“If you were able to wrap up Slade and prove there were any previous payments made to Miss Benson, I would then be in a far stronger position to ask Nigel Trentham to explain why his mother was willing to keep on doling out money to someone who was principal of an orphanage situated on the other side of the globe if it wasn’t for his elder brother’s offspring.”
“I’ll do what I can,” promised Roberts. “If I come up with anything I’ll contact you in London on your return.”
“Thank you,” said Charlie. “Now, is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes, Sir Charles. Would you be good enough to pass on my kindest regards to Uncle Ernest?”
“Uncle Ernest?”
“Yes, Ernest Baverstock.”
“Kindest regards be damned. I shall report him to the Law Society for nepotism.”
“I must advise you that there is no case to answer, Sir Charles, as nepotism is not yet a crime. Though to be honest it’s my mother who’s to blame. You see, she produced three sons—all lawyers, and the other two are now representing you in Perth and Brisbane.”
The car drew up to the curb alongside the Qantas terminal. The driver jumped out and removed the suitcases from the boot as Charlie ran off in t
he direction of the ticket counter, with Roberts a yard behind carrying Cathy’s picture.
“Yes, you can still make the early flight to London,” the girl at the check-in desk assured Charlie. “But please be quick as we’ll be closing the gates in a few minutes’ time.” Charlie breathed a sigh of relief and turned to say goodbye to Trevor Roberts as the driver arrived with his suitcase and placed it on the weighing machine.
“Damn,” said Charlie. “Can you lend me ten pounds?”
Roberts removed the notes from his wallet and Charlie quickly passed them on to the driver, who touched his cap and returned to the car.
“How do I ever begin to thank you?” he said as he shook Trevor Roberts by the hand.
“Thank Uncle Ernest, not me,” said Roberts. “He talked me into dropping everything to take on this case.”
Twenty minutes later Charlie was climbing up the steps of Qantas Flight 102 ready for the first stage of his journey back to London.
As the plane lifted off ten minutes after schedule, Charlie settled back and tried, with the knowledge he had gained in the last three days, to begin fitting the pieces together. He accepted Roberts’ theory that it was no coincidence that Cathy had come to work at Trumper’s. She must have discovered some connection between them and the Trenthams, even if Charlie couldn’t work out exactly what that connection was or her reason for not telling either of them in the first place. Telling them…? What right did he have to comment? If only he had told Daniel, the boy might still be alive today. Because one thing was certain: Cathy could not have realized that Daniel was her half-brother, although he now feared that Mrs. Trentham must have found out, then let her grandson know the awful truth.
“Evil woman,” said Charlie to himself.
“I beg your pardon,” said the middle-aged lady who was seated on his left.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Charlie. “I wasn’t referring to you.” He returned to his reverie. Mrs. Trentham must have somehow stumbled on that truth. But how? Did Cathy go to see her as well? Or was it simply the announcement of their engagement in The Times that alerted Mrs. Trentham to an illegal liaison that Cathy and Daniel could not have been aware of themselves? Whatever the reason, Charlie realized that his chances of piecing together the complete story were now fairly remote, with Daniel and Mrs. Trentham in their graves and Cathy still unable to recall much of what had happened to her before she arrived in England.
It was ironic, thought Charlie, that so much of what he had discovered in Australia had all the time been lodged in a file at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, marked “Cathy Ross, job application.” But not the missing link. “Find that,” Roberts had said, “and you will be able to show the connection between Cathy Ross and Guy Trentham.” Charlie nodded in agreement.
Lately Cathy had been able to recollect some memories from her past, but still nothing significant when it came to recalling her early days in Australia. Dr. Atkins continued to advise Charlie not to press her, as he was delighted with her progress, especially over her willingness to talk quite openly about Daniel. But if he were to save Trumper’s he surely had to press her now? He decided that one of the first calls he should make the moment the plane touched down on English soil would have to be to Dr. Atkins.
“This is your captain speaking,” said a voice over the intercom. “I’m sorry to have to inform you that we have encountered a slight technical problem. Those of you seated on the right-hand side of the aircraft will be able to see that I have turned off one of the starboard engines. I can assure you that there is no need for any anxiety, as we still have three engines working at their full capacity and in any case this aircraft is capable of completing any leg of the journey on just one.” Charlie was pleased to learn this piece of news. “However,” continued the captain, “it is company policy, with your safety in mind, that when any such fault arises we should land at the nearest airport, in order that repairs can be carried out immediately.” Charlie frowned. “As we have not yet reached the halfway point on our outward leg of the journey to Singapore, I am advised by air traffic control that we must return to Melbourne at once.” A chorus of groans went up throughout the aircraft.
Charlie made some hasty calculations about how much time he had to spare before he needed to be back in London, then he remembered that the aircraft he had been originally booked on was still due out of Melbourne at eight-twenty that night.
He flicked open his seat belt, retrieved Cathy’s picture from the rack above him and moved across to the nearest available first-class seat to the cabin door, his mind now fully concentrated on the problems of getting himself rebooked on the BOAC carrier bound for London.
Qantas Flight 102 touched down at Melbourne Airport at seven minutes past seven. Charlie was the first off the aircraft, running as fast as he could, but having to lug Cathy’s picture under one arm slowed him down and made it possible for several other passengers, who obviously had the same idea, to overtake him. However, once he’d reached the booking counter Charlie still managed to be eleventh in the queue. One by one the line shortened as those ahead of him were allocated seats. But by the time Charlie reached the front they could only offer him a standby. Despite pleading desperately with a BOAC official he could make no headway: there were several other passengers who felt it was every bit as important for them to be in London.
He walked slowly back to the Qantas desk to be informed that Flight 102 had been grounded for engine repairs and would not be taking off again until the following morning. At eight-forty he watched the BOAC Comet that he had been originally booked on lift off the tarmac without him.
All the passengers were found beds for the night at one of the local airport hotels before having their tickets transferred to a ten-twenty flight the following morning.
Charlie was up, dressed and back at the airport two hours before the plane was due to take off, and when the flight was finally called he was the first on board. If all went to schedule, he worked out, the plane would still touch down at Heathrow early on Friday morning, giving him a clear day and a half to spare before Sir Raymond’s two-year deadline was up.
He breathed his first sigh of relief when the plane took off, his second as the flight passed the halfway mark to Singapore, and his third when they had landed at Changi airport a few minutes ahead of time.