As the Crow Flies

“Are you denying my c

lient his legal rights?”

“Certainly not. However, if because of his unwillingness to offer any opinion I feel unable to come to a decision myself I may have to recommend to both parties that this matter be settled in a court of law, as stated clearly in clause twenty-seven of Sir Raymond’s will.”

Yet another clause that he didn’t know about, Charlie reflected ruefully.

“But such a case might take years just to reach the courts,” Birkenshaw pointed out. “Furthermore, it could end up in vast expenses to both sides. I cannot believe that would have been Sir Raymond’s purpose.”

“That may be so,” said Baverstock. “But at least it would ensure that your client was given the opportunity to explain those quarterly payments to a jury—that is, if he knew anything about them.”

For the first time Birkenshaw seemed to hesitate but Trentham still didn’t speak. He just sat there, drawing on a second cigarette.

“A jury might also consider Miss Ross to be nothing more than an opportunist,” suggested Birkenshaw, changing tack. “An opportunist who, having stumbled upon rather a good tale, managed to get herself over to England where she then made the facts fit in neatly with her own circumstances.”

“Very neatly indeed,” said Charlie. “Didn’t she do well at the age of three to get herself registered at an orphanage in Melbourne? At exactly the same time as Guy Trentham was locked up in the local jail—”

“Coincidence,” said Birkenshaw.

“—having been left there by Mrs. Trentham, who then makes out a quarterly payment to the principal of that orphanage which mysteriously ceases the moment Miss Benson dies. That must have been some secret she was keeping.”

“Once again circumstantial and, what’s more, inadmissible,” said Birkenshaw.

Nigel Trentham leaned forward and was about to make a comment when his lawyer placed his right hand firmly on his arm. “We shall not fall for those sort of bully-boy tactics, Sir Charles, that I suspect are more commonplace in the Whitechapel Road than in Lincoln’s Inn.”

Charlie leaped out of his chair, his fist clenched, and took a pace towards Birkenshaw.

“Calm yourself, Sir Charles,” said Baverstock sharply.

Charlie reluctantly came to a halt a couple of feet in front of Birkenshaw, who did not flinch. After a moment’s hesitation he recalled Daphne’s advice and returned to his chair. Trentham’s lawyer continued to stare defiantly at him.

“As I was saying,” said Birkenshaw, “my client has nothing to hide. And he will certainly not find it necessary to resort to physical violence to prove his case.”

Charlie unclenched his fist but did not lower his voice: “I do hope your client will resort to answering leading counsel when he inquires as to why his mother continued to pay large sums of money to someone from the other side of the world whom she, so you claim, never met. And why a Mr. Walter Slade, a chauffeur with the Victoria Country Club, took Mrs. Trentham to St. Hilda’s on 20 April 1927 accompanied by a little girl of Cathy’s age called Margaret, but left without her. And I’ll bet if we ask a judge to delve into Miss Benson’s bank account, we’ll find that those payments go back to within a day of when Miss Ross was registered at St. Hilda’s. After all, we already know that the banker’s order was canceled the week Miss Benson died.”

Once again Baverstock appeared horrified by Charlie’s reckless nerve, and raised a hand in the hope that he might stop any further outbursts.

Birkenshaw in contrast couldn’t resist a wry smile. “Sir Charles, in default of your being represented by a lawyer, I really should remind you of one or two home truths. For a start, let me make one point abundantly clear: my client has assured me that he had never heard of Miss Benson until yesterday. In any case, no English judge has the jurisdiction to delve into an Australian bank account unless they have reason to believe a crime has been committed in both countries. What is more, Sir Charles, two of your key witnesses are sadly in their graves while the third, Mr. Walter Slade, will not be making any trips to London. What is more, you won’t be able to subpoena him.

“So now let us turn to your claim, Sir Charles, that a jury would be surprised if my client did not appear in the witness box to answer on behalf of his mother. I suspect they would be even more staggered to learn that the principal witness in this case, the claimant, was also unwilling to take the stand to answer on her own behalf because she has little or no recollection of what actually took place at the time in question. I do not believe that you could find a counsel in the land who would be willing to put Miss Ross through such an ordeal if the only words she is likely to utter in reply to every question put to her in the witness box were, ‘Sorry, I can’t remember.’ Or is it possible that she simply has nothing credible to say? Let me assure you, Sir Charles, we would be only too happy to go to court, because you would be laughed out of it.”

Charlie could tell from the look on Baverstock’s face that he was beaten. He glanced sadly across at Cathy, whose expression had not changed for the past hour.

Baverstock slowly removed his spectacles and made great play of cleaning them with a handkerchief he had taken out of his top pocket. Eventually he spoke: “I confess, Sir Charles, that I cannot see any good reason to take up the courts’ time with this case. In fact, I believe it would be irresponsible of me to do so, unless of course Miss Ross is able to produce some fresh evidence of her identity that has so far not been considered or at least can corroborate all the statements you have made on her behalf.” He turned to Cathy. “Miss Ross, is there anything you would like to say at this juncture?”

All four men turned their attention to Cathy, who was sitting quietly, rubbing a thumb against the inside of her forefinger, just below her chin. “I apologize, Miss Ross,” said Baverstock. “I didn’t realize that you had been trying to gain my attention.”

“No, no, it is I who should apologize, Mr. Baverstock,” said Cathy. “I always do that when I’m nervous. It reminds me of the piece of jewelry that my father gave me when I was a child.”

“The piece of jewelry your father gave you?” said Mr. Baverstock quietly, not sure that he had heard her correctly.

“Yes,” said Cathy. She undid the top button of her blouse and took out the miniature medal that hung from the end of a piece of string.

“Your father gave you that?” said Charlie.

“Oh, yes,” said Cathy. “It’s the only tangible memory I have of him.”

“May I see the necklace, please?” asked Baverstock.