As the Crow Flies

by Jeffrey Archer

  Her lawyers had confirmed that there was no way of reversing the provisions in the will unless Daniel Trumper were voluntarily to resign all his rights. They even presented her with a form of words that would be necessary for him to sign in such circumstances, leaving Mrs. Trentham the daunting task of actually getting his signature affixed to the paper.

  As Mrs. Trentham was unable to imagine any situation in which she and Daniel would ever meet she considered the whole exercise futile. However, she carefully locked the lawyer’s draft in the bottom drawer of her desk in the drawing room along with all the other Trumper documents.

  “How nice to see you again, madam,” said Mr. Sneddles. “I cannot apologize too profusely over the length of time I have taken to complete your commission. I shall naturally charge you no more than the sum on which we originally agreed.”

  The bookseller was unable to see the expression on Mrs. Trentham’s face as she had not yet removed her veil. She followed the old man past shelf after shelf of dust-covered books until they reached his little room at the back of the shop. There she was introduced to Dr. Halcombe who, like Sneddles, was wearing a heavy overcoat. She declined to take the offered chair when she noticed that it too was covered in a thin layer of dust.

  The old man proudly pointed to eight boxes that lay on his desk. It took him nearly an hour to explain, with the occasional interjection from Dr. Halcombe, how they had catalogued her late father’s entire library, first alphabetically under authors, then by categories and finally with a separate cross-section under titles. A rough valuation of each book had also been penciled neatly in the bottom right-hand corner of every card.

  Mrs. Trentham was surprisingly patient with Mr. Sneddles, occasionally asking questions in whose answer she had no interest, while allowing him to indulge in a long and complicated explanation as to how he had occupied his time during the past five years.

  “You have done a quite remarkable job, Mr. Sneddles,” she said after he flicked over the last card, “Zola, Emile (1840–1902).” “I could not have asked for more.”

  “You are most kind, madam,” said the old man, bowing low, “but then you have always shown such a genuine concern in these matters. Your father could have found no more suitable person to be responsible for his life’s work.”

  “Fifty guineas was the agreed fee, if I remember correctly,” said Mrs. Trentham, removing a check from her handbag and passing it over to the owner of the bookshop.

  “Thank you, madam,” Mr. Sneddles replied, taking the check and placing it absentmindedly in an ashtray. He refrained from adding, “I would happily have paid you double the sum for the privilege of carrying out such an exercise.”

  “And I see,” she said, studying the accompanying papers closely, “that you have placed an overall value on the entire collection of a little under five thousand pounds.”

  “That is correct, madam. I should warn you, however, that if anything I have erred on the conservative side. You see, some of these volumes are so rare it would be difficult to say what they might fetch on the open market.”

  “Does that mean you would be willing to offer such a sum for the library should I wish to dispose of it?” asked Mrs. Trentham, looking directly at him.

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, madam,” replied the old man. “But alas, I fear that I quite simply do not have sufficient funds to do so.”

  “What would your attitude be were I to entrust you with the responsibility for their sale?” asked Mrs. Trentham, her eyes never leaving the old man.

  “I can think of no greater privilege, madam, but it might take me many months—possibly even years to carry out such an enterprise.”

  “Then perhaps we should come to some arrangement, Mr. Sneddles.”

  “Some arrangement? I’m not sure I fully understand you, madam.”

  “A partnership perhaps, Mr. Sneddles?”

  CHAPTER

  34

  Mrs. Trentham approved of Nigel’s choice of bride; but then it was she who had selected the young lady in the first place.

  Veronica Berry possessed all the attributes her future mother-in-law considered necessary to become a Trentham. She came from a good family: her father was a vice-admiral who had not yet been placed on the reserve list and her mother was the daughter of a suffragan bishop. They were comfortably off without being wealthy and, more important, of their three children, all daughters, Veronica was the eldest.

