As the Crow Flies

“No need to check this lot into a hotel,” said Roberts as he held the door open for Charlie. “Just leave everything in the car.”

“Is this good legal advice you’re giving me?” asked Charlie, already out of breath trying to keep up with the young man.

“It certainly is, Sir Charles, because we’ve no time to waste.” He brought the trolley to a halt at the curbside and a chauffeur heaved the bags into the boot while Charlie and Mr. Roberts climbed into the back. “The British Governor-General has invited you for drinks at six at his residence, but I also need you to be on the last flight to Melbourne tonight. As we only have six days left, we can’t afford to waste any of them being in the wrong city.”

Charlie knew he was going to like Mr. Roberts from the moment the Australian passed over a thick file. Charlie began to listen attentively to the young lawyer as he went over the proposed schedule for the next three days while the car traveled on towards the outskirts of the city. Charlie continued to pay attention to everything he had to say, only occasionally asking for something to be repeated or gone over in greater detail as he tried to accustom himself to the difference in style between Mr. Roberts and any solicitor he had dealt with in England. When he had asked Mr. Baverstock to find him the sharpest young lawyer in Sydney, Charlie hadn’t imagined that he would select someone in quite such a different mold from his old friend.

As the car sped along the highway towards the Governor-General’s residence Roberts, with several files balanced on his knees, continued with his detailed briefing. “We’re only attending this cocktail party with the Governor-General,” he explained, “in case during the next few days we need some help in opening heavy doors. Then we’re off to Melbourne because every time someone from my office comes up with anything that might be described as a lead it always seems to end up on the Chief Commissioner of Police’s desk in that city. I’ve made an appointment for you to see the new chief in the morning, but as I warned you the commissioner’s not proving to be at all cooperative with my people.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s recently been appointed to the job, and is now desperately trying to prove that everyone will be treated impartially—except poms.”

“So what’s his problem?”

“Like all second-generation Australians he hates the British, or at least he has to pretend he does.” Roberts grinned. “In fact, I think there’s only one group of people he dislikes more.”

“Criminals?”

“No, lawyers,” replied Roberts. “So now you’ll realize why the odds are stacked against us.”

“Have you managed to get anything out of him at all?”

“Not a lot. Most of what he has been willing to reveal was already on public record, namely that on 27 July 1926 Guy Trentham, in a fit of temper, killed his wife by stabbing her several times while she was taking a bath. He then held her under the water so as to be sure that she didn’t survive—page sixteen in your file. We also know that on 23 April 1927 he was hanged for the crime, despite several appeals for clemency to the Governor-General. What we’ve been quite unable to discover is if he was survived by any children. The Melbourne Age was the one newspaper that carried a report of the trial, and they made no mention of a child. However, that’s hardly surprising, as the judge would have ruled against any such reference in court unless it threw some light on the crime.”

“But what about the wife’s maiden name? Surely that’s a better route to take.”

“You’re not going to like this, Sir Charles,” said Roberts.

“Try me.”

“Her name was Smith—Anna Helen Smith—that’s why we concentrated what little time we had on Trentham.”

“But you’ve still come up with no firm leads?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Roberts. “If there was a child in Australia at the time bearing the name of ‘Trentham’ we certainly haven’t been able to trace him. My staff have interviewed every Trentham that’s shown up on the national register, including one from Coorabulka, which has a population of eleven and takes three days to reach by car and foot.”

“Despite your valiant efforts, Roberts, my guess is there might still be some stones we need to look under.”

“Possibly,” said Roberts. “I even began to wonder if perhaps Trentham had changed his name when he first came to Australia, but the chief of police was able to confirm that the file he holds in Melbourne is under the name of Guy Francis Trentham.”

“So if the name’s unchanged then surely any child would be traceable?”

“Not necessarily. I dealt with a case quite recently in which I had a client whose husband was sent to jail for manslaughter. She reverted to her maiden name, which she also gave to her only child, and was able to show me a foolproof system for then having the original name expunged from the records. Also, remember that in this case we’re dealing with a child who could have been born any time between 1923 and 1925, and the removal of just one piece of paper could well have been enough to eliminate any connection he or she might have with Guy Trentham. If that’s the case, finding such a child in a country the size of Australia would be like searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack.”

“But I’ve only got six days,” said Charlie plaintively.

“Don’t remind me,” said Roberts, as the car drove through the gates of the Governor-General’s residence at Government House, dropping its speed to a more sedate pace as they continued up the d

rive. “I’ve allocated one hour for this party, no more,” the young lawyer warned. “All I want out of the Governor-General is a promise that he’ll telephone the chief of police in Melbourne before our meeting tomorrow, to ask him to be as cooperative as possible. But when I say we must leave, Sir Charles, I mean we must leave.”

“Understood,” said Charlie, feeling like a private back on parade in Edinburgh.

“By the way,” said Roberts, “the Governor-General is Sir Oliver Williams. Sixty-one, former guards officer, comes from some place called Tunbridge Wells.”

Two minutes later they were striding into the grand ballroom of Government House.

“So glad you could make it, Sir Charles,” said a tall, elegantly dressed man who wore a double-breasted striped suit and a guards tie.