"Why's that?"
"He's recently been appointed to the job, and is now desperately trying to prove that everyone will be treated impartially—except poms."
"So what's his problem?"
"Like all second-generation Australians he hates the British, or at least he has to pretend he does." Roberts grinned. "In fact, I think there's only one group of people he dislikes more."
"Criminals?"
"No, lawyers," replied Roberts. "So now you'll realize why the odds are stacked against us."
"Have you managed to get anything out of him at all?"
"Not a lot. Most of what he has been willing to reveal was already on public record, namely that on 27 July 1926 Guy Trentham, in a fit of temper, killed his wife by stabbing her several times while she was taking a bath. He then held her under the water so as to be sure that she didn't survive—page sixteen in your file. We also know that on 23 April 1927 he was hanged for the crime, despite several appeals for clemency to the Governor-General. What we've been quite unable to discover is if he was survived by any children. The Melbourne Age was the one newspaper that carried a report of the trial, and they made no mention of a child. However, that's hardly surprising, as the judge would have ruled against any such reference in court unless it threw some light on the crime."
"But what about the wife's maiden name? Surely that's a better route to take."
"You're not going to like this, Sir Charles," said Roberts.
"Try me."
"Her name was Smith—Anna Helen Smith—that's why we concentrated what little time we had on Trentham."
"But you've still come up with no firm leads?"
"I'm afraid not," said Roberts. "If there was a child in Australia at the time bearing the name of 'Trentham' we certainly haven't been able to trace him. My staff have interviewed every Trentham that's shown up on the national register, including one from Coorabulka which has a population of eleven and takes three days to reach by car and foot."
"Despite your valiant efforts, Roberts, my guess is there might still be some stones we need to look under."
"Possibly," said Roberts. "I even began to wonder if perhaps Trentham had changed his name when he first came to Australia, but the chief of police was able to confirm that the file he holds in Melbourne is under the name of Guy Francis Trentham."
"So if the name's unchanged then surely any child would be traceable?"
"Not necessarily. I dealt with a case quite recently in which I had a client whose husband was sent to jail for manslaughter. She reverted to her maiden name, which she also gave to her only child, and was able to show me a foolproof system for then having the original name expunged from the records. Also, remember that in this case we're dealing with a child who could have been born any time between 1923 and 1925, and the removal of just one piece of paper could well have been enough to eliminate any connection he or she might have with Guy Trentham. If that's the case, finding such a child in a country the size of Australia would be like searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack."
"But I've only got six days," said Charlie plaintively.
"Don't remind me," said Roberts, as the car drove through the gates of the Governor-General's residence at Government House, dropping its speed to a more sedate pace as they continued up the drive. "I've allocated one hour for this party, no more," the young lawyer warned. "All I want out of the Governor-General is a promise that he'll telephone the chief of police in Melbourne before our meeting tomorrow, to ask him to be as cooperative as possible. But when I say we must leave, Sir Charles, I mean we must leave."
"Understood," said Charlie, feeling like a private back on parade in Edinburgh.
"By the way," said Roberts, "the Governor-General is Sir Oliver Williams. Sixty-one, former guards officer, comes from some place called Tunbridge Wells."
Two minutes later they were striding into the grand ballroom of Government House.
"So glad you could make it, Sir Charles," said a tall, elegantly dressed man who wore a double-breasted striped suit and a guards tie.
"Thank you, Sir Oliver."
"And how was the journey over, old chap?"
"Five stops for refueling and not one airport that knew how to brew a decent cup of tea."
"Then you'll need one of these," suggested Sir Oliver, handing Charlie a large whisky that he removed deftly from a passing tray. "And to think," continued the diplomat, "they're predicting that our grandchildren will be able to fly the entire journey from London to Sydney nonstop in less than a day. Still, yours was a lot less unpleasant an experience than the early settlers had to endure."
"A small compensation." Charlie couldn't think of a more appropriate reply as he considered what a contrast Mr. Baverstock's nominee in Australia was to the Queen's representative.
"Now, do tell me what brings you to Sydney," continued the Governor-General. "Are we to anticipate that the second 'biggest barrow in the world' is about to be pushed round to this side of the globe?"
"No, Sir Oliver. You'll be saved that. I'm here on a brief private visit, trying to sort out some family business."
"Well, if there's anything I can do to assist you," said his host, taking a gin from another passing tray, "just let me know."
"That's kind of you, Sir Oliver, because I do need your help over one small matter."
"And what might that be?" asked his host, at the same moment allowing his eyes to wander over Charlie's shoulder in the direction of some late arrivals.
"You could call the chief of police in Melbourne and ask him to be as cooperative as possible when I visit him tomorrow morning."
"Consider the call made, old fellow," said Sir Oliver as he leaned forward to shake the hand of an Arab sheikh. "And don't forget, Sir Charles, if there's anything I can do to help and I mean anything just let me know. Ah, Monsieur L'Ambassadeur, comment allez vous?"
Charlie suddenly felt exhausted. He spent the rest of the hour just trying to remain on his feet while talking to diplomats, politicians and businessmen, all of whom seemed well acquainted with the biggest barrow in the world. Eventually a firm touch on his elbow from Roberts signaled that the proprieties had been observed and he must now leave for the airport.
On the flight to Melbourne Charlie was just about able to stay awake, even if his eyes weren't always open. In answer to a question from Roberts he confirmed that the Governor-General had agreed to telephone the chief of police the following morning. "But I'm not certain he appreciated how important it was."
"I see," said Roberts. "Then I'll be back in touch with his office first thing tomorrow. Sir Oliver's not renowned for remembering promises he makes at cocktail parties. 'If there's anything I can do to assist you, old chap, and I mean anything'"—which even managed to elicit a sleepy grin from Charlie.
At Melbourne Airport another car was waiting for them. Charlie was whisked away, and this time he did fall asleep and didn't wake again until they drew up outside the Windsor Hotel some twenty minutes later. The manager showed his guest to the Prince Edward suite and as soon as he had been left on his own Charlie quickly undressed, had a shower and climbed into bed. A few minutes later he fell into a heavy sleep. However, he still woke around four the next morning.
Propped uncomfortably up in bed supported by foam rubber pillows that wouldn't stay in one place, Charlie spent the next three hours going through Roberts' files. The man might not have looked or sounded like Baverstock but the same stamp of thoroughness was evident on every page. By the time Charlie let the last file drop to the floor he had to accept that Roberts' firm had covered every angle and followed up every lead; his only hope now rested with a cantankerous Melbourne policeman.