  The wedding was celebrated at Kimmeridge parish church in Dorset where Veronica had been christened by the vicar, confirmed by the suffragan bishop and was now to be married by the bishop of Bath and Wells. The reception was grand enough without being lavish and “the children,” as Mrs. Trentham referred to them, would, she told everyone, be spending their honeymoon on the family estate in Aberdeen before returning to a mews house in Cadogan Place that she had selected for them. It was so convenient for Chester Square, she explained when asked, and also when not asked.

  Every one of the thirty-two partners of Kitcat and Aitken, the stockbrokers for whom Nigel worked, was invited to the nuptial feast, but only five felt able to make the journey to Dorset.

  During the reception, held on the lawn of the vice-admiral’s home, Mrs. Trentham made a point of speaking to all those partners present. To her consternation none was particularly forthcoming about Nigel’s future.

  Mrs. Trentham had rather hoped that her son might have been made a partner soon after his fortieth birthday as she was well aware that several younger men had seen their names printed on the top left-hand side of the letter paper despite having joined the firm some time after Nigel.

  Just before the speeches were about to begin a shower sent the guests scurrying back into the marquee. Mrs. Trentham felt the bridegroom’s speech could have been received a little more warmly. However, she allowed that it was quite hard to applaud when you were holding a glass of champagne in one hand and an asparagus roll in the other. Indeed, Nigel’s best man, Hugh Folland, hadn’t done a great deal better.

  After the speeches were over Mrs. Trentham sought out Miles Renshaw, the senior partner of Kitcat and Aitken, and after taking him on one side revealed that in the near future she intended to invest a considerable sum of money in a company that was planning to go public. She would therefore be in need of his advice as to what she described as her long-term strategy.

  This piece of information did not elicit any particular response from Renshaw, who still remembered Mrs. Trentham’s assurance over the future management of the Hardcastle portfolio once her father had died. However, he suggested that perhaps she should drop into their City office and go over the details of the transaction once the official tender document had been released.

  Mrs. Trentham thanked Mr. Renshaw and continued to work her way round the assembled gathering as if it were she who was the hostess.

  She didn’t notice Veronica’s scowl of disapproval on more than one occasion.

  It was the last Friday in September 1947 that Gibson tapped quietly on the door of the living room, entered and announced, “Captain Daniel Trentham.”

  When Mrs. Trentham first saw the young man dressed in the uniform of a captain in the Royal Fusiliers, her legs almost gave way. He marched in and came to a halt in the middle of the carpet. The meeting that had taken place in that room more than twenty-five years before immediately sprang to her mind. Somehow she managed to get herself across the room before collapsing onto the sofa.

  Gripping its arm to make sure she didn’t pass out completely Mrs. Trentham stared up at her grandson. She was horrified at his resemblance to Guy, and felt quite sick by the memories he evoked. Memories which for so many years she had managed to keep at the back of her mind.

  Once she had composed herself Mrs. Trentham’s first reaction was to order Gibson to throw him out, but she decided to wait for a moment as she was anxious to discover what the young man could possibly want. As Daniel delivered his carefully rehearsed sentences she began to wonder
if possibly the meeting might be turned to her advantage.

  Her grandson started by telling her how he had been to Australia that summer, not America as Harris had led her to believe. He went on to show he knew of her ownership of the flats, her attempt to block the planning permission for the store and the wording on the grave in Ashurst. He continued his rendering with an assurance that his parents were unaware he had come to visit her that afternoon.

  Mrs. Trentham concluded that he must have discovered the full circumstances of her son’s death in Melbourne. Otherwise why would he have stressed that, if the information he possessed were to fall into the hands of the popular press, it could only result in—to put it mildly—embarrassment for all concerned?

  Mrs. Trentham allowed Daniel to continue his speech while at the same time thinking furiously. It was during his prognosis on the future development of Chelsea Terrace that she wondered just how much the young man standing before her actually did know. She decided there was only one way of finding out, and that would require her to take one big risk.

  When Daniel had finally come out with his specific demand, Mrs. Trentham simply replied, “I have a condition of my own.”

