Emma smiled. ‘And you’re an old flatterer, Mr Guinzburg.’
‘As he wrote, spirited and combative,’ said Guinzburg, placing his half-moon spectacles back on his nose. ‘Nevertheless, I doubt your claim would stand up in a court of law. Sefton Jelks could put half a dozen Emmas on the witness stand who would swear blind they had known Lloyd all their lives. I need something more substantial.’
‘Don’t you find it a little too much of a coincidence, Mr Guinzburg, that the day Thomas Bradshaw arrives at Lavenham just happens to be the first day of the diary?’
‘Mr Lloyd explained that he didn’t start writing the diary until he became the prison librarian, when he had more time on his hands.’
‘But how do you explain there being no mention of his last night in prison, or the morning he’s released? He just has breakfast in the canteen, and reports to the library for another day’s work.’
‘What explanation do you have?’ asked Guinzburg, peering at her over the top of his glasses.
‘Whoever wrote the diary is still in Lavenham, and probably working on the next volume.’
‘That shouldn’t be difficult for you to verify,’ said Guinzburg, raising an eyebrow.
‘I agree,’ said Alistair, ‘and I’ve already submitted an application for Miss Barrington to visit Mr Bradshaw on compassionate grounds, and am waiting for the warden of Lavenham to give his approval.’
‘May I be allowed to ask a few more questions, Miss Barrington, in the hope of removing any lingering doubts?’ asked Guinzburg.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Emma.
The old man smiled, pulled his waistcoat down, pushed up his spectacles and studied a list of questions on a notepad in front of him. ‘Who is Captain Jack Tarrant, sometimes known as Old Jack?’
‘My grandfather’s oldest friend. They served in the Boer War together.’
‘Which grandfather?’
‘Sir Walter Barrington.’
The publisher nodded. ‘And did you consider Mr Tarrant to be an honourable man?’
‘Like Caesar’s wife, he was beyond reproach. He was probably the single biggest influence in Harry’s life.’
‘But isn’t he to blame for the fact that you and Harry are not married?’
‘Is that question relevant?’ asked Alistair, jumping in.
‘I suspect we’re about to find out,’ said Guinzburg, not taking his eyes off Emma.
‘Jack felt it was his duty to alert the vicar to the possibility that my father, Hugo Barrington, might also be Harry’s father,’ said Emma, her voice breaking.
‘Was that necessary, Mr Guinzburg?’ snapped Alistair.
‘Oh yes,’ said the publisher, picking up the copy of The Diary of a Convict from his desk. ‘I am now convinced that it was Harry Clifton, and not Max Lloyd, who wrote this book.’
Emma smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘even if I’m not sure what I can do about it.’
‘I know exactly what I’m going to do about it,’ said Guinzburg. ‘To start with, I shall release a revised edition as quickly as the presses can print it, with two major changes: Harry Clifton’s name will replace Max Lloyd’s on the front cover, and his photograph will appear on the back cover, assuming you have one, Miss Barrington.’
‘Several,’ said Emma, ‘including one of him on the Kansas Star as it sailed into New York harbour.’
‘Ah, that would also explain—’ began Guinzburg.
‘But if you were to do that,’ interrupted Alistair, ‘all hell will break loose. Jelks will issue a writ on behalf of his client for defamation, and claim punitive damages.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Guinzburg, ‘because if he does, the book will undoubtedly go back to number one on the bestseller lists, and remain there for several months. However, if he does nothing, as I suspect will be the case, it will show that he believes he’s the only person who has seen the missing exercise book Harry Clifton wrote about ending up in Lavenham.’
‘I knew there was another one,’ said Emma.
‘There certainly is,’ said Guinzburg, ‘and it was your mention of the Kansas Star that made me realize the manuscript Mr Lloyd submitted as the opening chapters of Mistaken Identity is nothing more than an account of what happened to Harry Clifton before he was sentenced for a crime he didn’t commit.’
‘May I be allowed to read it?’ said Emma.
The moment Emma walked into Alistair’s office, she knew something had gone badly wrong. The familiar warm welcome and gracious smile had been replaced by a furrowed brow.
‘They’re not going to let me visit Harry, are they,’ she said.
‘No,’ said Alistair. ‘Your application was turned down.’
‘But why? You told me I was well within my rights.’
‘I phoned the warden earlier this morning and asked him exactly the same question.’
‘And what reason did he give?’
‘You can hear for yourself,’ said Alistair, ‘because I made a tape recording of our conversation. Listen carefully, because it gives us three very important clues.’ Without another word, he leant forward and pressed the play button on his Grundig. Two spools began to whirl.
‘Lavenham Correctional Facility.’
‘I’d like to speak to the warden.’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Alistair Stuart. I’m a New York attorney.’
Silence, followed by another ringing tone. A longer silence, then, ‘I’ll put you through, sir.’
Emma was sitting on the edge of her seat when the warden came on the line.
‘Good morning, Mr Stuart. This is Warden Swanson. How can I help you?’
