It was ironic, thought Charlie, that so much of what he had discovered in Australia had all the time been lodged in a file at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, marked “Cathy Ross, job application.” But not the missing link. “Find that,” Roberts had said, “and you will be able to show the connection between Cathy Ross and Guy Trentham.” Charlie nodded in agreement.
Lately Cathy had been able to recollect some memories from her past, but still nothing significant when it came to recalling her early days in Australia. Dr. Atkins continued to advise Charlie not to press her, as he was delighted with her progress, especially over her willingness to talk quite openly about Daniel. But if he were to save Trumper’s he surely had to press her now? He decided that one of the first calls he should make the moment the plane touched down on English soil would have to be to Dr. Atkins.
“This is your captain speaking,” said a voice over the intercom. “I’m sorry to have to inform you that we have encountered a slight technical problem. Those of you seated on the right-hand side of the aircraft will be able to see that I have turned off one of the starboard engines. I can assure you that there is no need for any anxiety, as we still have three engines working at their full capacity and in any case this aircraft is capable of completing any leg of the journey on just one.” Charlie was pleased to learn this piece of news. “However,” continued the captain, “it is company policy, with your safety in mind, that when any such fault arises we should land at the nearest airport, in order that repairs can be carried out immediately.” Charlie frowned. “As we have not yet reached the halfway point on our outward leg of the journey to Singapore, I am advised by air traffic control that we must return to Melbourne at once.” A chorus of groans went up throughout the aircraft.
Charlie made some hasty calculations about how much time he had to spare before he needed to be back in London, then he remembered that the aircraft he had been originally booked on was still due out of Melbourne at eight-twenty that night.
He flicked open his seat belt, retrieved Cathy’s picture from the rack above him and moved across to the nearest available first-class seat to the cabin door, his mind now fully concentrated on the problems of getting himself rebooked on the BOAC carrier bound for London.
Qantas Flight 102 touched down at Melbourne Airport at seven minutes past seven. Charlie was the first off the aircraft, running as fast as he could, but having to lug Cathy’s picture under one arm slowed him down and made it possible for several other passengers, who obviously had the same idea, to overtake him. However, once he’d reached the booking counter Charlie still managed to be eleventh in the queue. One by one the line shortened as those ahead of him were allocated seats. But by the time Charlie reached the front they could only offer him a standby. Despite pleading desperately with a BOAC official he could make no headway: there were several other passengers who felt it was every bit as important for them to be in London.
He walked slowly back to the Qantas desk to be informed that Flight 102 had been grounded for engine repairs and would not be taking off again until the following morning. At eight-forty he watched the BOAC Comet that he had been originally booked on lift off the tarmac without him.
All the passengers were found beds for the night at one of the local airport hotels before having their tickets transferred to a ten-twenty flight the following morning.
Charlie was up, dressed and back at the airport two hours before the plane was due to take off, and when the flight was finally called he was the first on board. If all went to schedule, he worked out, the plane would still touch down at Heathrow early on Friday morning, giving him a clear day and a half to spare before Sir Raymond’s two-year deadline was up.
He breathed his first sigh of relief when the plane took off, his second as the flight passed the halfway mark to Singapore, and his third when they had landed at Changi airport a few minutes ahead of time.
Charlie left the plane, but only to stretch his legs. He was strapped back into his seat and ready for takeoff an hour later. The second stage from Singapore to Bangkok landed at Don Muang Airport only thirty minutes behind schedule, but the plane then sat parked in a queue on the runway for a further hour. It was later explained that they were short-staffed at air traffic control. Despite the delay, Charlie was not unduly worried; but that didn’t stop him from checking his half hunter every few minutes. They took off an hour behind schedule.
When the aircraft landed at Palam Airport in New Delhi, he began another hour of strolling around the duty-free shop while the plane was being refueled. He became bored by seeing the same watches, perfume and jewelry being sold to innocent transit passengers at prices he knew still had a fifty percent markup on them. When the hour had passed and there had been no further announcements about reboarding, Charlie walked over to the inquiry desk to discover what was causing the holdup.
“There seems to be some problem with the relief crew on this section of the flight,” he was told by the young woman behind the General Inquiries sign. “They haven’t completed their twenty-four hours’ rest period, as stipulated by IATA regulations.”
“So how long have they had?”
“Twenty hours,” replied the girl, looking embarrassed.
“So that means we’re stuck here for another four hours?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Where is the nearest phone?” Charlie asked, making no attempt to hide his irritation.
“In the far corner, sir,” said the girl, pointing to her right.
Charlie joined yet another queue and when he reached the front managed to get through to the operator twice, to be connected to London once but to speak with Becky never. By the time he eventually climbed back onto the aircraft, having achieved nothing, he was exhausted.
“This is Captain Parkhouse. We are sorry for the delay in this flight’s taking off,” said the pilot in a soothing voice. “I can only hope that the holdup has not caused you too much inconvenience. Please fasten your seat belts and prepare for takeoff. Flight attendants, place cabin doors to automatic.”
