"I can't find the little girl who was with Mrs. Trentham when you drove her," said Charlie, risking everything. "You see, she's been left a large inheritance."
"Fancy that, Walter," said Mrs. Slade.
Walter Slade's face registered nothing.
"And it's my duty somehow to locate her and then inform the lady of her good fortune."
Slade's face remained impassive as Charlie battled on. "And I thought you'd be the one person who might be able to help."
"No, I won't," Slade replied. "What's more you can have your money back," he added, throwing the notes at Charlie's feet. "And don't bother to show your face round these parts again, with your phony trumped-up stories about fortunes. Show the gentleman the door, Elsie."
Mrs. Slade bent down and carefully picked up the scattered notes before passing them up to Charlie. When she had handed over the last one, she silently led the stranger back towards the front door.
"I do apologize, Mrs. Slade," said Charlie. "I had no intention of offending your husband."
"I know, sir," said Mrs. Slade. "But then Walter has always been so proud. Heaven knows, we could have done with the money." Charlie smiled as he stuffed the bundle of notes into the old lady's pinafore and quickly put a finger up to his lips. "If you don't tell him, I won't," he said. He gave a slight bow before turning to walk back down the little path towards the car.
"I never saw no little girl," she said in a voice that barely carried. Charlie froze on the spot. "But Walter once took a snooty lady up to that orphanage on Park Hill in Melbourne. I know because I was walking out with the gardener at the time, and he told me."
Charlie turned to thank her, but she had already closed the door and disappeared back into the house.
Charlie climbed into the car, penniless and with just one name to cling to, aware that the old man could undoubtedly have solved the entire mystery for him. Otherwise he would have said "No, I can't" and not "No, I won't" when he had asked for his help.
He cursed his stupidity several times on the long journey back to the city.
"Roberts, is there an orphanage in Melbourne?" were Charlie's opening words as he strode into the lawyer's office.
"St. Hilda's," said Neil Mitchell, before his partner could consider the question. "Yes, it's up on Park Hill somewhere. Why?"
"That's the one," said Charlie, checking his watch. "It's about seven o'clock in the morning London time and I'm shattered, so I'm off to my hotel to try and grab some sleep. In the meantime I need a few questions answered. To start with, I want to know everything that can possibly be found out about St. Hilda's, starting with the names of every member of staff who worked there between 1923 and 1927, from the head honcho down to the scullery maid. And if anyone's still around from that period find them because I want to see them—and within the next twenty-four hours."
Two of the staff in Mitchell's office had begun scribbling furiously as they tried to take down every word Sir Charles said.
"I also want to know the name of every child registered at that orphanage between 1923 and 1927. Remember, we're looking for a girl who couldn't have been more than two years old, and may have been called Margaret Ethel. And when you've found the answers to all those questions wake me whatever time it is."
Chapter 45
Trevor Roberts arrived back at Charlie's hotel a few minutes before eight the following morning to find his client tucking into a large breakfast of eggs, tomato, mushrooms and bacon. Although Roberts looked unshaven and tired, he was the bearer of news.
"We've been in touch with the principal of St. Hilda's, a Mrs. Culver, and she couldn't have been more cooperative." Charlie smiled. "It turns out that nineteen children were registered with the orphanage between 1923 and 1927. Eight boys and eleven girls. Of the eleven girls we now know that nine of them didn't have a mother or father alive at the time. Of those nine we have managed to contact seven, five of whom have a relative still alive who could vouch for who their father was, one whose parents were killed in a car crash and the other who is an aboriginal. The last two, however, are proving more difficult to track down, so I thought you might like to visit St. Hilda's and study the files yourself."
"What about the staff at the orphanage?"
"Only a cook survives from around that period, and she says there never was a child at St. Hilda's called Trentham or any name like that, and she can't even remember a Margaret or an Ethel. So our last hope may prove to be a Miss Benson."
"Miss Benson?"
"Yes, she was the principal at the time and is now a resident at an exclusive old people's home called Maple Lodge on the other side of the city."
"Not bad, Mr. Roberts," said Charlie. "But how did you manage to get Mrs. Culver to be so cooperative at such short notice?"
"I resorted to methods that I suspect are more familiar to the Whitechapel school of law than Harvard, Sir Charles."
Charlie looked at him quizzically.
"It seems that St. Hilda's is currently organizing an appeal for a minibus—"
"A minibus?"
"So badly needed by the orphanage for trips—"
"And so you hinted that I—"
"—might be possible to help with a wheel or two if they in return felt able to cooperate. Precisely."
"You're a quick learner, Roberts, I'll give you that."
"And as there's no more time to be wasted, we ought to leave for St. Hilda's immediately so you can go over those files."
"But our best bet must surely be Miss Benson."
"I agree with you, Sir Charles. And I've planned for us to pay her a visit this afternoon, just as soon as you've finished at St. Hilda's. By the way, when Miss Benson was principal, she was known as 'The Dragon' not only by the children but also by the staff, so there's no reason to expect she'll be any more cooperative than Walter Slade."
When Charlie arrived at the orphanage he was greeted at the front door by the principal. Mrs. Culver wore a smart green dress that looked as if it might have been freshly pressed. She had obviously decided to treat her potential benefactor as if he were Nelson Rockefeller because all that was lacking was a red carpet as Charlie was ushered through to her study.
Two young lawyers who had been going assiduously through files all night and learning all there was to know about dormitory times, exacts, kitchen duties, credits and misdemeanors stood as Charlie and Trevor Roberts entered the room.
"Any further progress with those two names?" asked Roberts.
"Oh, yes, down to two. Isn't this exciting?" said Mrs. Culver, as she bustled round the room moving anything that seemed to be out of place. "I was wondering . . ."
"We have no proof as yet," said a bleary-eyed young man, "but one of them seems to fit the bill perfectly. We can come up with no information on the girl before the age of two. What's more important, she was registered with St. Hilda's at precisely the same time as Captain Trentham was awaiting execution."
"And the cook also remembers from the days when she was a scullery maid," said Mrs. Culver, jumping in, "that the girl came in the middle of the night, accompanied by a well-dressed, severe looking lady who had a lah-de-dah accent who then—"
"Enter Mrs. Trentham," said Charlie. "Only the girl's name is obviously not Trentham."
The young assistant checked the notes that lay spread across the table in front of him. "No, sir," he said. "This particular girl was registered under the name of Miss Cathy Ross."
Charlie felt his legs give way as Roberts and Mrs. Culver rushed forward to help him into the only comfortable chair in the room. Mrs. Culver loosened his tie and undid his collar.
"Are you feeling all right, Sir Charles?" she asked. "I must say you don't look too—"