“If you can locate where the lady is seated, one of my staff will discreetly pull her out.” He turned to listen to the strains of the final movement for a few seconds before adding, “You’ve got about ten minutes before the concert ends, twelve at the most. There are no encores planned for tonight.”
“You take the stalls, Becky, and I’ll cover the dress circle.” Charlie began to focus the little opera glasses on the audience seated below them.
They both covered the one thousand, nine hundred seats, first quickly then slowly up and down each row. Neither could spot Cathy in the stalls or dress circle.
“Try the boxes on the other side, Sir Charles,” suggested the manager.
Two pairs of glasses swung over to the far side of the theater. There was still no sign of Cathy, so Charlie and Becky turned their attention back to the main auditorium, once again scanning quickly over the seats.
The conductor brought his baton down for the final time at ten thirty-two and the applause followed in waves as Charlie and Becky searched the standing throng until the lights eventually went up and the audience began to make their way out of the theater.
“You keep on looking, Becky. I’ll go out front and see if I can spot them as they’re leaving.” He dashed out of the ceremonial box and down the stairs followed by Jackson, nearly knocking over a man who was leaving the box below them. Charlie turned to apologize.
“Hello, Charlie, I didn’t know you liked Mozart,” a voice said.
“I never used to but suddenly he’s top of the pops,” said Charlie, unable to mask his delight.
“Of course,” said the manager. “The one place you couldn’t see was the box below ours.”
“May I introduce—”
“We haven’t time for that,” said Charlie. “Just follow me.” He grabbed Cathy by the arm. “Mr. Jackson, would you be kind enough to ask my wife to explain to this gentleman why I need Cathy. You can have her back after midnight,” said Charlie, smiling at the bemused young man. “And thank you, Mr. Jackson.”
He checked his watch: ten-forty. “We still have enough time.”
“Enough time for what, Charlie?” said Cathy as she found herself being pulled across the foyer and out onto Belvedere Road. The uniformed man was now standing to attention by the car.
“Thank you, Ron,” said Charlie as he tried to open the front door. “Damn, Becky’s locked it,” he said. He turned to watch a cab as it came off the waiting rank. He hailed it.
“I say, old fellow,” said a man standing in the front of the taxi queue, “I think you’ll find that’s my cab.”
“She’s just about to give birth,” said Charlie as he opened the door and pushed the wafer-thin Cathy into the back of the taxi.
“Oh, jolly good luck,” said the man, taking a pace backwards.
“Where to, guvn’r?” asked the cabbie.
“Number 110 High Holborn and don’t hang about,” said Charlie.
“I think we’re more likely to find a solicitor than a gynecologist at that particular address,” suggested Cathy. “And I do hope you’ve a worthwhile explanation as to why I’m missing dinner with the one man who’s asked me out on a date in weeks.”
“Not right now,” Charlie confessed. “All I need you to do for the moment is sign a document before midnight, then I promise the explanations will follow.”
The taxi pulled up outside the solicitor’s office a few minutes after eleven. Charlie stepped out of the cab to find Baverstock was standing by the door waiting to greet them.
“That’ll be eight and six, guvn’r.”
“Oh, God,” said Charlie, “I haven’t got any money.”
“That’s the way he treats all his girls,” said Cathy, as she passed the cabbie a ten-shilling note.
They both followed Baverstock through to his office where a set of documents was already laid out on his desk. “Since you called I have had a long conversation with my nephew in Australia,” said Baverstock, facing Charlie. “So I think I’m well acquainted with everything that took place while you were over there.”
“Which is more than I am,” said Cathy, sounding bewildered.
“All in good time,” said Charlie. “Explanations later.” He turned back to Baverstock. “So what happens now?”
“Miss Ross must sign here, here and here,” the solicitor said without further explanation, indicating a space between two penciled crosses at the bottom of three separate sheets of paper. “As you are in no way related to the beneficiary or a beneficiary yourself, Sir Charles, you may care to act as the witness to Miss Ross’ signature.”
Charlie nodded, placed a pair of opera glasses beside the contract and took a pen from his inside pocket.
