As the Crow Flies

The butler seemed momentarily taken aback but opened the door of the drawing room and announced, “Captain Daniel Trentham, madam.”

Mrs. Trentham was standing by the window when Daniel entered the room. She swung round, stared at the young man, took a couple of paces forward, hesitated and then fell heavily onto the sofa.

For God’s sake don’t faint was Daniel’s first reaction as he stood in the center of the carpet facing his grandmother.

“Who are you?” she whispered at last.

“Don’t let’s play games, Grandmother. You know very well who I am,” said Daniel, hoping he sounded confident.

“She sent you, didn’t she?”

“If you are referring to my mother, no, she did not. In fact she doesn’t even know that I’m here.”

Mrs. Trentham’s mouth opened in protest, but she did not speak. Daniel swayed from foot to foot during what seemed to him to be an unbearably long silence. His eye began to focus on an MC that stood on the mantelpiece.

“So what do you want?” she asked.

“I’ve come to make a deal with you, Grandmother.”

“What do you mean, a deal? You’re in no position to make any deals.”

“Oh, I think I am, Grandmother. You see, I’ve just come back from a trip to Australia.” He paused. “Which turned out to be very revealing.”

Mrs. Trentham flinched, but her eyes did not leave him for a moment.

“And what I learned about my father while I was there doesn’t bear repeating. I won’t go into any details, as I suspect you know every bit as much as I do.”

Her eyes remained fixed on him and she slowly began to show signs of recovery.

“Unless, of course, you want to know where they had planned to bury my father originally, because it certainly wasn’t in the family plot at Ashurst parish church.”

“What do you want?” she repeated.

“As I said, Grandmother, I’ve come to make a deal.”

“I’m listening.”

“I want you to abandon your plans for building those dreadful flats in Chelsea Terrace, and at the same time withdraw any objections you may have to the detailed planning permission Trumper’s has applied for.”

“Never.”

“Then I fear the time may have come for the world to be informed of the real reason for your vendetta against my mother.”

“But that would harm your mother every bit as much as me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Grandmother,” said Daniel. “Especially when

the press find out that your son resigned his commission with far from glowing testimonials, and later died in Melbourne in even less auspicious circumstances—despite the fact he was finally laid to rest in a sleepy village in Berkshire after you had shipped the body home, telling your friends that he had been a successful cattle broker and died tragically of tuberculosis.”

“But that’s blackmail.”

“Oh, no, Grandmother, just a troubled son, desperate to discover what had really happened to his long-lost father and shocked when he found out the truth behind the Trentham family secret. I think the press would describe such an incident quite simply as ‘an internal feud.’ One thing’s for certain—my mother would come out smelling of roses, though I’m not sure how many people would still want to play bridge with you once they learned all the finer details.”

Mrs. Trentham rose quickly to her feet, clenched both her fists and advanced towards him menacingly. Daniel stood his ground.

“No hysterics, Grandmother. Don’t forget I know everything about you.” He felt acutely aware that he actually knew very little.

Mrs. Trentham stopped, and even retreated a pace. “And if I agree to your demands?”