  “What condition?”

  “That you relinquish any claim you might have to the Hardcastle estate.”

  Daniel looked uncertain for the first time. It was obviously not what he had expected. Mrs. Trentham suddenly felt confident that he had no knowledge of the will: after all, her father had briefed Baverstock not to allow the young man to be privy to its contents until his thirtieth birthday; and Mr. Baverstock was not a man to break his word.

  “I can’t believe you ever intended to leave me anything in the first place,” was Daniel’s first response.

  She didn’t reply and waited until Daniel at last nodded his agreement.

  “In writing,” she added.

  “Then I shall also require our arrangement in writing,” he demanded brusquely.

  Mrs. Trentham felt certain that he was no longer relying on the safety of a prepared script and was now simply reacting to events as they took place.

  She rose, walked slowly over to her desk and unlocked a drawer. Daniel remained in the middle of the room, swaying slightly from foot to foot.

  Having located two sheets of paper and retrieving the lawyer’s draft wording that she had left locked in the bottom drawer, Mrs. Trentham wrote out two identical agreements which included Daniel’s demand for her withdrawal of both her application to build the flats and her objections to his father’s application for planning permission to build Trumper Towers. She also included in the agreements her lawyer’s exact words for Daniel’s waiver of his rights to his great-grandfather’s estate.

  She handed over the first draft for her grandson to study. At any moment she expected him to work out what he must be sacrificing by signing such a document.

  Daniel finished reading the first copy of the agreement, then checked to see that both drafts were identical in every detail. Though he said nothing, Mrs. Trentham still felt he must surely fathom out why she needed the agreement so badly. In fact, had he demanded that she also sell the land in Chelsea Terrace to his father at a commercial rate she would happily have agreed, just to have Daniel’s signature on the bottom of the agreement.

  The moment Daniel had signed both documents Mrs. Trentham rang the bell and called for the butler to witness the two signatures. Once this task had been completed she said curtly, “Show the gentleman out, Gibson.” As the uniformed figure left the room she found herself wondering just now long it would be before the boy realized what a poor bargain he had struck.

  When on the following day Mrs. Trentham’s solicitors studied the one-page document they were stunned by the simplicity of the transaction. However, she offered no explanation as to how she had managed to achieve such a coup. A slight bow of the head from the senior partner acknowledged that the agreement was watertight.

  Every man has his price, and once Martin Simpson realized his source of income had dried up, a further fifty pounds in cash convinced him that he should withdraw his objection to Trumper Towers from proceeding as planned.

  The following day Mrs. Trentham turned her attention to other matters: the understanding of offer documents.

  In Mrs. Trentham’s opinion Veronica became pregnant far too quickly. In May 1948 her daughter-in-law produced a son, Giles Raymond, only nine months and three weeks after she and Nigel had been married. At least the child had not been born prematurely. As it was, Mrs. Trentham had already observed the servants counting the months on their fingers on more than one occasion.

  It was after Veronica had returned from hospital with the child that Mrs. Trentham had the first difference of opinion with her daughter-in-law.

  Veronica and Nigel had wheeled Giles round to Chester Square for the proud grandmother to admire. After Mrs. Trentham had given the infant a cursory glance Gibson pushed the pram out and the tea trolley in.

  “Of course you’ll want the boy to be put down for Asgarth and Harrow without delay,” said Mrs. Trentham, even before Nigel or Veronica had been given a chance to select a sandwich. “After all, one wants to be certain that his place is guaranteed.”

  “Actually, Nigel and I have already decided how our son will be educated,” said Veronica, “and neither of those schools have entered our deliberations.”

  Mrs. Trentham placed her cup back on its saucer and stared at Veronica as if she had announced the death of the King. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly, Veronica.”

  “We are going to send Giles to a local primary school in Chelsea and then on to Bryanston.”

  “Bryanston? And where is that, may one ask?”

  “In Dorset. It’s my father’s old school,” Veronica added before removing a salmon sandwich from the plate in front of her.