“You’ve always taught me in the past, Charlie, to read documents carefully before putting my signature to them.”
“Forget everything I’ve taught you in the past, my girl, and just sign where Mr. Baverstock is pointing.”
Cathy signed all three documents without another word.
“Thank you, Miss Ross,” said Mr. Baverstock. “And now if you could both bear with me for one moment, I must inform Mr. Birkenshaw of what has taken place.”
“Birkenshaw?” said Charlie.
“Mr. Trentham’s solicitor. I must obviously let him know immediately that his client is not the only person who has registered a claim to the Hardcastle estate.”
Cathy, looking even more bewildered, turned to Charlie.
“Later,” said Charlie. “I promise.”
Baverstock dialed the seven digits of a Chelsea number.
No one spoke as they waited for the telephone to be answered. Eventually Mr. Baverstock heard a sleepy voice say, “Kensington 7192.”
“Good evening, Birkenshaw, Baverstock here. Sorry to have to bother you at this time of night. Indeed, I wouldn’t have done so if I hadn’t considered the circumstances fully warranted such an intrusion on your privacy. But may I first ask what time you make it?”
“Have I heard you correctly?” said Birkenshaw, his voice now sounding more alert. “You’ve telephoned me in the middle of the night to ask what the time is?”
“Precisely,” said Baverstock. “You see, I need to confirm that it is still before the witching hour. So do be a good fellow and tell me what time you make it.”
“I make it eleven-seventeen, but I fail to understand—”
“I make it eleven-sixteen,” said Baverstock, “but on the matter of time I am happy to bow to your superior judgment. The purpose of this call, by the way,” he continued, “is to let you know that a second person—who appears to be a more direct descendant of Sir Raymond than your client—has laid claim to the Hardcastle estate.”
“What’s her name?”
“I suspect you already know that,” replied the old lawyer before he replaced the telephone. “Damn,” he said, looking across at Charlie, “I should have recorded the conversation.”
“Why?”
“Because Birkenshaw is never going to admit that he said ‘her.’”
CHAPTER
47
“Are you saying that Guy Trentham was my father?” asked Cathy. “But how…?”
After waking up Dr. Atkins, a man more used to being disturbed during the night, Charlie felt able to explain to Cathy what he had discovered during his visit to Australia, and how everything had been borne out by the information she had supplied to Becky when she first applied for a job at Trumper’s. Baverstock listened intently, nodding from time to time, while regularly checking the copious notes he had made following a long conversation with his nephew in Sydney.
Cathy listened to everything Charlie had to report and although she now had some recollections of her life in Australia, she was still fairly vague about her days at the University of Melbourne and could remember almost nothing of St. Hilda’s. The name “Miss Benson” just didn’t register at all.
“I’ve tried so hard to recall more details of what happened before I came to England, but n
othing much comes back despite the fact that I can remember almost everything that took place after I landed at Southampton. Dr. Atkins isn’t that optimistic, is he?”
“There are no rules, is all he keeps reminding me.”
Charlie stood up, walked across the room and turned Cathy’s painting round, a look of hope appearing on his face, but she just shook her head as she stared at the woodland scene.
“I agree I must have painted it at some time, but I’ve no idea where or when.”
Around four the following morning Charlie phoned for a taxi to take them back to Eaton Square, having agreed with Baverstock that he should set up a face-to-face meeting with the other side as soon as it could be arranged. When they returned home Cathy was so exhausted that she went straight to bed, but as Charlie’s time clock didn’t allow him to sleep he closeted himself in the study and continued his mental search for the missing link, only too aware of the legal battle that lay ahead of him even if he succeeded.
The following day he and Cathy traveled up to Cambridge together and spent a fraught afternoon in Dr. Atkins’ little office at Addenbrooke’s. For his part the consultant seemed far more interested in the file on Cathy that had been supplied by Mrs. Culver than the fact she might in some way be related to Mrs. Trentham and therefore eligible to inherit the Hardcastle Trust.
