‘Where’s my cash?’ he demanded long before he’d reached her desk.
‘I haven’t got it yet,’ said Maisie. ‘You’re going to have to wait another week.’
‘Like hell I am,’ said Stan, who grabbed her by the hair and began to drag her, screaming, out from behind her desk. As he moved towards the door, the rest of the class sat mesmerized. Only one man stood in his path.
‘Get out of my way, schoolmaster.’
‘I suggest you let go of your sister, Mr Tancock, if you don’t want to be in even more trouble than you already are.’
‘From you and whose army?’ laughed Stan. ‘If you don’t fuck off, mate, I’ll knock your teeth right down your throat, and I promise you, that won’t be a pretty sight.’
Stan didn’t see the first punch coming, and when it landed in his solar plexus, he bent double, so he could be excused for not recovering before the second blow landed on his chin. The third sent him sprawling to the ground like a felled oak.
Stan lay on the floor, clutching his stomach, expecting a boot to be put in. The schoolmaster towered over him, and waited for him to recover. When he finally did, Stan rose unsteadily to his feet, never once taking his eyes off the schoolmaster as he edged slowly towards the door. When he thought he was at a safe distance, he looked back at Maisie, who was still lying on the floor, curled up in a ball, sobbing quietly.
‘You’d better not come home till you’ve got my money, my girl,’ he growled, ‘if you know what’s good for you!’ Without another word he stormed out into the corridor.
Even after Maisie heard the door slam, she was still too frightened to move. The rest of the class gathered up their books and slipped quietly out of the room. No one would be visiting the pub that night.
Mr Holcombe walked quickly across the room, knelt down beside his charge and gathered her trembling body in his arms. It was some time before he said, ‘You’d better come home with me tonight, Maisie. I’ll make up a bed in the spare room. You can stay for as long as you want to.’
EMMA BARRINGTON
1941–1942
31
‘SIXTY-FOURTH AND PARK,’ said Emma as she jumped into a taxi outside Sefton Jelks’s Wall Street office.
She sat in the back of the cab and tried to think about what she would say to Great-aunt Phyllis when, or if, she got past her front door, but the car radio was so loud that she couldn’t concentrate. She thought about asking the driver to turn the volume down, but she had already learnt that New York cabbies are deaf when it suits them, although rarely dumb and never mute.
While listening to the commentator describe in an excited voice what had taken place at somewhere called Pearl Harbor, Emma accepted that her great-aunt’s first question was bound to be, what brings you to New York, young lady, followed by, how long have you been here, and then, why has it taken you so long to come and see me? To none of these questions did she have a plausible answer, unless she was willing to tell Great-aunt Phyllis everything – something she wanted to avoid because she hadn’t even told her own mother everything.
She might not even realize she has a great-niece, thought Emma. And was it possible there was a long-standing family feud that Emma didn’t know about? Or perhaps her great-aunt was a recluse, divorced, remarried, or insane?
All Emma could remember was once seeing a Christmas card signed Phyllis, Gordon and Alistair. Was one a husband and the other a son? To make matters worse, Emma didn’t have any proof that she really was Phyllis’s great-niece.
Emma was even less confident about facing her by the time the cab drew up outside the front door and she’d handed over another quarter.
Emma stepped out of the cab, looked up at the imposing, four-storey brownstone and changed her mind several times about knocking on the door. She finally decided to walk round the block, in the hope that she would feel more confident by the time she returned. As she walked down 64th Street, Emma couldn’t help noticing that New Yorkers were scurrying back and forth at an unusually frantic pace, with shocked and anxious looks on their faces. Some were looking up at the sky. Surely they didn’t believe the next Japanese air raid would be on Manhattan?
A paperboy standing on the corner of Park kept shouting out the same headline, ‘America declares war! Read the latest!’
By the time Emma arrived back outside the front door, she had decided she couldn’t have picked a worse day to call on her great-aunt. Perhaps it might be wise to return to her hotel and leave it until tomorrow. But why would tomorrow be any different? Her money had almost run out, and if America was now at war, how would she get back to England and, more important, to Sebastian, whom she’d never intended to be apart from for more than a couple of weeks?
