Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

"And which company might that be?" inquired Mrs. Trentham.

"Trumper's," said Baverstock, watching carefully for his client's reaction.

"And why Trumper's in particular?" she asked, the expression on her face revealing no particular surprise.

"Principally because Hambros consider it a sound and prudent investment. But, perhaps more important in time the bulk of the company's stock will be owned by Daniel Trumper, whose father, as I feel sure you know, is currently chairman of the board."

"I was aware of that," said Mrs. Trentham, without further comment. She could see that it worried Mr. Baverstock that she took the news so calmly.

"Of course, if you and your sister were both to object strongly to such a large commitment being made by the Trust it is possible our advisers might reconsider their position."

"And how much are they thinking of investing?"

"Around two hundred thousand pounds," the solicitor informed her. "This would make it possible for the Trust to purchase approximately ten percent of the shares that are on offer."

"Is that not a considerable stake for us to be holding in one company?"

"It certainly is," said Mr. Baverstock. "But still well within the Trust's budget."

"Then I am happy to accept Hambros' judgment," said Mrs. Trentham. "And I feel sure I speak for my sister in this matter."

Once again Mr. Baverstock looked down at the file where he studied an affidavit signed by Miss Amy Hardcastle, virtually giving her sister carte blanche when it came to decisions relating to the estate of the late Sir Raymond Hardcastle, including the transfer of twenty thousand pounds from her personal account. Mr. Baverstock only hoped that Miss Amy was happy at the Cliff Top Residential Hotel. He looked up at Sir Raymond's other daughter.

"Then all that is left for me to do," he concluded, "is to advise Hambros of your views in this matter and brief you more fully when Trumper's eventually allocates their shares."

The solicitor closed the file, rose from behind his desk and began to walk towards the door. Mrs. Trentham followed in his wake, happy in the knowledge that both the Hardcastle Trust and her own advisers were now working in tandem to help her fulfill her long-term purpose without either side being aware of what she was up to. It pleased her even more to think that the day Trumper's went public she would have control of fifteen percent of the company.

When they reached the door Mr. Baverstock turned to shake Mrs. Trentham's hand.

"Good day, Mrs. Trentham."

"Good day, Mr. Baverstock. You have been most punctilious, as always."

She made her way back to the car where a chauffeur held open the back door for her. As she was driven away she turned to look out of the rear window. The lawyer was standing by the door of his offices, the worried expression remaining on his face.

"Where to, madam?" asked the chauffeur as they joined the afternoon traffic.

She checked her watch: the meeting with Baverstock had not taken as long as she had anticipated and she now found herself with some spare time before her next appointment. Nevertheless she still gave the instruction. "The St. Agnes Hotel," as she placed a hand on the brown paper parcel that lay on the seat beside her.

She had told Harris to book a private room in the hotel and slip Kitty Bennett up in the lift at a time when he felt confident that no one was watching them.

When she arrived at the St. Agnes clutching the parcel under one arm, she was annoyed to find that Harris was not waiting for her in his usual place by the bar. She intensely disliked standing alone in the corridor and reluctantly went over to the hall porter to ask the number of the room Harris had booked.

"Fourteen," said a man in a shiny blue uniform with buttons that did not shine. "But you can't—"

Mrs. Trentham was not in the habit of being told "You can't" by anyone. She turned and slowly climbed the stairs that led up to the bedrooms on the first floor. The hall porter quickly picked up the phone on the counter beside him.

It took Mrs. Trentham a few minutes to locate Room 14 and Harris almost as long to respond to her sharp knock. When Mrs. Trentham was eventually allowed to enter the room she was surprised to discover how small it was: only just large enough to accommodate one bed, one chair and a washbasin. Her eyes settled on the woman who was sprawled across the bed. She was wearing a red silk blouse and a black leather skirt far too short in Mrs. Trentham's opinion, not to mention the fact that two of the top buttons of the blouse were undone.

As Kitty made no attempt to remove an old raincoat that had been thrown across the chair, Mrs. Trentham was left with little choice but to remain standing.

She turned to Harris, who was checking his tie in the only mirror. He had obviously decided that any introduction was superfluous.

Mrs. Trentham's only reaction was to get on with the business she had come to transact so that she could return to civilization as quickly as possible. She didn't wait for Harris to start the proceedings.

"Have you explained to Mrs. Bennett what is expected of her?"

"I most certainly have," said the detective, as he put on his jacket. "And Kitty is more than ready to carry out her part of the bargain."

"Can she be trusted?" Mrs. Trentham glanced doubtfully down at the woman on the bed.

"'Course I can, long as the money's right," were Kitty's first words. "All I want to know is, 'ow much do I get?"

"Whatever it sells for, plus fifty pounds," said Mrs. Trentham.

"Then I expect twenty quid up front."

Mrs. Trentham hesitated for a moment, then nodded her agreement.

"So what's the catch?"

"Only that your brother will try to talk you out of the whole idea," said Mrs. Trentham. "He may even attempt to bribe you in exchange for—"

"Not an 'ope," said Kitty. "'E can talk 'is 'ead off as far as I'm concerned but it won't make a blind bit of difference. You see, I 'ate Charlie almost as much as you do."

Mrs. Trentham smiled for the first time. She then placed the brown paper parcel on the end of the bed.

Harris smirked. "I knew you two would find you had something in common."

Night after night I would lie awake worrying that Daniel must eventually work out that Charlie wasn't his father.

Whenever they stood next to each other, Daniel—tall and slim, with fair wavy hair and deep blue eyes, Charlie—at least three inches shorter, stocky, with dark wiry hair and brown eyes, I assumed Daniel must in time comment on the disparity. It didn't help that my complexion is also dark. The dissimilarities might have been comic had the implications not been so serious. Yet Daniel has never once mentioned the differences in physical make-up or character between himself and Charlie.

Charlie wanted to tell Daniel the truth about Guy right from the start, but I convinced him that we should wait until the boy was old enough to understand all the implications. But when Guy died of tuberculosis there no longer seemed any point in burdening Daniel with the past.

Later, after years of anguish and Charlie's continued remonstrations, I finally agreed to tell Daniel everything. I phoned him at Trinity the week before he was due to sail for America and asked if I could drive him down to Southampton; that way at least I knew we would be uninterrupted for several hours. I mentioned that there was something important I needed to discuss with him.

I set out for Cambridge a little earlier than was necessary and arrived well in time to help Daniel with his packing. By eleven we were heading down the A30. For the first hour he chatted away happily enough about his work at Cambridge—too many students, not enough time for research—but the moment the conversation switched to the problems we were facing with the flats, I knew he had presented me with the ideal opportunity to tell him the truth about his parentage. Then—quite suddenly—he changed the subject and I lost my nerve. I swear I would have broached the topic right there and then, but the moment had passed.