Charlie
went cold as he gripped the arms of his chair.
“You
all right?” asked Cooper, sounding genuinely concerned.
“Fine,”
said Charlie. “it’s only the effects of jet lag. Any reason given for Daniel
Trentham’s visit?”
“According
to the attached note, he claimed to be the deceased’s son,” said the chief.
Charlie tried not to show any emotion. The policeman sat back in his chair. “So
now you know every bit as much about the case as Idol”
“You’ve
been very ‘elpful, Mike,” said Charlie as he pushed himself up to his feet
before leaning across to shake hands. “And if you should ever find yourself
back in Deptford, look me up. I’d be only too happy to take you to see a real
football team.”
Cooper
smiled and continued to trade stories with Charlie as the two men made their
way out of his office to the lift. Once they were on the ground floor the
policeman accompanied him to the steps of police headquarters, where Charlie
shook hands with the chief once again before joining Trevor Roberts in the car.
“Right,
Roberts, it seems we’ve got ourselves some work to do.”
“May
I be permitted to ask one question before we begin, Sir Charles?”
“Be
my guest.”
“What
happened to your accent?”
“I
only save that for special people, Mr. Roberts. The Queen, Winston Churchill
and when I’m serving a customer on the barrow. Today I felt it necessary to add
Melbourne’s chief of police to my list.”
“I
can’t begin to think what you said about me and my profession.”
“I
told him you were an overpaid, toffee-nosed boy scout who expected me to do all
the work.”
“And
did he offer an opinion?”
“Thought
I might have been a little too restrained.”
“That’s
not hard to believe,” said Roberts. “But were you able to prise any fresh
information out of him?”
“I
certainly was,” said Charlie. “It seems Guy Trentham had a daughter.”
“A
daughter?” repeated Roberts, unable to hide his excitement. “But did Cooper let
you know her name, or anything about her?”
“Margaret
Ethel, but our only other clue is that Mrs. Trentham, Guy’s mother, paid a
visit to Melbourne in 1927. Cooper didn’t know why.”
“Good
heavens,” said Roberts. “You’ve achieved more in twenty minutes than I achieved
in twenty days.”
“Ah,
but I had the advantage of birth,” said Charlie with a grin. “Now where would
an English lady have rested her genteel head in this city around that time?”
“Not
my hometown,” admitted Roberts. “But my partner Neil Mitchell should be able to
tell us. His family settled in Melbourne over a hundred years ago.”
“So
what are we waiting for?”
Neil
Mitchell frowned when his colleague put the same question to him. “I haven’t a
clue,” he admitted, “but my mother’s sure to know.” He picked up his phone and
started dialing. “She’s Scottish, so she’ll try and charge us for the
information.” Charlie and Trevor Roberts stood in front of Mitchell’s desk and
waited, one patiently, one impatiently. After a few preliminaries expected of a
son, he put his question and listened carefully to her reply.
“Thank
you, Mother, invaluable as always,” he said. “See you at the weekend,” he added
before putting down the phone.
“Well?”
said Charlie.
“The
Victoria Country Club apparently was the only place someone from Mrs. Trentham’s
background would have dreamed of staying in the twenties,” Mitchell said. “In
those days Melbourne only had two decent hotels and the other one was strictly
for visiting businessmen.”
“Does
the place still exist?” asked Roberts.
“Yes,
but it’s badly run-down nowadays. What I imagine Sir Charles would describe as ‘seedy.’”
“Then
telephone ahead and let them know you want a table for lunch in the name of Sir
Charles Trumper. And stress ‘Sir Charles.’”
“Certainly,
Sir Charles,” said Roberts. “And which accent will we be using on this occasion?”
“Can’t
tell you that until I’ve weighed up the opposition,” said Charlie as they made
Their way back to the car.
“Ironic
when you think about it,” said Roberts, as the car headed out onto the freeway.
“Ironic?”
“Yes,”
said Roberts. “If Mrs. Trentham went to all this trouble to remove her
granddaughter’s very existence from the records, she must have required the
services of a first-class lawyer to assist her.”
“So?”
“So
there must be a file buried somewhere in this city that would tell us
everything we need to know.”
“Possibly,
but one thing’s for certain: we don’t have enough time to discover whose filing
cabinet it’s hidden in.”
When
they arrived at the Victoria Country Club they found the manager standing in
the hallway waiting to greet them. He led his distinguished guest through to a
quiet table in the alcove. Charlie was only disappointed to find how young he
was.
Charlie
chose the most expensive items from the a la carte section of the menu, then
selected a 1957 bottle of Chambertin. Within moments he was receiving attention
from every waiter in the room.
“And
what are you up to this time, Sir Charles?” asked Roberts, who had satisfied
himself with the set menu.
“Patience,
young man,” Charlie said in mock disdain as he tried to cut into an overcooked,
tough piece of lamb with a blunt knife. He eventually gave in, and ordered a
vanilla ice cream, confident they couldn’t do much harm to that. When finally
the coffee was served, the oldest waiter in the room came slowly-over to offer
them both a cigar.
“A
Monte Cristo, please,” said Charlie, removing a pound note from his wallet and
placing it on the table in front of him. A large old humidor was opened for his
inspection. “Worked here for a long time, have you?” Charlie added.
“Forty
years last month,” said the waiter, as another pound note landed on top of the
first.
“Good
memory?”
“I
like to think so, sir,” said the waiter, staring at the two banknotes.
“Remember
someone called Mrs. Trentham? English, strait-laced, might have stayed for a
couple of weeks or more round 1927,” said Charlie, pushing the notes towards
the old man.
