As the Crow Flies

The taxi pulled up outside the solicitor’s office a few minutes after eleven. Charlie stepped out of the cab to find Baverstock was standing by the door waiting to greet them.

“That’ll be eight and six, guvn’r.”

“Oh, God,” said Charlie, “I haven’t got any money.”

“That’s the way he treats all his girls,” said Cathy, as she passed the cabbie a ten-shilling note.

They both followed Baverstock through to his office where a set of documents was already laid out on his desk. “Since you called I have had a long conversation with my nephew in Australia,” said Baverstock, facing Charlie. “So I think I’m well acquainted with everything that took place while you were over there.”

“Which is more than I am,” said Cathy, sounding bewildered.

“All in good time,” said Charlie. “Explanations later.” He turned back to Baverstock. “So what happens now?”

“Miss Ross must sign here, here and here,” the solicitor said without further explanation, indicating a space between two penciled crosses at the bottom of three separate sheets of paper. “As you are in no way related to the beneficiary or a beneficiary yourself, Sir Charles, you may care to act as the witness to Miss Ross’ signature.”

Charlie nodded, placed a pair of opera glasses beside the contract and took a pen from his inside pocket.

“You’ve always taught me in the past, Charlie, to read documents carefully before putting my signature to them.”

“Forget everything I’ve taught you in the past, my girl, and just sign where Mr. Baverstock is pointing.”

Cathy signed all three documents without another word.

“Thank you, Miss Ross,” said Mr. Baverstock. “And now if you could both bear with me for one moment, I must inform Mr. Birkenshaw of what has taken place.”

“Birkenshaw?” said Charlie.

“Mr. Trentham’s solicitor. I must obviously let him know immediately that his client is not the only person who has registered a claim to the Hardcastle estate.”

Cathy, looking even more bewildered, turned to Charlie.

“Later,” said Charlie. “I promise.”

Baverstock dialed the seven digits of a Chelsea number.

No one spoke as they waited for the telephone to be answered. Eventually Mr. Baverstock heard a sleepy voice say, “Kensington 7192.”

“Good evening, Birkenshaw, Baverstock here. Sorry to have to bother you at this time of night. Indeed, I wouldn’t have done so if I hadn’t considered the circumstances fully warranted such an intrusion on your privacy. But may I first ask what time you make it?”

“Have I heard you correctly?” said Birkenshaw, his voice now sounding more alert. “You’ve telephoned me in the middle of the night to ask what the time is?”

“Precisely,” said Baverstock. “You see, I need to confirm that it is still before the witching hour. So do be a good fellow and tell me what time you make it.”

“I make it eleven-seventeen, but I fail to understand—”

“I make it eleven-sixteen,” said Baverstock, “but on the matter of time I am happy to bow to your superior judgment. The purpose of this call, by the way,” he continued, “is to let you know that a second person—who appears to be a more direct descendant of Sir Raymond than your client—has laid claim to the Hardcastle estate.”

“What’s her name?”

“I suspect you already know that,” replied the old lawyer before he replaced the telephone. “Damn,” he said, looking across at Charlie, “I should have recorded the conversation.”

“Why?”

“Because Birkenshaw is never going to admit that he said ‘her.’”

CHAPTER

47