As the Crow Flies

“Remember someone called Mrs. Trentham? English, strait-laced, might have stayed for a couple of weeks or more round 1927,” said Charlie, pushing the notes towards the old man.

“Remember her?” said the waiter. “I’ll never forget her. I was a trainee in those days and she did nothing except grumble the whole time about the food and the service. Wouldn’t drink anything but water, said she didn’t trust Australian wines and refused to spend good money on the French ones—that’s why I always ended up having to serve on her table. End of the month, she ups and offs without a word and didn’t even leave me a tip. You bet I remember her.”

“That sounds like Mrs. Trentham all right,” said Charlie. “But did you ever find out why she came to Australia in the first place?” He removed a third pound note from his wallet and placed it on top of the others.

“I’ve no idea, sir,” said the waiter sadly. “She never talked to anyone from morning to night, and I’m not sure even Mr. Sinclair-Smith would know the answer to that question.”

“Mr. Sinclair-Smith?”

The waiter motioned over his shoulder to the far corner of the room where a gray-haired gentleman sat alone, a napkin tucked into his collar. He was busy attacking a large piece of Stilton. “The present owner,” the waiter explained. “His father was the only person Mrs. Trentham ever spoke civilly to.”

“Thank you,” said Charlie. “You’ve been most helpful.” The waiter pocketed the three banknotes. “Would you be kind enough to ask the manager if I could have a word with him?”

“Certainly, sir,” said the old waiter, who closed the humidor and scurried away.

“The manager is far too young to remember—”

“Just keep your eyes open, Mr. Roberts, and possibly you might just learn a trick or two they failed to teach you in the business contracts class at law school,” said Charlie as he clipped the end of his cigar.

The manager arrived at their table. “You asked to see me, Sir Charles?”

“I wonder if Mr. Sinclair-Smith would care to join me for a liqueur?” said Charlie, passing the young man one of his cards.

“I’ll have a word with him immediately, sir,” said the manager who at once turned and walked towards the other table.

“It’s back to the lobby for you, Roberts,” said Charlie, “as I suspect that my conduct over the next half hour might just offend your professional ethics.” He glanced across the room, where the old man was now studying his card.

Roberts sighed, rose from his chair and left.

A large smile appeared on Mr. Sinclair-Smith’s pudgy lips. He pushed himself up out of his chair and waddled over to join his English visitor.

“Sinclair-Smith,” he said in a high-pitched English accent before offering a limp hand.

“Good of you to join me, old chap,” said Charlie. “I know a fellow countryman when I see one. Can I interest you in a brandy?” The waiter scurried away.

“How kind of you, Sir Charles. I can only hope that my humble establishment has provided you with a reasonable cuisine.”

“Excellent,” said Charlie. “But then you were recommended,” he said as he exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.

“Recommended?” said Sinclair-Smith, trying not to sound too surprised. “May I ask by whom?”

“My ancient aunt, Mrs. Ethel Trentham.”

“Mrs. Trentham? Good heavens, Mrs. Trentham, we haven’t seen the dear lady since my late father’s time.”

Charlie frowned as the old waiter returned with two large brandies.

“I do hope she’s keeping well, Sir Charles.”

“Never better,” said Charlie. “And she wished to be remembered to you.”

“How kind of her,” replied Sinclair-Smith, swirling the brandy round in his balloon. “And what a remarkable memory, because I was only a young man at the time and had just started working in the hotel. She must now be…”

“Over ninety,” said Charlie. “And do you know the family still has no idea why she ever came to Melbourne in the first place,” he added.

“Nor me,” said Sinclair-Smith as he sipped his brandy.

“You never spoke to her?”