As the Crow Flies

“Couldn’t you possibly reconsider your position?” Charlie asked.

“No, sir,” Baverstock replied firmly.

Charlie immediately closed the meeting, despite everyone trying to talk at once, and quickly followed Baverstock out of the boardroom.

“What made you resign?” Charlie asked. “After all these years?”

“Perhaps we could meet and discuss my reasons tomorrow, Sir Charles?”

“Of course. But just tell me why you felt it necessary to leave us at exactly the time when I most need you.”

Mr. Baverstock stopped in his tracks. “Sir Raymond anticipated this might happen,” he said quietly. “And instructed me accordingly.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That is why we should meet tomorrow, Sir Charles.”

“Do you want me to bring Becky along?”

Mr. Baverstock considered this suggestion for some time before saying, “I think not. If I am to break a confidence for the first time in forty years, I’d prefer to have no other witnesses present.”

When Charlie arrived at the offices of Baverstock, Dickens and Cobb the following morning, the senior partner was standing at the door waiting to greet him. Although Charlie had never once been late for an appointment with Mr. Baverstock in the fourteen years they had known each other, he was touched by the old-world courtesy the solicitor always extended to him.

“Good morning, Sir Charles,” said Baverstock before guiding his guest along the corridor to his office. Charlie was surprised to be offered a seat near the unlit fire rather than his usual place on the other side of the partner’s desk. There wasn’t a clerk or secretary in attendance on this occasion to keep a record of the minutes and Charlie also noticed that the phone on Mr. Baverstock’s desk had been taken off the hook. He sat back realizing

that this was not going to be a short meeting.

“Many years ago when I was a young man,” began Baverstock, “and I sat my pupil’s exams, I swore to keep a code of confidentiality when dealing with my clients’ private affairs. I think I can safely say that I have honored that undertaking throughout my professional life. However, one of my clients, as you well know, was Sir Raymond Hardcastle and he—” There was a knock on the door and a young girl entered, with a tray bearing two cups of hot coffee and a sugar bowl.

“Thank you, Miss Burrows,” said Baverstock as one of the cups was placed in front of him. He did not continue with his exposition until the door was closed behind her. “Where was I, old fellow?” Baverstock asked, as he dropped a sugar lump into his cup.

“Your client, Sir Raymond.”

“Oh, yes,” said Baverstock. “Now, Sir Raymond left a will of which you may well feel you are cognizant. What you could not know, however, is that he attached a letter to that document. It has no legal standing, as it was addressed to me in a personal capacity.”

Charlie’s coffee lay untouched as he listened intently to what Baverstock had to say. “It is because that letter is not a legal document but a private communication between old friends that I have decided you should be a party to its contents.”

Baverstock leaned forward and opened the file that lay on the table in front of him. He removed a single sheet of paper transcribed in a bold, firm hand. “I should like to point out, Sir Charles, before I read this letter to you that it was written at a time when Sir Raymond assumed that his estate would be inherited by Daniel and not by his next of kin.”

Mr. Baverstock pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, cleared his throat and began to read:

Baverstock placed the letter back on the table and said, “I fear he knew my little weaknesses every bit as much as his daughter’s.” Charlie smiled for he appreciated the ethical dilemma with which the old lawyer was so obviously grappling.

“Now, before I make reference to the will itself I must let you into another confidence.”

Charlie nodded.

“You are painfully aware, Sir Charles, that Mr. Nigel Trentham is now the next of kin. However, it should not pass unobserved that the will is so worded that Sir Raymond couldn’t even bring himself actually to name him as the recipient. I suspect that he hoped that Daniel might produce progeny of his own who would have taken precedence over his grandson.

“The current position is that Mr. Nigel Trentham will, as Sir Raymond’s closest living descendant, be entitled to the shares in Trumper’s and the residue of the Hardcastle estate—a considerable fortune, which I can confirm would provide him with adequate funds to mount a full takeover bid for your company. However, that was not my purpose in wanting to see you this morning. No, that was because there is one clause in the will you could not have previously been aware of. After taking into account Sir Raymond’s letter, I believe it to be nothing less than my duty to inform you of its import.”

Baverstock burrowed into his file and retrieved a sheaf of papers, sealed in wax and bound in pink ribbon.

“The first eleven clauses of Sir Raymond’s testament took me some considerable time to compose. However, their substance is not relevant to the issue at hand. They relate to minor legacies left by my client to nephews, nieces and cousins who have already received the sums bequeathed.

“Clauses twelve to twenty-one go on to name charities, clubs and academic institutions with which Sir Raymond had long been associated, and they too have received the benefit of his munificence. But it is clause twenty-two that I consider crucial.” Baverstock cleared his throat once again before looking down at the will and turning over several pages.

“‘The residue of my estate shall pass to Mr. Daniel Trumper of Trinity College, Cambridge, but should he fail to survive my daughter Ethel Trentham then that sum shall be equally divided between his offspring. Should he have no issue, then the estate shall pass to my closest living descendant.’ Now to the relevant paragraph, Sir Charles. ‘If these circumstances arise I instruct my executors to go to any lengths they feel necessary to find someone entitled to make a claim on my inheritance. In order that this option might be properly executed, I also deem that final payment of the residue of the estate shall not be made until a further two years after my daughter’s death.’”