She found herself climbing the five steps to face a shiny black door with a large, highly polished brass knocker. Perhaps Great-aunt Phyllis was out. Perhaps she’d moved. Emma was about to knock when she noticed a bell in the wall with the word ‘Tradesmen’ printed underneath. She pressed the bell, took a pace back and waited, far happier to face the person who dealt with tradesmen.
A few moments later a tall, elegantly dressed man, wearing a black jacket, striped trousers, a white shirt and grey tie, opened the door.
‘How may I help you, ma’am?’ he enquired, clearly having decided that Emma wasn’t a tradesman.
‘My name is Emma Barrington,’ she told him. ‘I wondered if my great-aunt Phyllis is at home.’
‘She is indeed, Miss Barrington, Monday being her bridge afternoon. If you’ll be kind enough to step inside, I’ll let Mrs Stuart know you’re here.’
‘I could always come back tomorrow, if it isn’t convenient,’ stammered Emma, but he’d closed the door behind her and was already halfway down the corridor.
As Emma stood waiting in the hall, she couldn’t have missed which country the Stuarts hailed from: a portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie above crossed swords and a Stuart Clan shield hung on the wall at the far end of the hall. Emma walked slowly up and down, admiring paintings by Peploe, Fergusson, McTaggart and Raeburn. She remembered that her grandfather Lord Harvey owned a Lawrence that hung in the drawing room of Mulgelrie Castle. She had no idea what her great-uncle did for a living, but he clearly did it well.
The butler returned a few minutes later, the same impassive look on his face. Perhaps he hadn’t heard the news about Pearl Harbor.
‘Madam will receive you in the drawing room,’ he said.
How like Jenkins he was: no surplus words, an even pace that never varied, and somehow he managed to display deference without being deferential. Emma wanted to ask him which part of England he came from, but knew he would consider that an intrusion, so she followed him along the corridor without another word.
She was about to start climbing the stairs when the butler stopped, pulled back a lift grille and stood aside to allow her to step in. A lift in a private house? Emma wondered if Great-aunt Phyllis was an invalid. The lift shuddered as it reached the third floor and she stepped out into a beautifully furnished drawing room. If it were not for the noise of traffic, blaring horns and police sirens coming from the street below, one might have been in Edinburgh.
‘If you’ll wait here please, madam.’
Emma remained by the door while the butler walked across the room to join four elderly ladies who were seated around a log fire, enjoying tea and crumpets while listening intently to a radio that had never blared.
When the butler announced, ‘Miss Emma Barrington,’ they all turned and looked in Emma’s direction. She couldn’t mistake which one of them was Lord Harvey’s sister, long before she rose to greet her: the flaming-red hair, the impish smile and the unmistakable air of someone who isn’t first generation.
‘It surely can’t be little Emma,’ she declared, as she left the group and sailed across to her great-niece, the hint of a Highland lilt still in her voice. ‘The last time I saw you, dear girl, you were wearing a gymslip, short white socks and daps and carrying a hockey stick.
I felt quite concerned for the little boys playing in the opposing team.’ Emma smiled; the same sense of humour as her grandfather. ‘And now look at you. You’ve blossomed into such a beautiful creature.’ Emma blushed. ‘So what brings you to New York, my dear?’
‘I’m sorry to intrude like this, Great-aunt,’ Emma began, glancing nervously towards the other three ladies.
‘Don’t worry about them,’ she whispered. ‘After the President’s announcement, they’ve got more than enough to keep themselves occupied. Now, where are your bags?’
‘My bag is at the Mayflower Hotel,’ Emma told her.
‘Parker,’ she said, turning to the butler, ‘send someone round to pick up Miss Emma’s things from the Mayflower, and then prepare the main guest bedroom because, after today’s news, I have a feeling my great-niece is going to be with us for quite some time.’ The butler melted away.
‘But, Great-aunt—’
‘No buts,’ she said, raising a hand. ‘And I must insist that you stop calling me Great-aunt, it makes me sound like an old battleaxe. Now it’s quite possible that I am an old battleaxe, but I do not wish to be reminded of it on a regular basis, so, please, call me Phyllis.’