“Remember
her?” said the waiter. “I’ll never forget her. I was a trainee in those days
and she did nothing except grumble the whole time about the food and the
service. Wouldn’t drink anything but water, said she didn’t trust Australian
wines and refused to spend good money on the French ones that’s why I always
ended up having to serve on her table. End of the month, she ups and offs
without a word and didn’t even leave me a tip. You bet I remember her.”
“That
sounds like Mrs. Trentham all right,” said Charlie. “But did you ever find out
why she came to Australia in the first place?” He removed a third pound note
from his wallet and placed it on top of the others.
“I’ve
no idea, sir,” said the waiter sadly. “She never talked to anyone from morning
to night, and I’m not sure even Mr. Sinclair-Smith would know the answer to
that question.”
“Mr.
Sinclair-Smith?”
The
waiter motioned over his shoulder to the far corner of the room where a
gray-haired gentleman sat alone, a napkin tucked into his collar. He was busy
attacking a large piece of Stilton. “The present owner,” the waiter explained. “His
father was the only person Mrs. Trentham ever spoke civilly to.”
“Thank
you,” said Charlie. “You’ve been most helpful.” The waiter pocketed the three
banknotes. “Would you be kind enough to ask the manager if I could have a word
with him?”
“Certainly,
sir,” said the old waiter, who closed the humidor and scurried away.
“The
manager is far too young to remember... “
“Just
keep your eyes open, Mr. Roberts, and possibly you might just learn a trick or
two they failed to teach you in the business contracts class at law school,” said
Charlie as he clipped the end of his cigar.
The
manager arrived at their table. “You asked to see me, Sir Charles?”
“I
wonder if Mr. Sinclair-Smith would care to join me for a liqueur?” said
Charlie, passing the young man one of his cards.
“I’ll
have a word with him immediately, sir,” said the manager who at once turned and
walked towards the other table.
“It’s
back to the lobby for you, Roberts,” said Charlie, “as I suspect that my
conduct over the next half hour might just offend your professional ethics.” He
glanced across the room, where the old man was now studying his card.
Roberts
sighed, rose from his chair and left.
A
large smile appeared on Mr. Sinclair-Smith’s pudgy lips. He pushed himself up
out of his chair and waddled over to join his English visitor.
“Sinclair-Smith,”
he said in a high-pitched English accent before offering a limp hand.
“Good
of you to join me, old chap,” said Charlie. “I know a fellow countryman when I
see one. Can I interest you in a brandy?” The waiter scurried away.
“How
kind of you, Sir Charles. I can only hope that my humble establishment has
provided you with a reasonable cuisine.”
“Excellent,”
said Charlie. “But then you were recommended,” he said as he exhaled a plume of
cigar smoke.
“Recommended?”
said Sinclair-Smith, trying not to sound too surprised. “May I ask by whom?”
“My
ancient aunt, Mrs. Ethel Trentham.”
“Mrs.
Trentham? Good heavens, Mrs. Trentham, we haven’t seen the dear lady since my
late father’s time.”
Charlie
frowned as the old waiter returned with two large brandies.
“I
do hope she’s keeping well, Sir Charles.”
“Never
better,” said Charlie. “And she wished to be remembered to you.”
“How
kind of her,” replied Sinclair-Smith, swirling the brandy round in his balloon.
“And what a remarkable memory, because I was only a young man at the time and
had just started working in the hotel. She must now be...”
“Over
ninety,” said Charlie. “And do you know the family still has no idea why she
ever came to Melbourne in the first place,” he added.
“Nor
me,” said Sinclair-Smith as he sipped his brandy.
“You
never spoke to her?”
“No,
never,” said Sinclair-Smith. “Although my father and your aunt had many long
conversations, he never once confided in me what passed between them.”
Charlie
tried not to show his frustration at this piece of information. “Well, if you
don’t know what she was up to,” he said, “I don’t suppose there’s anyone alive
who does.”
“Oh,
I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Sinclair-Smith. “Slade would know that is,
if he hasn’t gone completely ga-ga.”
“Slade?”
“Yes,
a Yorkshireman who worked at the club under my father, in the days when we
still had a resident chauffeur. In fact, the whole time Mrs. Trentham stayed at
the club she always insisted on using Slade. Said no one else should drive her.”
“Is
he still around?” asked Charlie as he blew out another large cloud of smoke.
“Good
heavens no,” said Sinclair-Smith. “Retired years ago. Not even sure he’s still
alive.”
“Do
you get back to the old country much nowadays?” inquired Charlie, convinced
that he had extracted every piece of relevant information that could be gained
from this particular source.
“No,
unfortunately what with...”
For
the next twenty minutes, Charlie setded back and enjoyed his cigar as he
listened to Sinclair-Smith on everything from the demise of the Empire to the
parlous state of English cricket. Eventually Charlie called for the bill, at
which the owner took his leave and slipped discreetly away.
The
old waiter shuffled back the moment he saw another pound note appear on the
tablecloth.
“Something
you needed, sir?”
“Does
the name ‘Slade’ mean anything to you?”
“Old
Walter Slade, the club’s chauffeur?”
“That’s
the man.”
“Retired
years ago.”
“I
know that much, but is he still alive?”
“No
idea,” said the waiter. “Last I heard of him he lived somewhere out in the
Ballarat area.”
“Thank
you,” said Charlie, as he stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, removed another
pound note and left to join Roberts in the lobby.
“Telephone
your office immediately,” he instructed his solicitor. “Ask them to track down
a Walter Slade who may be living at somewhere called Ballarat.”
Roberts
hurried off in the direction of the telephone sign, while Charlie paced up and
down the corridor praying the old man was still alive. His solicitor returned a
few minutes later. “Am I allowed to know what you’re up to this time, Sir
Charles?” he asked as he passed over a piece of paper with Walter Slade’s
address printed out in capital letters.