As the Crow Flies

“That won’t work, Mother, and you know it. There’s no future for me in England for the time being. Or, at least, not until my name has been cleared. In any case, I don’t want to hang around London explaining to your bridge circle why I’m no longer with the regiment in India. No, I’ll have to go abroad until things have quieted down a little.”

“Then I’ll need some more time to think,” Guy’s mother replied. “Meanwhile, go up and have a bath and shave, and while you’re at it find yourself some clean clothes and I’ll work out what has to be done.”

As soon as Guy had left the room Mrs. Trentham returned to her writing desk and locked the little picture in the bottom left-hand drawer. She placed the key in her bag, then began to concentrate on the more immediate problem of what should be done to protect the Trentham name.

As she stared out of the window a plan began to form in her mind which, although it would require using even more of her dwindling resources, might at least give her the breathing space she required to expose Trumper for the thief and liar he was, and at the same time to exonerate her son.

Mrs. Trentham reckoned she only had about fifty pounds in cash in the safe deposit box in her bedroom, but she still possessed sixteen thousand of the twenty thousand that her father had settled on her the day she was married. “Always there in case of some unforeseen emergency,” he had told her prophetically.

Mrs. Trentham took out a piece of writing paper from her drawer and began to make some notes. She was only too aware that once her son left Chester Square that night she might not see him again for some considerable time. Forty minutes later she studied her efforts:

Her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Guy, looking a little more like the son she remembered. A blazer and cavalry twills had replaced the crumpled suit and the skin although pale was at least clean shaven. Mrs. Trentham folded up the piece of paper, having finally decided on exactly what course of action needed to be taken.

“Now, sit down and listen carefully,?

? she said.

Guy Trentham left Chester Square a few minutes after nine o’clock, an hour before his father was due to return from the Commons. He had fifty-three pounds in cash along with a check for five thousand pounds lodged in an inside pocket. He had agreed that he would write to his father the moment he landed in Sydney, explaining why he had traveled direct to Australia. His mother had vowed that while he was away she would do everything in her power to clear her son’s name, so that he might eventually return to England vindicated, and take up his rightful place as head of the family.

The only two servants who had seen Captain Trentham that evening were instructed by their mistress not to mention his visit to anyone, especially her husband, on pain of losing their positions in the household.

Mrs. Trentham’s final task before her husband returned home that night was to phone the local police. A Constable Wrigley dealt with the reported theft.

During those weeks of waiting for her son’s letter to arrive, Mrs. Trentham did not sit around idly. The day after Guy sailed to Australia she made one of her periodic visits to the St. Agnes Hotel, a rewrapped parcel under one arm. She handed over her prize to Mr. Harris before giving him a series of detailed instructions.

Two days later the detective informed her that the portrait of the Virgin Mary and Child had been left with Bentley’s the pawnbroker, and could not be sold for at least five years, when the date on the pawn ticket would have expired. He handed over a photo of the picture and the receipt to prove it. Mrs. Trentham placed the photo in her handbag but didn’t bother to ask Harris what had become of the five pounds he had been paid for the picture.

“Good,” she said, placing her handbag by the side of her chair. “In fact highly satisfactory.”

“So would you like me to point the right man at Scotland Yard in the direction of Bentley’s?” asked Harris.

“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Trentham. “I need you to carry out a little research on the picture before anyone else will set eyes on it, and then if my information proves correct the next occasion that painting will be seen by the public will be when it comes under the hammer at Sotheby’s.”

CHAPTER

24

“Good morning, madam. I do apologize for having to bother you in this way.”

“It’s no bother,” said Mrs. Trentham to the police officer whom Gibson had announced as Inspector Richards.

“It’s not you I was hoping to see actually, Mrs. Trentham,” explained the inspector. “It’s your son, Captain Guy Trentham.”

“Then you’ll have a very long journey ahead of you, Inspector.”

“I’m not sure I understand you, madam.”

“My son,” said Mrs. Trentham, “is taking care of our family interests in Australia, where he is a partner in a large firm of cattle brokers.”

Richards was unable to hide his surprise. “And how long has he been out there, madam?”

“For some considerable time, Inspector.”

“Could you be more precise?”

“Captain Trentham left England for India in February 1920, to complete his tour of duty with the regiment. He won the MC at the second battle of the Marne, you know.” She nodded towards the mantelpiece. The inspector looked suitably impressed. “Of course,” Mrs. Trentham continued, “it was never his intention to remain in the army, as we had always planned that he would have a spell in the colonies before returning to run our estates in Berkshire.”

“But did he come back to England before taking up this position in Australia?”