He took her slowly through each item in the file—art classes, credits, misdemeanors, tennis matches, Melbourne Church of England Girls’ Grammar School, University of Melbourne—but he always met with the same response: deep thought, but only vague recollections. He tried word associations—Melbourne, Miss Benson, cricket, ship, hotel—to which he received the replies, Australia, Hedges, scorer, Southampton, long hours.
“Scorer” was the only word that interested Dr. Atkins, but pressed further, Cathy’s only memories of Australia remained a sketchy description of a grammar school, some clear recollections of the university and a boy called Mel Nicholls, followed by a long trip on a ship to London. She could even tell them the names of Pam and Maureen, who had traveled over with her, but not where they came from.
Cathy went into great detail when the subject turned to the Melrose Hotel and Charlie was able to confirm the accuracy of Cathy’s recollection of her early life at Trumper’s.
The description of her first meeting with Daniel, down to his changing the place cards at the Trumpers’ housewarming party, brought tears to Charlie’s eyes. But on the subject of her parentage and the names of Margaret Ethel Trentham and Miss Rachel Benson, she still had nothing to offer.
By six o’clock Cathy was drained. Dr. Atkins took Charlie on one side and warned him that in his opinion it was most unlikely that she would remember much more of what took place in her life before she arrived in London. Perhaps minor incidents might come back to her from time to time, but nothing of any real significance.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t much help to you, was I?” said Cathy as Charlie drove her back to London.
He took her hand. “We’re not beaten yet,” he promised her, although he was beginning to feel that Trevor Roberts’ odds of fifty-fifty of proving that Cathy was the rightful claimant to the Hardcastle Trust were looking distinctly optimistic.
Becky was there to welcome them home and the three of them had a quiet supper together. Charlie made no reference to what had taken place at Cambridge earlier in the day until after Cathy had retired to her room. When Becky heard how Cathy had responded to Dr. Atkins’ examination she insisted that from now on the girl was to be left in peace.
“I lost Daniel because of that woman,” she told her husband. “I’m not willing to lose Cathy as well. If you’re going to continue your fight for Trumper’s you must do it without involving her.”
Charlie nodded his agreement though he wanted to shout out: how am I expected to save everything I’ve built up from being taken away from me by yet another Trentham without being allowed to push Cathy to the brink?
Just before he switched out the bedroom light the phone rang. It was Trevor Roberts calling from Sydney, but his news did not advance their cause. Walter Slade had refused to release any new information on Ethel Trentham and wouldn’t even sign a document confirming he had known her. Charlie once again cursed himself for the crass way he had handled the interview with the old Yorkshireman.
“And the bank?” he asked, not sounding too hopeful.
“The Commercial Bank of Australia say they wouldn’t allow access to the details of Miss Benson’s private account unless we could prove a crime had been committed. What Mrs. Trentham did to Cathy might well be described as evil, but I fear it wasn’t strictly criminal.”
“It hasn’t been a good day for either of us,” admitted Charlie.
“Never forget that the other side doesn’t know that.”
“True, but how much do they know?”
“My uncle told me about Birkenshaw’s slip of the tongue with ‘her,’ so my bet is they know almost as much as we do. When you confront them, better assume they do, while at the same time never stop looking for that missing link.”
After Charlie had put down the phone, he lay awake for some time and didn’t move again until he could hear Becky breathing deeply. Then he slid out of bed, donned his dressing gown and crept down to his study. He opened a notebook and began to write out every fact he had gathered during the last few days in the hope that it might just trigger some memory. The following morning Cathy found him slumped, head on his desk, sound asleep.
“I don’t deserve you, Charlie,” she whispered, kissing him on the forehead. He stirred and raised his eyes.
“We’re winning,” he said sleepily and even managed a smile, but he realized from the expression on her face that she didn’t believe him.
Becky joined them for breakfast an hour later and talked of everything except the face-to-face meeting that had been arranged to take place in Mr. Baverstock’s rooms that afternoon.
As Charlie stood up to leave the table, Cathy said, quite unexpectedly, “I’d like to be present at the showdown.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” asked Becky, glancing anxiously towards her husband.
“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.