  Nigel looked anxiously across at his mother as he touched his blue and silver striped tie.

  “That may well be the case,” said Mrs. Trentham. “However, I feel sure we still need to give a little more consideration as to how young Raymond—she stressed the name—should start off in life.”

  “No, that will be unnecessary,” said Veronica. “Nigel and I have already given quite sufficient thought as to how Giles should be educated. In fact, we registered him for Bryanston last week. After all, one wants to be certain that his place is guaranteed.”

  Veronica leaned forward and helped herself to another salmon sandwich.

  Three chimes echoed from the little carriage clock that stood on the mantelpiece on the far side of the room.

  Max Harris pushed himself up out of the armchair in the corner of the lounge the moment he saw Mrs. Trentham enter the hotel lobby. He gave a half bow as he waited for his client to be seated in the chair opposite him.

  He ordered tea for her and another double whisky for himself. Mrs. Trentham frowned her disapproval as the waiter scurried off to carry out the order. Her attention fixed on Max Harris the moment she heard the inevitable clicks.

  “I assume you would not have requested this meeting, Mr. Harris, unless you had something important to tell me.”

  “I think I can safely say that I am the bearer of glad tidings. You see, a lady by the name of Mrs. Bennett has recently been arrested and charged with shoplifting. A fur coat and a leather belt from Harvey Nicholls, to be exact.”

  “And of what possible interest could this lady be to me?” asked Mrs. Trentham as she looked over his shoulder, annoyed to see that it had started raining, remembering that she had left the house without an umbrella.

  “She turns out to have a rather interesting relationship with Sir Charles Trumper.”

  “Relationship?” said Mrs. Trentham, looking even more puzzled.

  “Yes,” said Harris. “Mrs. Bennett is none other than Sir Charles’ youngest sister.”

  Mrs. Trentham turned her gaze back on Max Harris. “But Trumper only has three sisters if I remember correctly,” she said. “Sal, who is in
Toronto and married to an insurance salesman; Grace, who has recently been appointed matron of Guy’s Hospital, and Kitty, who left England some time ago to join her sister in Canada.”

  “And has now returned.”

  “Returned?”

  “Yes, as Mrs. Kitty Bennett.”

  “I don’t begin to understand,” said Mrs. Trentham, becoming exasperated by the cat and mouse game Harris was so obviously enjoying.

  “While she was in Canada,” Harris continued, oblivious to his client’s irritation, “she married a certain Mr. Bennett, a longshoreman. Not unlike her old man, in fact. It lasted for almost a year before ending in a messy divorce in which several men were petitioned. She returned to England a few weeks ago, but only after her sister Sal had refused to take her back.”

  “How did you come by this information?”

  “A friend of mine at Wandsworth nick pointed me in the right direction. Once he had read the charge sheet in the name of Bennett, née Trumper, he decided to double-check. It was ‘Kitty’ that gave the game away. I popped round immediately to be sure we had the right woman.” Harris stopped to sip his whisky.

  “Go on,” said Mrs. Trentham impatiently.

  “For five pounds she sang like a canary,” said Harris. “If I were in a position to offer her fifty I’ve a feeling she’d sound awfully like a nightingale.”

  When Trumper’s announced they were preparing to go public Mrs. Trentham was holidaying on her husband’s estate in Aberdeenshire. Having read the short piece in the Telegraph, she concluded that, although she now had control over the combined monthly incomes left to her sister as well as herself and a further windfall of twenty thousand pounds, she would still need all the capital she had acquired from the sale of the Yorkshire estate if she was going to be able to purchase a worthwhile holding in the new company. She made three trunk calls that morning.

  Earlier in the year she had given instructions for her own portfolio to be transferred to Kitcat and Aitken, and after several months of continually badgering her husband she had finally bludgeoned him into following suit. Despite this further commitment on her son’s behalf Nigel was still not offered a partnership. Mrs. Trentham would have advised him to resign had she been confident his prospects elsewhere would have been any better.