‘Thank you, Great-aunt Phyllis,’ Emma said.
Phyllis laughed. ‘I do so love the English,’ she said. ‘Now come and say hello to my friends. They will be fascinated to meet such an independent young lady. So frightfully modern.’
‘Quite some time’ turned out to be more than a year, and as each day passed, Emma was more and more desperate to be reunited with Sebastian, but was only able to follow her son’s progress from letters sent by her mother, and occasionally Grace. Emma wept when she learned of the death of ‘Gramps’, because she’d thought he’d live for ever. She tried not to think about who would take over the company, and assumed her father wouldn’t have the nerve to show his face in Bristol.
Phyllis couldn’t have made Emma feel more at home if she’d been her own mother. Emma quickly discovered that her great-aunt was a typical Harvey, generous to a fault, and the page defining the words impossible, implausible and impractical must have been torn out of her dictionary at an early age. The main guest bedroom, as Phyllis called it, was a suite of rooms overlooking Central Park, which came as a pleasant surprise after Emma’s cramped single room at the Mayflower.
Emma’s second surprise was when she came down for dinner on her first evening and found her great-aunt dressed in a flaming-red gown, drinking a glass of whiskey and smoking a cigarette in a long holder. She smiled at the thought of being described as modern by this woman.
‘My son Alistair will be joining us for dinner,’ she announced before Parker had been given a chance to pour Emma a glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream. ‘He’s a lawyer and a bachelor,’ she added. ‘Two disadvantages from which he’s most unlikely to recover. But at times he can be quite amusing, if somewhat dry.’
Cousin Alistair arrived a few minutes later, dressed in a dinner jacket for a meal with his mother, thus embodying ‘the British abroad’.
Emma guessed that he was around fifty, and a good tailor had disguised the fact that he was carrying a few surplus pounds. His humour may have been a little dry, but he was unquestionably bright, fun and well informed, even if he did go on a bit about the case he was currently working on. It came as no surprise when his proud mother told Emma over dinner that Alistair was the youngest partner in his law firm, since the death of her husband. Emma assumed that Phyllis knew why he wasn’t married.
She couldn’t be sure if it was the delicious food, the excellent wine or simply American hospitality that caused her to relax so much that she ended up telling them everything that had happened to her since Great-aunt Phyllis had last seen her on a hockey field at Red Maids’ School.
By the time Emma had explained why she crossed the Atlantic despite the risks involved, they were both staring at her as if she’d just landed from another planet.
Once Alistair had devoured the last morsel of his fruit tart and turned his attention to a large brandy, he spent the next thirty minutes cross-examining their unexpected guest, as if he were opposing counsel and she a hostile witness.
‘Well, I must say, Mother,’ he said as he folded his napkin, ‘this case looks far more promising than Amalgamated Wire versus New York Electric. I can’t wait to cross swords with Sefton Jelks.’
‘What’s the point of wasting our time on Jelks,’ Emma said, ‘when it’s far more important to find Harry and clear his name?’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Alistair. ‘But I have a feeling that one will lead to the other.’ He picked up Emma’s copy of The Diary of a Convict, but didn’t open it, just studied the spine.
‘Who’s the publisher?’ asked Phyllis.
‘Viking Press,’ said Alistair, removing his glasses.
‘Harold Guinzburg, no less.’
‘Do you think he and Max Lloyd might have collaborated in this deception?’ Alistair asked, turning to his mother.
‘Certainly not,’ she replied. ‘Your father once told me he’d come up against Guinzburg in court. I remember he described him as a formidable adversary, but a man who would never consider bending the law, let alone breaking it.’
‘Then we’re in with a chance,’ said Alistair, ‘because if that’s the case, he won’t be pleased to discover what’s been perpetrated in his name. However, I’ll need to read the book before I arrange a meeting with the publisher.’ Alistair looked across the table and smiled at Emma. ‘I shall be fascinated to discover what Mr Guinzburg makes of you, young lady.’