The four jets rumbled into action and the plane inched forward before building up momentum as it sped along the tarmac. Then, quite suddenly, Charlie was thrown forward as the brakes were locked in place and the plane came to a screeching halt a few hundred yards from the end of the runway.
“This is your captain speaking. I am sorry to have to tell you that the hydraulic pumps that lift the undercarriage up and down at takeoff and landing are indicating red on the control panel and I am not willing to risk a takeoff at this time. We shall therefore have to taxi back to our stand and ask the local engineers to fix the problem as quickly as possible. Thank you for being so understanding.”
It was the word “local” that worried Charlie.
Once they had disembarked from the plane, Charlie ran from airline counter to airline counter trying to find out if there were any flights bound for anywhere in Europe due out of New Delhi that night. He quickly discovered that the only flight due out that night was destined for Sydney. He began to pray for the speed and efficiency of Indian engineers.
Charlie sat in a smoke-filled waiting lounge, leafing through magazine after magazine, sipping soft drink after soft drink, as he waited for any information he could garner on the fate of Flight 102. The first news he picked up was that the chief engineer had been sent for.
“Sent for?” said Charlie. “What does that mean?”
“We have sent a car for him,” explained a smiling airport official in a clipped staccato accent.
“Sent a car?” said Charlie. “But why isn’t he at the airport where he’s needed?”
“It’s his day off.”
“And haven’t you got any other engineers?”
“Not for a job this big,” admitted the harassed official.
Charlie slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “And where does the chief engineer live?”
“Somewhere in New Delhi,” came back the reply. “But don’t y
ou worry yourself, sir, we should have him back within the hour.”
The trouble with this country, thought Charlie, is they tell you exactly what they think you want to hear.
For some reason the same official was unable to explain later why it had taken two hours to locate the chief engineer, a further hour to bring him back to the airport and yet another fifty minutes before he discovered the job would require a full team of three qualified engineers, who had themselves recently signed off for the evening.
A rickety old bus delivered all the passengers from Flight 102 to the Taj Mahal Hotel in the center of the city where Charlie sat on his bed and spent most of the night once more attemping to make contact with Becky. When he eventually succeeded in reaching her he was cut off even before he had time to explain where he was. He didn’t bother to try and sleep.
When the bus dropped them back at the airport the following morning the Indian airport official was there to greet them, his large smile still in place.
“The plane will take off on time,” he promised.
On time, thought Charlie; in normal circumstances he would have laughed.
The plane did take off an hour later and when Charlie inquired of the purser at what hour they expected to land at Heathrow he was told at some time Saturday midmorning: it was hard to be precise.
When the aircraft made a further unscheduled landing at Leonardo da Vinci on Saturday morning Charlie telephoned Becky from the airport. He didn’t even give her time to speak. “I’m in Rome,” he said, “and I’ll need Stan to pick me up from Heathrow. As I can’t be sure what time I’ll arrive, tell him to go out to the airport right now and sit tight. Got that?”
“Yes,” said Becky.
“And I’ll also need Baverstock back in his office, so if he’s already disappeared off to the country for the weekend ask him to drop everything and return to London.”
“You sound a little harassed, dear.”
“Sorry,” said Charlie. “It’s not been the easiest of journeys.”
With the picture under one arm and no interest as to what was wrong with the aircraft this time or where his suitcase might end up, he took the first European flight available that afternoon for London, and once it had taken off checked his watch every ten minutes. When the pilot crossed the English Channel at eight o’clock that evening, Charlie felt confident that four hours would still be ample time for him to register Cathy’s claim—so long as Becky had tracked down Baverstock.
As the plane began to circle London in a familiar holding pattern Charlie looked out of the little oval window and stared down at the snakelike Thames.
It was another twenty minutes before the lights of the runway glared up in two straight lines at Charlie, followed by a puff of smoke as the wheels touched the ground and the plane taxied to its alloted gate. The doors of the aircraft were finally opened at eight twenty-nine.
Charlie grabbed the picture and ran all the way to passport control and on through customs.
He didn’t stop until he saw a telephone box, but as he hadn’t any coins to make a local call he told the operator his name and asked to transfer the charge. A moment later he was put through.
“Becky, I’m at Heathrow. Where’s Baverstock?”
“On his way back from Tewkesbury. Expects to be in his office around nine-thirty, latest ten.”
“Good, then I’ll come straight home. I should be with you in about forty minutes.”
Charlie slammed down the phone, checked his watch and realized that he hadn’t left himself enough time to phone Dr. Atkins. He ran out onto the pavement, suddenly aware of the chill breeze. Stan was waiting by the car for him. Over the years the former sergeant major had become accustomed to Charlie’s impatience and drove him smoothly through the outskirts of London, ignoring the speed limit until they reached Chiswick, after which only a motorbike could have been stopped for speeding. Despite the teeming rain he had his boss back at Eaton Square by nine-sixteen.
