At last his mother's conversation came to an end and she left for work. Twenty minutes later Daniel strolled out of the house carrying a small suitcase containing the uniform he had obtained from Johns and Pegg the previous day. Cautiously he walked three blocks in the wrong direction before hailing a taxi.
On arrival at the Royal Fusiliers Museum Daniel spent a few minutes checking the picture of his father that hung on the wall. The hair was wavier than his own, and looked from the sepia photo to be a touch fairer. He suddenly feared he might not be able to remember the exact details. Daniel waited until the curator's back was turned, then, despite feeling a tinge of guilt, quickly removed the little photograph and placed it in his briefcase.
He took another taxi to a barber in Kensington who was only too delighted to bleach the gentleman's hair, switch his parting and even to add a wave or two, creating as near as possible a duplicate of the sepia photograph from which he had been asked to work. Every few minutes Daniel checked the changing process in the mirror, and once he believed the effect was as close as could be achieved he paid the bill and left. The next cabbie he directed to Spinks, the medal specialists in King Street, St. James. On arrival he purchased for cash the four ribbons that he had ordered over the phone; to his relief the young assistant did not inquire if he was entitled to wear them. Another taxi took him from St. James to the Dorchester Hotel. There he booked himself into a single room and informed the girl on the desk that he intended to check out of the hotel by six that night. She handed him a key marked 309. Daniel politely refused the porter's offer to carry his case and merely asked for directions to the lift.
Once safely in his room he locked the door and laid the contents of his suitcase carefully on the bed. The moment he had finished changing from his suit into the uniform he fixed the row of ribbons above the left-hand breast pocket exactly as they were in the photograph and finally checked the effect in the long mirror attached to the bathroom door. He was every inch a First World War captain of the Royal Fusiliers, and the purple and silver ribbon of the MC and the three campaign medals simply added the finishing touch.
Having checked over every last detail against the stolen photograph Daniel began to feel unsure of himself for the first time. But if he didn't go through with it . . . He sat on the end of the bed, checking his watch every few minutes. An hour passed before he stood up, took a deep breath and pulled on his long trenchcoat—almost the only article of clothing he had the right to wear—locked the door behind him and went down to the lobby. Once he had pushed his way through the swing doors, he hailed another taxi which took him to Chester Square. He paid off the cabbie and checked his watch. Three forty-seven. He estimated that he still had at least another twenty minutes before the bridge party would begin to break up.
From his now familiar telephone box on the corner of the square Daniel watched as the ladies began to depart from Number 19. Once he had counted eleven of them leave the house he felt confident that Mrs. Trentham must, servants apart, now be on her own, he already knew from the parliamentary timetable detailed in the Daily Telegraph that morning that Mrs. Trentham's husband would not be expected back in Chester Square until after six that night. He waited for another five minutes before he came out of the telephone box and marched quickly across the road. He knew that if he hesitated, even for a moment, he would surely lose his nerve. He rapped firmly on the knocker and waited for what felt like hours before the butler finally answered.
"Can I help you, sir?"
"Good afternoon, Gibson. I have an appointment with Mrs. Trentham at four-fifteen."
"Yes, of course, sir," said Gibson. As Daniel had anticipated, the butler would assume that someone who knew his name must indeed have an appointment. "Please come this way, sir," he said before taking Daniel's trenchcoat. When they reached the door of the drawing room Gibson inquired, "May I say who is calling?"
"Captain Daniel Trentham."
The butler seemed momentarily taken aback but opened the door of the drawing room and announced, "Captain Daniel Trentham, madam."
Mrs. Trentham was standing by the window when Daniel entered the room. She swung round, stared at the young man, took a couple of paces forward, hesitated and then fell heavily onto the sofa.
For God's sake don't faint, was Daniel's first reaction as he stood in the center of the carpet facing his grandmother.
"Who are you?" she whispered at last.
"Don't let's play games, Grandmother. You know very well who I am," said Daniel, hoping he sounded confident.
"She sent you, didn't she?"
"If you are referring to my mother, no, she did not. In fact she doesn't even know that I'm here."
Mrs. Trentham's mouth opened in protest, but she did not speak. Daniel swayed from foot to foot during what seemed to him to be an unbearably long silence. His eye began to focus on an MC that stood on the mantelpiece.
"So what do you want?" she asked.
"I've come to make a deal with you, Grandmother."
"What do you mean, a deal? You're in no position lo make any deals."
"Oh, I think I am, Grandmother. You see, I've just come back from a trip to Australia." He paused. "Which turned out to be very revealing."
Mrs. Trentham flinched, but her eyes did not leave him for a moment.
"And what I learned about my father while I was there doesn't bear repeating. I won't go into any details, as I suspect you know every bit as much as I do."
Her eyes remained fixed on him and she slowly began to show signs of recovery.
"Unless, of course, you want to know where they had planned to bury my father originally, because it certainly wasn't in the family plot at Ashurst parish church."
"What do you want?" she repeated.
"As I said, Grandmother, I've come to make a deal."
"I'm listening."
"I want you to abandon your plans for building those dreadful flats in Chelsea Terrace, and at the same time withdraw any objections you may have to the detailed planning permission Trumper's has applied for."
"Never."
"Then I fear the time may have come for the world to be informed of the real reason for your vendetta against my mother."
"But that would harm your mother every bit as much as me."
"Oh, I don't think so, Grandmother," said Daniel. "Especially when the press find out that your son resigned his commission with far from glowing testimonials, and later died in Melbourne in even less auspicious circumstances—despite the fact he was finally laid to rest in a sleepy village in Berkshire after you had shipped the body home, telling your friends that he had been a successful cattle broker and died tragically of tuberculosis."
"But that's blackmail."
"Oh, no, Grandmother, just a troubled son, desperate to discover what had really happened to his long-lost father and shocked when he found out the truth behind the Trentham family secret. I think the press would describe such an incident quite simply as 'an internal feud.' One thing's for certain—my mother would come out smelling of roses, though I'm not sure how many people would still want to play bridge with you once they learned all the finer details."
Mrs. Trentham rose quickly to her feet, clenched both her fists and advanced towards him menacingly. Daniel stood his ground.
"No hysterics, Grandmother. Don't forget I know everything about you." He felt acutely aware that he actually knew very little.
Mrs. Trentham stopped, and even retreated a pace. "And if I agree to your demands?"
"I shall walk out of this room and you will never hear from me again as long as you live. You have my word on it."
She let out a long sigh, but it was some time before she replied.