As the Crow Flies

After the mourners had left I decided to stay on in Yorkshire for a few more days while Gerald and Nigel returned to London. Amy spent most of the time in her bedroom, which gave me the chance to look around the house and check if there was anything of real value that could be rescued before I returned to Ashurst. After all, the property would—once the will had been administered—at worst end up being divided between us.

I came across my mother’s jewelry, which had obviously never been touched since her death, and the Stubbs that still hung in my father’s study. I removed the jewelry from my father’s bedroom, and as for the Stubbs, Amy agreed—over a light supper in her room—that for the time being I could hang the painting at Ashurst. The only other item left of any real value, I concluded, was my father’s magnificent library. However, I already had long-term plans for the collection that did not involve the sale of a single book.

On the first of the month I traveled down to London to attend the offices of Baverstock, Dickens and Cobb to be informed officially of the contents of my father’s will.

Mr. Baverstock seemed disappointed that Amy had felt unable to make the journey but accepted the fact that my sister had not yet recovered sufficiently from the shock of my father’s death to contemplate such a trip. Several other relations, most of whom I saw only at christenings, weddings and funerals, sat around looking hopeful. I knew exactly what they could expect.

Mr. Baverstock took over an hour performing what seemed to me a simple enough responsibility, though to be fair he managed with some considerable dexterity not to reveal the name of Daniel Trumper when it came to explaining what would eventually happen to the estate. My mind began to wander as minor relations were informed of the thousand-pound windfalls they would inherit and was only brought sharply back to the droning voice of Mr. Baverstock when he uttered my own name.

“Mrs. Gerald Trentham and Miss Amy Hardcastle will both receive during their lifetimes in equal part any income derived from the Trust.” The solicitor stopped to turn a page before placing the palms of his hands on the desk. “And finally, the house, the estate in Yorkshire and all its contents plus the sum of twenty thousand pounds,” he continued, “I bequeath to my elder daughter, Miss Amy Hardcastle.”

CHAPTER

33

“Good morning, Mr. Sneddles.”

The old bibliophile was so surprised the lady knew his name that for a moment he just stood and stared at her.

Eventually he shuffled across to greet the lady, giving her a low bow. She was, after all, the first customer he had seen for over a week—that is if he did not count Dr. Halcombe, the retired headmaster, who would happily browse around the shop for hours on end but who had not actually purchased a book since 1937.

“Good morning, madam,” he said in turn. “Was there a particular volume that you were hoping to find?” He looked at the lady, who wore a long lace dress and a large wide-brimmed hat with a veil that made it impossible to see her face.

“No, Mr. Sneddles,” said Mrs. Trentham. “I have not come to purchase a book, but to seek your services.” She stared at the stooping old man in his mittens, cardigan and overcoat, which she assumed he was wearing because he could no longer afford to keep the shop heated. Although his back seemed to be permanently semicircular and his head stuck out like a tortoise’s from its overcoat shell, his eyes were clear and his mind appeared sharp and alert.

“My services, madam?” the old man repeated.

“Yes. I have inherited an extensive library that I require to be catalogued and valued. You come highly recommended.”

“It’s kind of you to say so, madam.”

Mrs. Trentham was relieved that Mr. Sneddles did not inquire as to who had made the particular recommendation.

“And where is this library, might I be permitted to ask?”

“A few miles east of Harrogate. You will find that it is quite an extraordinary collection. My late father, Sir Raymond Hardcastle—you may have heard of him?—devoted a considerable part of his life to putting it together.”

“Harrogate?” said Sneddles as if it was a few miles east of Bangkok.

“Of course I would cover all your expenses, however long the enterprise might take.”

“But it would mean having to close the shop,” he murmured as if talking to himself.

“I would naturally also compensate you for any loss of earnings.”

Mr. Sneddles removed a book from the counter and checked its spine. “I fear it’s out of the question, madam, quite impossible, you see—”

“My father specialized in William Blake, you know. You will find that he managed to get hold of every first edition, some still in mint condition. He even secured a handwritten manuscript of…”

Amy Hardcastle had gone to bed even before her sister arrived back in Yorkshire that evening.

“She gets so tired nowadays,” the housekeeper explained.

Mrs. Trentham was left with little choice but to have a light supper on her own before retiring to her old room a few minutes after ten. As far as she could tell nothing had changed: the view over the Yorkshire dales, the black clouds, even the picture of York Minster that hung above the walnut-framed bed. She slept soundly enough and returned downstairs at eight the following morning. The cook explained to her that Miss Amy had not yet risen so she ate breakfast alone.

Once all the covered dishes had been cleared away Mrs. Trentham sat in the drawing room reading the Yorkshire Post while she waited for her sister to make an appearance. When over an hour later the old cat wandered in, Mrs. Trentham shooed the animal away with a vicious wave of the folded newspaper. The grandfather clock in the hall had already struck eleven when Amy finally entered the room. She walked slowly towards her sister with the aid of a stick.

“I’m so sorry, Ethel, that I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived last night,” she began. “I fear my arthritis has been playing me up again.”