Charlie was about halfway through telling a silent Becky all he had discovered in Australia when Baverstock phoned to say he was back at his office in High Holborn. Charlie thanked him, passed on his nephew’s best wishes and then apologized for ruining his weekend.
“You won’t have ruined it if your news is positive,” said Baverstock.
“Guy Trentham had another child,” said Charlie.
“I didn’t imagine that you’d dragged me back from Tewkesbury to tell me the latest test score from Melbourne,” said Baverstock. “Male or female?”
“Female.”
“Legitimate or illegitimate?”
“Legitimate.”
“Then she can register her claim with the estate at any time before midnight.”
“She has to register her claim with you in person?”
“That is what the will stipulates,” said Baverstock. “However, if she’s still in Australia she can register with Trevor Roberts, as I’ve given him—”
“No, she’s in England and I’ll have her in your office by midnight.”
“Good. By the way, what’s her name?” asked Baverstock. “Just so that I can prepare the paperwork.”
“Cathy Ross,” said Charlie. “But ask your nephew to explain everything as I haven’t a moment to spare,” he added, replacing the receiver before Baverstock could react. He ran out into the hall searching for Becky.
“Where’s Cathy?” he shouted, as Becky appeared at the top of the stairs.
“She went to a concert at the Festival Hall. Mozart, I think she said, with some new beau from the City.”
“Right, let’s go,” said Charlie.
“Go?”
“Yes, go,” said Charlie at the top of his voice. He had already reached the door and climbed into the back seat of the car before he realized there was no driver.
He jumped out and was on his way back to the house as Becky came rushing out in the opposite direction.
“Where’s Stan?”
“Probably having some supper in the kitchen.”
“Right,” said Charlie, passing over his own keys. “You drive, I’ll talk.”
“But where are we off to?”
“The Festival Hall.”
“Funny,” Becky said, “after all these years and I had no idea you cared for Mozart.” As she took her seat behind the wheel Charlie ran round to join her in the front. She pulled out and moved deftly through the evening traffic as Charlie continued to explain the full implications of his discoveries in Australia and how imperative it was that they find Cathy before midnight. Becky listened intently but made no attempt to interrupt her husband’s flow.
By the time Charlie asked her if she had any questions they were crossing Westminister Bridge, but Becky still remained silent.
Charlie waited for a few moments before he demanded, “Have you nothing to say?”
“Yes,” said Becky. “Don’t let’s make the same mistake with Cathy as we did with Daniel.”
“Namely?”
“Fail to tell her the whole truth.”
“I’ll have to speak to Dr. Atkins before I can even consider taking that risk,” said Charlie. “But our more immediate problem is to make sure she registers in time.”
“Not to mention the even more immediate problem of where you expect me to leave the car,” said Becky as they swung left into Belvedere Road and on towards the entrance of the Royal Festival Hall with its double yellow lines and “No Parking” signs.
“Right outside the front door,” said Charlie, which Becky obeyed without question.
As soon as the car had come to a halt Charlie jumped out, ran across the pavement and pushed through the glass doors.
“What time does the concert end?” he asked the first uniformed official he spotted.
“Ten thirty-five, sir, but you can’t leave your car there.”
“And where’s the manager’s office?”
“Fifth floor, turn right, second door on the left as you get out of the lift. But…”
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“Thank you,” shouted Charlie, already running past him towards the lift. Becky had just about caught up with her husband by the time the light above the lift indicated G.
“Your car, sir—” said the doorman, but the lift doors were already closing on the gesticulating official.
When the lift doors slid apart at the fifth floor Charlie jumped out, looked right and saw a door to his left marked “Manager.” He knocked once before charging in, to find two men dressed in dinner jackets enjoying a cigarette and listening to the concert over an intercom. They turned to see who had interrupted them.
“Good evening, Sir Charles,” said the taller of the two as he rose, stubbed out his cigarette, and stepped forward. “Jackson. I’m the theater manager. Can I help you in any way?”
“I only hope so, Mr. Jackson,” said Charlie. “I have to get a young lady out of your concert hall as quickly as possible. It’s an emergency.”
“Do you know her seat number?”
“No idea.” Charlie looked towards his wife, who only shook her head.
“Then follow me,” said the manager, who strode straight out of the door and back towards the lift. When the doors reopened the first official Charlie had come across was now standing in front of them.
“Any problems, Ron?”
“Only that this gentleman’s left his car bang outside the front door, sir.”
“Then keep an eye on it, will you, Ron?” The manager pressed the third-floor button and, turning to Becky, asked, “What was the young lady wearing?”
“A burgundy dress with a white cape,” said Becky urgently.
“Well done, madam,” said the manager. He stepped out of the lift and led them quickly through to a side entrance adjoining the ceremonial box. Once inside Mr. Jackson removed a small picture of the Queen opening the building in 1957 and flicked back a disguised shutter so that he could observe the audience through a one-way mirror. “A security precaution in case there’s ever any trouble,” he explained. The manager then unhooked two pairs of opera glasses from their little stands under the balcony and handed one each to Charlie and Becky.