As the Crow Flies

Becky joined them for breakfast an hour later and talked of everything except the face-to-face meeting that had been arranged to take place in Mr. Baverstock’s rooms that afternoon.

As Charlie stood up to leave the table, Cathy said, quite unexpectedly, “I’d like to be present at the showdown.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” asked Becky, glancing anxiously towards her husband.

“Perhaps not,” said Cathy. “But I’m still certain I want to be there, not just learn about the outcome later, second-hand.”

“Good girl,” said Charlie. “The meeting will be at three in Baverstock’s office, when we will get the chance to present our case. Trentham’s lawyer will be joining us at four. I’ll pick you up at two-thirty, but if you want to change your mind before then, it won’t worry me in the slightest.”

Becky turned to see how Cathy had reacted to this suggestion and was disappointed.

When Charlie marched into his office at exactly eight-thirty, Daphne and Arthur Selwyn were already waiting for him as instructed.

“Coffee for three and please, no interruptions,” Charlie told Jessica, placing his night’s work on the desk in front of him.

“So where do we start?” asked Daphne, and for the next hour and a half they rehearsed questions, statements and tactics that could be used when dealing with Trentham and Birkenshaw, trying to anticipate every situation that might arise.

By the time a light lunch was sent in just before twelve they all felt drained; no one spoke for some time.

“It’s important for you to remember that you’re dealing with a different Trentham this time,” said Arthur Selwyn eventually, as he dropped a sugar lump into his coffee.

“They’re all as bad as each other as far as I’m concerned,” said Charlie.

“Perhaps Nigel’s every bit as resolute as his brother, but I don’t believe for one moment that he has his mother’s cunning—or Guy’s ability to think on his feet.”

“Just what are you getting at, Arthur?” asked Daphne.

“When you all meet this afternoon Charlie must keep Trentham talking as much as possible, because I’ve noticed over the years during board meetings that he often says one sentence too many and simply ends up defeating his

own case. I’ll never forget the time he was against the staff having their own canteen because of the loss of revenue it was bound to incur, until Cathy pointed out that the food came out of the same kitchen as the restaurant and we actually ended up making a small profit on what would otherwise have been thrown away.”

Charlie considered this statement as he took another bite out of his sandwich.

“Wonder what his advisers are telling him are my weak points.”

“Your temper,” said Daphne. “You’ve always lived on a short fuse. So don’t give them the chance to light it.”

At one o’clock Daphne and Arthur Selwyn left Charlie in peace. After the door had closed behind them Charlie removed his jacket, went over to the sofa, lay down and for the next hour slept soundly. At two o’clock Jessica woke him. He smiled up at her, feeling fully refreshed: another legacy from the war.

He returned to his desk and read through his notes once again before leaving his office to walk three doors down the corridor and pick up Cathy. He quite expected her to have changed her mind but she already had her coat on and was sitting waiting for him. They drove over to Baverstock’s office, arriving a full hour before Trentham and Birkenshaw were due to put in an appearance.

The old lawyer listened carefully to Charlie as he presented his case, occasionally nodding or making further notes, though from the expression on his face Charlie had no way of knowing what he really felt.

When Charlie had come to the end of his monologue Baverstock put his fountain pen down on the desk and leaned back in his chair. For some time he didn’t speak.

“I am impressed by the logic of your argument, Sir Charles,” he said eventually, as he leaned forward and placed the palms of his hands on the desk in front of him. “And indeed with the evidence you have gathered. However, I’m bound to say that without the corroboration of your main witness and also with no written affidavits from either Walter Slade or Miss Benson Mr. Birkenshaw will be quick to point out that your claim is based almost entirely on circumstantial evidence.

“Nonetheless,” he continued, “we shall have to see what the other side has to offer. I find it hard to believe following my conversation with Birkenshaw on Saturday night that your findings will come as a complete revelation to his client.”

The clock on his mantelpiece struck a discreet four chimes; Baverstock checked his pocket watch. There was no sign of the other side and soon the old solicitor started drumming his fingers on the desk. Charlie began to wonder if this was simply tactics on behalf of his adversary.

Nigel Trentham and his lawyer finally appeared at twelve minutes past four; neither of them seemed to feel it was necessary to apologize for their lateness.

Charlie stood up when Mr. Baverstock introduced him to Victor Birkenshaw, a tall, thin man, not yet fifty, prematurely balding with what little hair he had left combed over the top of his head in thin gray strands. The only characteristic he seemed to have in common with Baverstock was that their clothes appeared to have come from the same tailor. Birkenshaw sat down in one of the two vacant seats opposite the old lawyer without acknowledging that Cathy was even in the room. He removed a pen from his top pocket, took out a pad from his briefcase and rested it on his knee.

“My client, Mr. Nigel Trentham, has come to lay claim to his inheritance as the rightful heir to the Hardcastle Trust,” he began, “as clearly stated in Sir Raymond’s last will and testament.”

“Your client,” said Baverstock, picking up Birkenshaw’s rather formal approach, “may I remind you, is not named in Sir Raymond’s will, and a dispute has now arisen as to who is the rightful next of kin. Please don’t forget that Sir Raymond insisted that I call this meeting, should the need arise, in order to adjudicate on his behalf.”