‘And I,’ said Phyllis, ‘will be equally fascinated to discover what Emma makes of Harold Guinzburg.’
‘Touché, Mama,’ Alistair conceded.
After Parker had poured Alistair a second brandy and relit his cigar, Emma ventured to ask him what he thought her chances were of being allowed to visit Harry in Lavenham.
‘I’ll make an application on your behalf tomorrow,’ he promised between puffs. ‘Let’s see if I can’t do a little better than your helpful detective.’
‘My helpful detective?’ repeated Emma.
‘Unusually helpful,’ said Alistair. ‘Once he realized Jelks was involved, I’m amazed Detective Kolowski even agreed to see you.’
‘I’m not at all surprised that he was helpful,’ said Phyllis, winking at Emma.
32
‘AND YOU SAY your husband wrote this book?’
‘No, Mr Guinzburg,’ said Emma. ‘Harry Clifton and I are not married, although I am the mother of his child. But yes, Harry did write The Diary of a Convict while he was incarcerated at Lavenham.’
Harold Guinzburg removed the half-moon spectacles from the end of his nose and took a closer look at the young woman seated on the opposite side of his desk. ‘I do have a slight problem with your claim,’ he said, ‘and I feel I should point out that every sentence of the diary was written in Mr Lloyd’s hand.’
‘He copied Harry’s manuscript word for word.’
‘For that to be possible, Mr Lloyd would have had to share a cell with Tom Bradshaw, which shouldn’t be difficult to check.’
‘Or they could have worked together in the library,’ suggested Alistair.
‘If you were able to prove this,’ said Guinzburg, ‘it would place my company, and by that I mean me, in an invidious position to say the least, and in the circumstances, I might be wise to seek legal advice.’
‘We would like to make it clear from the start,’ interjected Alistair, who was sitting on Emma’s right, ‘that we came here in a spirit of goodwill, as we felt you would wish to be acquainted with my cousin’s story.’
‘It was the only reason I agreed to see you,’ said Guinzburg, ‘as I was a great admirer of your late father.’
‘I didn’t realize you knew him.’
‘I didn’t,’ said Guinzburg. ‘He appeared for the other side in a dispute my company was involved in, and I left the courtroom wishing he’d been on my s
ide. However, if I am to accept your cousin’s story,’ he continued, ‘I hope you won’t mind if I ask Miss Barrington one or two questions.’
‘I’m happy to answer any questions you might have, Mr Guinzburg,’ said Emma. ‘But may I ask if you’ve read Harry’s book?’
‘I make a point of reading every book we publish, Miss Barrington. I can’t pretend I find all of them enjoyable, or even finish every one, but in the case of The Diary of a Convict, I knew the moment I’d finished the first chapter that it would be a bestseller. I also made a note in the margin on page two-eleven.’ Guinzburg picked up the book and flicked through its pages before beginning to read. ‘I’ve always wanted to be an author, and am currently working on an outline plot for the first in a series of detective novels based in Bristol.’
‘Bristol,’ said Emma, interrupting the old man. ‘How could Max Lloyd possibly know anything about Bristol?’
‘There is a Bristol in Mr Lloyd’s home state of Illinois, Miss Barrington,’ said Guinzburg, ‘as Max pointed out when I told him I’d be interested in reading the first in the series.’
‘You never will,’ Emma promised him.
‘He’s already submitted the opening chapters of Mistaken Identity,’ said Guinzburg, ‘and I have to say, they’re rather good.’
‘And were those chapters written in the same style as the diary?’
‘Yes. And before you ask, Miss Barrington, they are also written in the same hand, unless you’re suggesting that they were also copied.’
‘He’s got away with it once. Why wouldn’t he try it on a second time?’
‘But do you have any real proof that Mr Lloyd didn’t write The Diary of a Convict?’ said Guinzburg, beginning to sound a little irritated.
‘Yes, sir. I am the “Emma” in the book.’
‘If that is the case, Miss Barrington, I agree with the author’s judgement that you are indeed a great beauty, and you have already proved, to quote him, to be both spirited and combative.’