“Certainly,” said Cathy, slipping the thin gold chain over her head and passing the medal to Charlie. He examined the miniature for some time before handing it on to Mr. Baverstock.

“Although I’m no expert on medals I think it’s a miniature MC,” said Charlie.

“Wasn’t Guy Trentham awarded the MC?” asked Baverstock.

“Yes, he was,” said Birkenshaw, “and he also went to Harrow, but simply wearing their old school tie doesn’t prove my client was his brother. In fact, it doesn’t prove anything and certainly couldn’t be produced as evidence in a court of law. After all, there must be hundreds of MCs still around. Indeed, Miss Ross could have picked up such a medal in any junk shop in London once she’d planned to make the facts surrounding Guy Trentham fit in with her background. You can’t really expect us to fall for that old trick, Sir Charles.”

“I can assure you, Mr. Birkenshaw, that this particular medal was given to me by my father,” said Cathy, looking directly at the lawyer. “He may not have been entitled to wear it, but I will never forget him placing it around my neck.”

“That can’t possibly be my brother’s MC,” said Nigel Trentham, speaking for the first time. “What’s more, I can prove it.”

“You can prove what?” asked Baverstock.

“Are you certain—?” began Birkenshaw, but this time it was Trentham who placed a hand firmly on his lawyer’s arm.

“I will prove to your satisfaction, Mr. Baverstock,” continued Trenth

am, “that the medal you now have in front of you could not have been the MC won by my brother.”

“And just how do you propose to do that?” asked Baverstock.

“Because Guy’s medal was unique. After he had been awarded his MC my mother sent the original to Spinks and at her request they engraved Guy’s initials down the edge of one of the arms. Those initials can only be seen under a magnifying glass. I know, because the medal he was presented with on the Marne still stands on the mantelpiece of my home in Chester Square. If a miniature had ever existed my mother would have had his initials engraved on it in exactly the same way.”

No one spoke as Baverstock opened a drawer in his desk and took out an ivory-handled magnifying glass that he normally used to decipher illegible handwriting. He held up the medal to the light and studied the edges of the little silver arms one by one.

“You’re quite right,” admitted Baverstock, as he looked back up at Trentham. “Your case is proven.” He passed both the medal and the magnifying glass over to Mr. Birkenshaw, who in turn studied the MC for some time before returning the medal to Cathy with a slight bow of the head. He turned to his client and asked, “Were your brother’s initials ‘G.F.T.’?”

“Yes, that’s right. Guy Francis Trentham.”

“Then I can only wish that you had kept your mouth shut.”

BECKY

1964–1970

CHAPTER

48

When Charlie burst into the drawing room that evening it was the first time that I really believed Guy Trentham was finally dead.

I sat in silence while my husband strode around the room recalling with relish every last detail of the confrontation that had taken place in Mr. Baverstock’s office earlier that afternoon.

I have loved four men in my life with emotions ranging from adoration to devotion, but only Charlie encompassed the entire spectrum. Yet, even in his moment of triumph, I knew it would be left to me to take away from him the thing he most loved.

Within a fortnight of that fateful meeting, Nigel Trentham had agreed to part with his shares at the market price. Now that interest rates had risen to eight percent it was hardly surprising that he had little stomach for a protracted and bitter wrangle over any claim he might or might not have to the Hardcastle estate.

Mr. Baverstock, on behalf of the Trust, purchased all his stock at a cost of a little over seven million pounds. The old solicitor then advised Charlie that he should call a special board meeting as it was his duty to inform Companies House of what had taken place. He also warned Charlie that he must, within fourteen days, circulate all other shareholders with the details of the transaction.

It had been a long time since I’d looked forward to a board meeting with such anticipation.

Although I was among the first to take my place at the boardroom table that morning, every other director was present long before the meeting was scheduled to begin.

“Apologies for absence?” requested the chairman on the dot of ten.

“Nigel Trentham, Roger Gibbs and Hugh Folland,” Jessica intoned in her best matter-of-fact voice.

“Thank you. Minutes of the last meeting,” said Charlie. “Is it your wish that I should sign those minutes as a true record?”

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