As the Crow Flies

“Of course, if you and your sister were both to object strongly to such a large commitment being made by the Trust it is possible our advisers might reconsider their position.”

“And how much are they thinking of investing?”

“Around two hundred thousand pounds,” the solicitor informed her. “This would make it possible for the Trust to purchase approximately ten percent of the shares that are on offer.”

“Is that not a considerable stake for us to be holding in one company?”

“It certainly is,” said Mr. Baverstock. “But still well within the Trust’s budget.”

“Then I am happy to accept Hambros’ judgment,” said Mrs. Trentham. “And I feel sure I speak for my sister in this matter.”

Once again Mr. Baverstock looked down at the file where he studied an affidavit signed by Miss Amy Hardcastle, virtually giving her sister carte blanche when it came to decisions relating to the estate of the late Sir Raymond Hardcastle, including the transfer of twenty thousand pounds from her personal account. Mr. Baverstock only hoped that Miss Amy was happy at the Cliff Top Residential Hotel. He looked up at Sir Raymond’s other daughter.

“Then all that is left for me to do,” he concluded, “is to advise Hambros of your views in this matter and brief you more fully when Trumper’s eventually allocates their shares.”

The solicitor closed the file, rose from behind his desk and began to walk towards the door. Mrs. Trentham followed in his wake, happy in the knowledge that both the Hardcastle Trust and her own advisers were now working in tandem to help her fulfill her long-term purpose without either side being aware of what she was up to. It pleased her even more to think that the day Trumper’s went public she would have control of fifteen percent of the company.

When they reached the door Mr. Baverstock turned to shake Mrs. Trentham’s hand.

“Good day, Mrs. Trentham.”

“Good day, Mr. Baverstock. You have been most punctilious, as always.”

She made her way back to the car where a chauffeur held open the back door for her. As she was driven away she turned to look out of the rear window. The lawyer was standing by the door of his offices, the worried expression remaining on his face.

“Where to, madam?” asked the chauffeur as they joined the afternoon traffic.

She checked her watch: the meeting with Baverstock had not taken as long as she had anticipated and she now found herself with some spare time before her next appointment. Nevertheless she still gave the instruction. “The St. Agnes Hotel,” as she placed a hand on the brown paper parcel that lay on the seat beside her.

She had told Harris to book a private room in the hotel and slip Kitty Bennett up in the lift at a time when he felt confident that no one was watching them.

When she arrived at the St. Agnes clutching the parcel under one arm, she was annoyed to find that Harris was not waiting for her in his usual place by the bar. She intensely disliked standing alone in the corridor and reluctantly went over to the hall porter to ask the number of the room Harris had booked.

“Fourteen,” said a man in a shiny blue uniform with buttons that did not shine. “But you can’t—”

Mrs. Trentham was not in the habit of being told “You can’t” by anyone. She turned and slow

ly climbed the stairs that led up to the bedrooms on the first floor. The hall porter quickly picked up the phone on the counter beside him.

It took Mrs. Trentham a few minutes to locate Room 14 and Harris almost as long to respond to her sharp knock. When Mrs. Trentham was eventually allowed to enter the room she was surprised to discover how small it was: only just large enough to accommodate one bed, one chair and a washbasin. Her eyes settled on the woman who was sprawled across the bed. She was wearing a red silk blouse and a black leather skirt—far too short in Mrs. Trentham’s opinion, not to mention the fact that two of the top buttons of the blouse were undone.

As Kitty made no attempt to remove an old raincoat that had been thrown across the chair, Mrs. Trentham was left with little choice but to remain standing.

She turned to Harris, who was checking his tie in the only mirror. He had obviously decided that any introduction was superfluous.

Mrs. Trentham’s only reaction was to get on with the business she had come to transact so that she could return to civilization as quickly as possible. She didn’t wait for Harris to start the proceedings.

“Have you explained to Mrs. Bennett what is expected of her?”

“I most certainly have,” said the detective, as he put on his jacket. “And Kitty is more than ready to carry out her part of the bargain.”

“Can she be trusted?” Mrs. Trentham glanced doubtfully down at the woman on the bed.

“’Course I can, long as the money’s right,” were Kitty’s first words. “All I want to know is, ’ow much do I get?”

“Whatever it sells for, plus fifty pounds,” said Mrs. Trentham.

“Then I expect twenty quid up front.”