As the Crow Flies

“Are you saying that Guy Trentham was my father?” asked Cathy. “But how…?”

After waking up Dr. Atkins, a man more used to being disturbed during the night, Charlie felt able to explain to Cathy what he had discovered during his visit to Australia, and how everything had been borne out by the information she had supplied to Becky when she first applied for a job at Trumper’s. Baverstock listened intently, nodding from time to time, while regularly checking the copious notes he had made following a long conversation with his nephew in Sydney.

Cathy listened to everything Charlie had to report and although she now had some recollections of her life in Australia, she was still fairly vague about her days at the University of Melbourne and could remember almost nothing of St. Hilda’s. The name “Miss Benson” just didn’t register at all.

“I’ve tried so hard to recall more details of what happened before I came to England, but n

othing much comes back despite the fact that I can remember almost everything that took place after I landed at Southampton. Dr. Atkins isn’t that optimistic, is he?”

“There are no rules, is all he keeps reminding me.”

Charlie stood up, walked across the room and turned Cathy’s painting round, a look of hope appearing on his face, but she just shook her head as she stared at the woodland scene.

“I agree I must have painted it at some time, but I’ve no idea where or when.”

Around four the following morning Charlie phoned for a taxi to take them back to Eaton Square, having agreed with Baverstock that he should set up a face-to-face meeting with the other side as soon as it could be arranged. When they returned home Cathy was so exhausted that she went straight to bed, but as Charlie’s time clock didn’t allow him to sleep he closeted himself in the study and continued his mental search for the missing link, only too aware of the legal battle that lay ahead of him even if he succeeded.

The following day he and Cathy traveled up to Cambridge together and spent a fraught afternoon in Dr. Atkins’ little office at Addenbrooke’s. For his part the consultant seemed far more interested in the file on Cathy that had been supplied by Mrs. Culver than the fact she might in some way be related to Mrs. Trentham and therefore eligible to inherit the Hardcastle Trust.

He took her slowly through each item in the file—art classes, credits, misdemeanors, tennis matches, Melbourne Church of England Girls’ Grammar School, University of Melbourne—but he always met with the same response: deep thought, but only vague recollections. He tried word associations—Melbourne, Miss Benson, cricket, ship, hotel—to which he received the replies, Australia, Hedges, scorer, Southampton, long hours.

“Scorer” was the only word that interested Dr. Atkins, but pressed further, Cathy’s only memories of Australia remained a sketchy description of a grammar school, some clear recollections of the university and a boy called Mel Nicholls, followed by a long trip on a ship to London. She could even tell them the names of Pam and Maureen, who had traveled over with her, but not where they came from.

Cathy went into great detail when the subject turned to the Melrose Hotel and Charlie was able to confirm the accuracy of Cathy’s recollection of her early life at Trumper’s.

The description of her first meeting with Daniel, down to his changing the place cards at the Trumpers’ housewarming party, brought tears to Charlie’s eyes. But on the subject of her parentage and the names of Margaret Ethel Trentham and Miss Rachel Benson, she still had nothing to offer.

By six o’clock Cathy was drained. Dr. Atkins took Charlie on one side and warned him that in his opinion it was most unlikely that she would remember much more of what took place in her life before she arrived in London. Perhaps minor incidents might come back to her from time to time, but nothing of any real significance.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t much help to you, was I?” said Cathy as Charlie drove her back to London.

He took her hand. “We’re not beaten yet,” he promised her, although he was beginning to feel that Trevor Roberts’ odds of fifty-fifty of proving that Cathy was the rightful claimant to the Hardcastle Trust were looking distinctly optimistic.

Becky was there to welcome them home and the three of them had a quiet supper together. Charlie made no reference to what had taken place at Cambridge earlier in the day until after Cathy had retired to her room. When Becky heard how Cathy had responded to Dr. Atkins’ examination she insisted that from now on the girl was to be left in peace.

“I lost Daniel because of that woman,” she told her husband. “I’m not willing to lose Cathy as well. If you’re going to continue your fight for Trumper’s you must do it without involving her.”

Charlie nodded his agreement though he wanted to shout out: how am I expected to save everything I’ve built up from being taken away from me by yet another Trentham without being allowed to push Cathy to the brink?

Just before he switched out the bedroom light the phone rang. It was Trevor Roberts calling from Sydney, but his news did not advance their cause. Walter Slade had refused to release any new information on Ethel Trentham and wouldn’t even sign a document confirming he had known her. Charlie once again cursed himself for the crass way he had handled the interview with the old Yorkshireman.

“And the bank?” he asked, not sounding too hopeful.

“The Commercial Bank of Australia say they wouldn’t allow access to the details of Miss Benson’s private account unless we could prove a crime had been committed. What Mrs. Trentham did to Cathy might well be described as evil, but I fear it wasn’t strictly criminal.”

“It hasn’t been a good day for either of us,” admitted Charlie.

“Never forget that the other side doesn’t know that.”

“True, but how much do they know?”

“My uncle told me about Birkenshaw’s slip of the tongue with ‘her,’ so my bet is they know almost as much as we do. When you confront them, better assume they do, while at the same time never stop looking for that missing link.”

After Charlie had put down the phone, he lay awake for some time and didn’t move again until he could hear Becky breathing deeply. Then he slid out of bed, donned his dressing gown and crept down to his study. He opened a notebook and began to write out every fact he had gathered during the last few days in the hope that it might just trigger some memory. The following morning Cathy found him slumped, head on his desk, sound asleep.

“I don’t deserve you, Charlie,” she whispered, kissing him on the forehead. He stirred and raised his eyes.

“We’re winning,” he said sleepily and even managed a smile, but he realized from the expression on her face that she didn’t believe him.