‘Good morning, Mr Swanson. I made an application ten days ago on behalf of my client, Miss Emma Barrington, requesting a visit on compassionate grounds to an inmate, Thomas Bradshaw, at the earliest possible opportunity. I received a letter from your office this morning saying the application has been turned down. I can find no legal reason for—’
‘Mr Stuart, your application was processed in the usual way, but I was unable to grant your request because Mr Bradshaw is no longer being held at this establishment.’
Another long silence followed, although Emma could see that the tape was still turning. Alistair eventually said, ‘And which institution has he been transferred to?’
‘I am not at liberty to disclose that information, Mr Stuart.’
‘But under the law, my client has the right to—’
‘The prisoner has signed a document waiving his rights, a copy of which I’d be happy to send to you.’
‘But why would he do that?’ said Alistair, casting a line into the water.
‘I am not at liberty to disclose that information,’ repeated the warden, not rising to the bait.
‘Are you at liberty to divulge anything at all concerning Thomas Bradshaw?’ asked Alistair, trying not to sound exasperated.
Another long silence followed and, although the tape was still running, Emma wondered if the warden had put his phone down. Alistair placed a finger to his lips, and suddenly the voice was back on the line.
‘Harry Clifton was released from prison, but continued to serve his sentence.’ Another long pause. ‘And I lost the best librarian this prison’s ever had.’
The phone went dead.
Alistair pressed the stop button before he spoke. ‘The warden went as far as he could to assist us.’
‘By mentioning Harry by name?’ said Emma.
‘Yes, but also by letting us know he served in the prison library until very recently. That explains how Lloyd got his hands on the diaries.’
Emma nodded. ‘But you said there were three important clues,’ she reminded him. ‘What was the third?’
‘That Harry was released from Lavenham, but continues to serve his sentence.’
‘Then he must be in another prison,’ said Emma.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Alistair. ‘Now we’re at war, my bet is that Tom Bradshaw will be servin
g the rest of his sentence in the navy.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘It’s all in the diaries,’ said Alistair. He picked up a copy of The Diary of a Convict from his desk, turned to a page marked by a bookmark and read: ‘The first thing I’ll do when I get back to Bristol is join the navy and fight the Germans.’
‘But they’d never have allowed him to return to England before he’d completed his sentence.’
‘I didn’t say he’d joined the British Navy.’
‘Oh God,’ said Emma as the significance of Alistair’s words sank in.
‘At least we know Harry’s still alive,’ said Alistair cheerfully.
‘I wish he was still in prison.’
HUGO BARRINGTON
1942–1943
33
SIR WALTER’S FUNERAL was held at St Mary’s Redcliffe, and the late chairman of Barrington’s Shipping Line would surely have been proud to see such a packed congregation and to hear the heartfelt eulogy delivered by the Bishop of Bristol.
After the service, the mourners lined up to offer their condolences to Sir Hugo as he stood at the north door of the church, alongside his mother. He was able to explain to those who asked that his daughter Emma was marooned in New York, although he couldn’t tell them why she’d gone there in the first place, and his son Giles, of whom he was inordinately proud, was interned in a German PoW camp in Weinsberg; information his mother had passed on to him the previous evening.
During the service, Lord and Lady Harvey, Hugo’s ex-wife Elizabeth and their daughter Grace had all been seated in the front row of the church, on the opposite side of the aisle from Hugo. All of them had paid their respects to the grieving widow, and had then pointedly left without acknowledging his presence.
Maisie Clifton had sat at the back of the church, her head bowed throughout the service, and left moments after the bishop had delivered the final blessing.
When Bill Lockwood, the managing director of Barrington’s, stepped forward to shake hands with his new chairman and to express his condolences, all Hugo had to say was, ‘I expect to see you in my office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’
Mr Lockwood gave a slight bow.
A reception was held at Barrington Hall after the funeral, and Hugo mingled among the mourners, several of whom were about to discover that they no longer had a job with Barrington’s. When the last guest had departed, Hugo went up to his bedroom and changed for dinner.
He entered the dining room with his mother on his arm. Once she was seated, he took his father’s place at the head of the table. During the meal, while there were no servants in attendance, he told his mother that, despite his father’s misgivings, he was a reformed character.
He went on to assure her that the company was in safe hands, and that he had exciting plans for its future.
Hugo drove his Bugatti through the gates of Barrington’s shipyard for the first time in over two years, at 9.23 the following morning. He parked in the chairman’s space before making his way up to his father’s old office.
As he stepped out of the lift on the fourth floor, he saw Bill Lockwood pacing up and down the corridor outside his office, a red folder under his arm. But then Hugo had always intended to keep him waiting.
‘Good morning, Hugo,’ said Lockwood, stepping forward.
Hugo strolled past him without responding. ‘Good morning, Miss Potts,’ he said to his old secretary, as if he’d never been away. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m ready to see Mr Lockwood,’ he added, before walking through to his new office.
He sat down at his father’s desk – that was how he still thought of it, and he wondered how long that feeling would last – and began to read The Times. Once the Americans and Russians had entered the war, far more people were beginning to believe in an Allied victory. He put down the paper.
‘I’ll see Mr Lockwood now, Miss Potts.’
