As the Crow Flies

“A daughter?” repeated Roberts, unable to hide his excitement. “But did Cooper let you know her name, or anything about her?”

“Margaret Ethel, but our only other clue is that Mrs. Trentham, Guy’s mother, paid a visit to Melbourne in 1927. Cooper didn’t know why.”

“Good heavens,” said Roberts. “You’ve achieved more in twenty minutes than I achieved in twenty days.”

“Ah, but I had the advantage of birth,” said Charlie with a grin. “Now where would an English lady have rested her genteel head in this city around that time?”

“Not my hometown,” admitted Roberts. “But my partner Neil Mitchell should be able to tell us. His family settled in Melbourne over a hundred years ago.”

“So what are we waiting for?”

Neil Mitchell frowned when his colleague put the same question to him. “I haven’t a clue,” he admitted, “but my mother’s sure to know.” He picked up his phone and started dialing. “She’s Scottish, so she’ll try and charge us for the information.” Charlie and Trevor Roberts stood in front of Mitchell’s desk and waited, one patiently, one impatiently. After a few preliminaries expected of a son, he put his question and listened carefully to her reply.

“Thank you, Mother, invaluable as always,” he said. “See you at the weekend,” he added before putting down the phone.

“Well?” said Charlie.

“The Victoria Country Club apparently was the only place someone from Mrs. Trentham’s background would have dreamed of staying in the twenties,” Mitchell said. “In those days Melbourne only had two decent hotels and the other one was strictly for visiting businessmen.”

“Does the place still exist?” asked Roberts.

“Yes, but it’s badly run-down nowadays. What I imagine Sir Charles would describe as ‘seedy.’”

“Then telephone ahead and let them know you want a table for lunch in the name of Sir Charles Trumper. And stress ‘Sir Charles.’”

“Certainly, Sir Charles,” said Roberts. “And which accent will we be using on this occasion?”

“Can’t tell you that until I’ve weighed up the opposition,” said Charlie as they made their way back to the car.

“Ironic when you think about it,” said Roberts, as the car headed out onto the freeway.

“Ironic?”

“Yes,” said Roberts. “If Mrs. Trentham went to all this trouble to remove her granddaughter’s very existence from the records, she must have required the services of a first-class lawyer to assist her.”

“So?”

“So there must be a file buried somewhere in this city that would tell us everything we need to know.”

“Possibly, but one thing’s for certain: we don’t have enough time to discover whose filing cabinet it’s hidden in.”

When they arrived at the Victoria Country Club they found the manager standing in the hallway waiting to greet them. He led his distinguished guest through to a quiet table in the alcove. Charlie was only disappointed to find how young he was.

Charlie chose the most expensive items from the à la carte section of the menu, then selected a 1957 bottle of Chambertin. Within moments he was receiving attention from every waiter in the room.

“And what are you up to this time, Sir Charles?” asked Roberts, who had satisfied himself with the set menu.

“Patience, young man,” Charlie said in mock disdain as he tried to cut into an overcooked, tough piece of lamb with a blunt knife. He eventually gave in, and ordered a vanilla ice cream, confident they couldn’t do much harm to that. When finally the coffee was served, the oldest waiter in the room came slowly over to offer them both a cigar.

“A Monte Cristo, please,” said Charlie, removing a pound note from his wallet and placing it on the table in front of him. A large old humidor was o

pened for his inspection. “Worked here for a long time, have you?” Charlie added.

“Forty years last month,” said the waiter, as another pound note landed on top of the first.

“Good memory?”

“I like to think so, sir,” said the waiter, staring at the two banknotes.