As the Crow Flies

“No, never,” said Sinclair-Smith. “Although my father and your aunt had many long conversations, he never once confided in me what passed between them.”

Charlie tried not to show his frustration at this piece of information. “Well, if you don’t know what she was up to,” he said, “I don’t suppose there’s anyone alive who does.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Sinclair-Smith. “Slade would know—that is, if he hasn’t gone completely ga-ga.”

“Slade?”

“Yes, a Yorkshireman who worked at the club under my father, in the days when we still had a resident chauffeur. In fact, the whole time Mrs. Trentham stayed at the club she always insisted on using Slade. Said no one else should drive her.”

“Is he still around?” asked Charlie as he blew out another large cloud of smoke.

“Good heavens no,” said Sinclair-Smith. “Retired years ago. Not even sure he’s still alive.”

“Do you get back to the old country much nowadays?” inquired Charlie, convinced that he had extracted every piece of relevant information that could be gained from this particular source.

“No, unfortunately what with…”

For the next twenty minutes, Charlie settled back and enjoyed his cigar as he listened to Sinclair-Smith on everything from the demise of the Empire to the parlous state of English cricket. Eventually Charlie called for the bill, at which the owner took his leave and slipped discreetly away.

The old waiter shuffled back the moment he saw another pound note appear on the tablecloth.

“Something you needed, sir?”

“Does the name ‘Slade’ mean anything to you?”

“Old Walter Slade, the club’s chauffeur?”

“That’s the man.”

“Retired years ago.”

“I know that much, but is he still alive?”

“No idea,” said the waiter. “Last I heard of him he lived somewhere out in the Ballarat area.”

“Thank you,” said Charlie, as he stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, removed another pound note and left to join Roberts in the lobby.

“Telephone your office immediately,” he instructed his solicitor. “Ask them to track down a Walter Slade who may be living at somewhere called Ballarat.”

Roberts hurried off in the direction of the telephone sign, while Charlie paced up and down the corridor praying the old man was still alive. His solicitor returned a few minutes later. “Am I allowed to know what you’re up to this time, Sir Charles?” he asked as he passed over a piece of paper with Walter Slade’s address printed out in capital letters.

“No good, that’s for sure,” said Charlie, as he took in the information. “Don’t need you for this one, young man, but I will require the car. See you back at the office—and I can’t be sure when.” He gave a small wave as he pushed through the swing doors leaving a bemused Roberts standing on his own in the lobby.

Charlie handed over the slip of paper to the chauffeur who studied the address. “But it’s nearly a hundred miles,” said the man, looking over his shoulder.

“Then we haven’t a moment to waste, have we?”

The driver switched on the engine and swung out of the country club forecourt. He drove past the Melbourne Cricket Ground where Charlie could see someone was 2 for 147. It annoyed him that on his first trip to Australia he didn’t even have enough time to drop in and see the test match. The journey on the north highway lasted for another hour and a half, which gave Charlie easily enough time to consider what approach he would use on Mr. Slade, assuming he wasn’t, to quote Sinclair-Smith, “completely ga-ga.” After they had sped past the sign for Ballarat, the driver pulled into a petrol station. Once the attendant had filled the tank he gave the driver some directions and it took another fifteen minutes before they came to a halt outside a small terraced house on a run-down estate.

Charlie jumped out of the car, marched up a short, weed-covered path and knocked on the front door. He waited for some time before an old lady wearing a pinafore and a pastel-colored dress that nearly reached the ground answered his call.

“Mrs. Slade?” asked Charlie.

“Yes,” she replied, peering up at him suspiciously.

“Would it be possible to have a word with your husband?”

“Why?” asked the old lady. “You from the social services?”