to the clause Charlie has just recited. ‘Please go to any lengths you feel
necessary to find someone entitled to make a claim on my inheritance.”‘ Daphne
read from the jottings she had scribbled in ballpoint on her damask tablecloth.
“Are those the correct words, Mr. Baverstock?” she asked.
“They
are, Lady Wiltshire, but I still don’t see... “
“Because
you’re as blind as Charlie,” said Daphne. “Thank God one of us is still sober.
Mr. Baverstock please remind us all of Sir Raymond’s instructions for placing
the advertisement.”
Mr.
Baverstock touched his lips with his napkin, folded the linen square neatly and
placed it in front of him. “An advertisement should be placed in The Times the
Telegraph and the Guardian and any other newspaper I consider relevant and
appropriate.”
“That
you consider ‘relevant and appropriate,’” said Daphne, slowly enunciating each
word. “As broad a hint as you might hope from a sober man, I would have
thought.” Every eye was now fixed on Daphne and no one attempted to interrupt
her. “Can’t you see those are the crucial words?” she asked. “Because if Guy
Trentham did have any other children, you certainly wouldn’t find them by
advertising in the London Times, the Telegraph, the Guardian, the Yorkshire
Post or for that matter the Huddersfield Daily Examiner. “
Charlie
dropped his slice of birthday cake back onto his plate and looked across at Mr.
Baverstock. “Good heavens, she’s right, you know.”
“She
certainly may not be wrong,” admitted Baverstock, shuffling uneasily in his
chair. “And I apologize for my lack of imagination, because as Lady Wiltshire
rightly points out I’ve been a blind fool by not following my master’s
instructions when he advised me to use my common sense. He so obviously worked
out that Guy might well have fathered other children and that such offspring
were most unlikely to be found in England.”
“Well
done, Mr. Baverstock,” said Daphne. “I do believe I should have gone to
university and read for the bar.”
Mr.
Baverstock felt unable to correct her on this occasion.
“There
may still be time,” said Charlie. “After all, there’s another six weeks left
before the inheritance has to be handed over, so let’s get straight back to
work. By the way, thank you,” he added, bowing towards Daphne.
Charlie
rose from his chair and headed towards the nearest phone. “The first thing I’m
going to need is the sharpest lawyer in Australia.” Charlie checked his watch. “And
preferably one who doesn’t mind getting up early in the morning.”
Mr.
Baverstock cleared his throat.
During
the next two weeks large box advertisements appeared in every newspaper on the
Australian continent with a circulation of over fifty thousand. Each reply was
quickly followed up with an interview by a firm of solicitors in Sydney that
Mr. Baverstock had been happy to recommend. Every evening Charlie was
telephoned by Trevor Roberts, the senior partner, who remained on the end of
the line for several hours when Charlie would learn the latest news that had
been gathered from their offices in Sydney, Melbourne, Perth, Brisbane and
Adelaide. However, after three weeks of sorting out the cranks from the genuine
inquirers Roberts came up with only three candidates who fulfilled all the
necessary criteria. However, once they had been interviewed by a partner of the
firm they also failed to prove any direct relationship with any member of the
Trentham family.
Roberts
had discovered that there were seventeen Trenthams on the national register,
most of them from Tasmania, but none of those could show any direct lineace
with Guy Trentham or his mother, although one old lady from Hobart who had
emigrated from Ripon after the war was able to present a legitimate claim for a
thousand pounds, as it turned out she was a third cousin of Sir Raymond.
Charlie
thanked Mr. Roberts for his continued diligence but told him not to let up, as
he didn’t care how many staff were allocated to the job night or day.
At
the final board meeting to be called before Nigel Trentham officially came into
his inheritance, Charlie briefed his colleagues on the latest news from Australia.
“Doesn’t
sound too hopeful to me,” said Newman. “After all, if there is another Trentham
around he or she must be well over thirty, and surely would have made a claim
by now.”
“Agreed,
but Australia’s an awfully big place and they might even have left the country.”
“Never
give up, do you?” remarked Daphne.
“Be
that as it may,” said Arthur Selwyn, “I feel the time is long overdue for us to
try and come to some agreement with Trentham, if there is to be a responsible
takeover of the company. In the interests of Trumper’s and its customers, I
would like to see if it is at all possible for the principals involved to come
to some amicable arrangement... “
“Amicable
arrangement!” said Charlie. “The only arrangement Trentham would agree to is
that he sits in this chair with a built-in majority on the board while I am
left twiddling my thumbs in a retirement home.”
“That
may well be the case,” said Selwyn. “But I must point out, Chairman, that we
still have a duty to our shareholders.”
“He’s
right,” said Daphne. “You’ll have to try, Charlie, for the long-term good of
the company you founded.” She added quietly, “However much it hurts.”
Becky
nodded her agreement and Charlie turned to ask Jessica to make an appointment
with Trentham at his earliest convenience. Jessica returned a few minutes later
to let the board know that Nigel Trentham had no interest in seeing any of them
before the March board meeting, when he would be happy to accept their
resignations in person.
“Seventh
of March: two years to the day since the death of his mother,” Charlie reminded
the board.
“And
Mr. Roberts is holding for you on the other line,” Jessica reported.
Charlie
rose and strode out of the room. The moment he reached the phone he grabbed at
it as a drowning sailor might a lifeline. “Roberts, what have you got for me?”
“Guy
Trentham!”
“But
he’s already buried in a grave in Ashurst.”
“But
not before his body was removed from a jail in Melbourne.”
“A
jail? I thought he died of tuberculosis.”
“I
don’t think you can die of tuberculosis while you’re hanging from the end of a
six-foot rope, Sir Charles.”
“Hanged?”
“For
the murder of his wife, Anna Helen,” said the solicitor.
“But
did they have any children?”
“There’s
no way of knowing the answer to that.”
“Why
the hell not?”
“It’s
against the law for the prison service to release the names of the next of kin
to anyone.”
“But
why, for heaven’s sake?”
“For
their own protection.”
“But
this could only be to their benefit.”
“They’ve
heard that one before. Indeed, I have had it pointed out to me that in this
particular case we’ve already advertised for claimants from one coast to the
other. What’s worse, if any of Trentham’s offspring had changed their name, for
understandable reasons, we’ve little chance of tracing him or her at all. But
be assured I’m still working flat out on it, Sir Charles.”
“Get
me an interview with the chief of police.”
“It
won’t make any difference, Sir Charles. He won’t “ began Roberts, but Charlie
had already hung up.
“You’re
mad,” said Becky, as she helped her husband pack a suitcase an hour later.
“True,”
agreed Charlie. “But this may well be the last chance I have of keeping control
of the company, and I’m not willing to do it on the end of a phone, let alone
twelve thousand miles away. I have to be there myself, so at least I know it’s
me who’s failed and not a third party.”
“But
what exactly are you hoping to find when you get there?”
Charlie
looked across at his wife as he fastened his suitcase. “I suspect only Mrs.
Trentham knows the answer to that.”
W
hen
thirty-four hours later on a warm, sunlit evening, Flight 012 touched down at
Kingsford Smith Airport in Sydney, Charlie felt what he most needed was a good
night’s sleep. After he had checked through customs he was met by a tall young
man dressed in a light beige suit who stepped forward and introduced himself as
Trevor Roberts, the lawyer who had been recommended by Baverstock. Roberts had
thick, rusty-colored hair and an even redder complexion. He was of a solid
build and looked as if he might still spend his Saturday afternoons in a
different type of court. He immediately took over Charlie’s laden trolley and
pushed it smartly towards the exit marked “car park.”
“No
need to check this lot into a hotel,” said Roberts as he held the door open for
Charlie. “Just leave everything in the car.”
“Is
this good legal advice you’re giving me?” asked Charlie, already out of breath
trying to keep up with the young man.
“It
certainly is, Sir Charles, because we’ve no time to waste.” He brought the
trolley to a halt at the curbside and a chauffeur heaved the bags into the boot
while Charlie and Mr. Roberts climbed into the back. “The British Governor-General
has invited you for drinks at six at his residence, but I also need you to be
on the last flight to Melbourne tonight. As we only have six days left, we can’t
afford to waste any of them being in the wrong city.”
Charlie
knew he was going to like Mr. Roberts from the moment the Australian passed
over a thick file. Charlie began to listen attentively to the young lawyer as
he went over the proposed schedule for the next three days while the car
traveled on towards the outskirts of the city. Charlie continued to pay
attention to everything he had to say, only occasionally asking for something
to be repeated or gone over in greater detail as he tried to accustom himself
to the difference in style between Mr. Roberts and any solicitor he had dealt with
in England. When he had asked Mr. Baverstock to find him the sharpest young
lawyer in Sydney, Charlie hadn’t imagined that he would select someone in quite
such a different mold from his old friend.
As
the car sped along the highway towards the Governor-General’s residence
Roberts, with several files balanced on his knees, continued with his detailed
briefing. “We’re only attending this cocktail party with the Governor-General,”
he explained, “in case during the next few days we need some help in opening
heavy doors. Then we’re off to Melbourne because every time someone from my
office comes up with anything that might be described as a lead it always seems
to end up on the Chief Commissioner of Police’s desk in that city. I’ve made an
appointment for you to see the new chief in the morning, but as I warned you
the commissioner’s not proving to be at all cooperative with my people.”
“Why’s
that?”
“He’s
recently been appointed to the job, and is now desperately trying to prove that
everyone will be treated impartially except poms.”
“So
what’s his problem?”
“Like
all second-generation Australians he hates the British, or at least he has to
pretend he does.” Roberts grinned. “In fact, I think there’s only one group of
people he dislikes more.”
“Criminals?”
“No,
lawyers,” replied Roberts. “So now you’ll realize why the odds are stacked
against us.”
“Have
you managed to get anything out of him at all?”
“Not
a lot. Most of what he has been willing to reveal was already on public record,
namely that on 27 July 1926 Guy Trentham, in a fit of temper, killed his wife
by stabbing her several times while she was taking a bath. He then held her
under the water so as to be sure that she didn’t survive page sixteen in your
file. We also know that on 23 April 1927 he was hanged for the crime, despite
several appeals for clemency to the Governor-General. What we’ve been quite
unable to discover is if he was survived by any children. The Melbourne Age was
the one newspaper that carried a report of the trial, and they made no mention
of a child. However, that’s hardly surprising, as the judge would have ruled
against any such reference in court unless it threw some light on the crime.”
“But
what about the wife’s maiden name? Surely that’s a better route to take.”
“You’re
not going to like this, Sir Charles,” said Roberts.
“Try
me.”
“Her
name was Smith Anna Helen Smith that’s why we concentrated what little time we
had on Trentham.”
“But
you’ve still come up with no firm leads?”
“I’m
afraid not,” said Roberts. “If there was a child in Australia at the time
bearing the name of ‘Trentham’ we certainly haven’t been able to trace him. My
staff have interviewed every Trentham that’s shown up on the national register,
including one from Coorabulka which has a population of eleven and takes three
days to reach by car and foot.”