The managing director entered the chairman’s office with a smile on his face. ‘Welcome back, Hugo,’ he said.
Hugo gave him a fixed stare and said, ‘Chairman.’
‘I’m sorry, chairman,’ said a man who had served on the board of Barrington’s when Hugo was in short trousers.
‘I’d like you to bring me up to date on the company’s financial position.’
‘Of course, chairman.’ Lockwood opened the red folder he’d been carrying under his arm.
As the chairman hadn’t invited him to sit, he remained standing. ‘Your father,’ he began, ‘managed to guide the company prudently through troubled times, and despite several setbacks, not least the Germans continually targeting the docks during their nightly bombing raids in the early part of the war, with the help of government contracts, we have managed to weather the storm, so we should be in good shape once this dreadful war is over.’
‘Cut the waffle,’ said Hugo, ‘and get to the bottom line.’
‘Last year,’ continued the managing director turning a page, ‘the company made a profit of thirty-seven thousand, four hundred pounds and ten shillings.’
‘Wouldn’t want to forget the ten shillings, would we,’ said Hugo.
‘That was always your father’s attitude,’ said Lockwood, missing the sarcasm.
‘And this year?’
‘Our half yearly results suggest that we’re well placed to equal, possibly even surpass, last year’s results.’ Lockwood turned another page.
‘How many places are currently available on the board?’ asked Hugo.
The change of subject took Lockwood by surprise, and he had to turn several pages before he could respond. ‘Three, as unfortunately Lord Harvey, Sir Derek Sinclair and Captain Havens all resigned following your father’s death.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Hugo. ‘It will save me the trouble of sacking them.’
‘I presume, chairman, you would not wish me to record those sentiments in my minutes of this meeting?’
‘I don’t give a damn if you do or don’t,’ Hugo said.
The managing director bowed his head.
‘And when are you due to retire?’ was Hugo’s next question.
‘I’ll be sixty in a couple of months’ time, but if you felt, chairman, given the circumstances—’
‘What circumstances?’
‘As you will only just have got your feet under the table, so to speak, I could be persuaded to stay on for a couple more years.’
‘That’s good of you,’ said Hugo, and the managing director smiled for the second time that morning. ‘But please don’t put yourself out on my account. Two months will be just fine by me. So what’s the biggest challenge we’re facing at the moment?’
‘We have recently applied for a major government contract to lease out our merchant fleet to the navy,’ said Lockwood once he’d recovered. ‘We’re not the favourites, but I think your father gave a good account of himself when the inspectors visited the company earlier this year, so we should be taken seriously.’
‘When will we find out?’
‘Not for some time, I fear. Civil servants aren’t built for speed,’ he added, laughing at his own joke. ‘I have also prepared several discussion papers for your consideration, chairman, so that you will be well briefed before you chair your first board meeting.’
‘I don’t anticipate holding that many board meetings in the future,’ said Hugo. ‘I believe in leading from the front, making decisions and standing by them. But you can leave your briefing papers with my secretary, and I’ll get round to them when I find the time.’
‘As you wish, chairman.’
Within moments of Lockwood leaving his office, Hugo was on the move. ‘I’m going to visit my bank,’ he said as he passed Miss Potts’s desk.
‘Shall I call Mr Prendergast and let him know you’d like to see him?’ Miss Potts asked as she hurried after him down the corridor.
‘Certainly not,’ said Hugo. ‘I want to take him by surprise.’
‘Is there anything you need m
e to do before you return, Sir Hugo?’ Miss Potts enquired as he stepped into the lift.
‘Yes, see that the name on my door is changed before I get back.’
Miss Potts turned round to look at the office door. Sir Walter Barrington, Chairman was displayed in gold leaf.
The lift door closed.
As Hugo drove into the centre of Bristol, he felt that his first few hours as chairman could not have gone better. All was finally right with the world. He parked his Bugatti outside the National Provincial Bank in Corn Street, leant across and picked up a packet he’d left under the passenger seat.
He strolled into the bank, past the reception desk and headed straight for the manager’s office, giving a little tap on the door before marching in. A startled Mr Prendergast leapt up as Hugo placed a shoebox on his desk and sank into the chair opposite him.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,’ said Hugo.
‘Of course not, Sir Hugo,’ said Prendergast, staring at the shoebox. ‘I’m available for you at any time.’
‘That’s good to know, Prendergast. Why don’t you begin by bringing me up to date on Broad Street?’
The bank manager scurried across the room, pulled open the drawer of a filing cabinet and extracted a thick folder, which he placed on the table. He sorted through some papers before he spoke again.
‘Ah yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Here’s what I was looking for.’
Hugo was tapping the arm of his chair impatiently.
‘Of the twenty-two businesses which have ceased to trade in Broad Street since the bombing began, seventeen have already accepted your offer of two hundred pounds or less for their freehold, namely Roland the florist, Bates the butcher, Makepeace—’
‘What about Mrs Clifton? Has she accepted my offer?’
‘I’m afraid not, Sir Hugo. Mrs Clifton said she wouldn’t settle for less than four hundred pounds, and has only given you until next Friday to accept her offer.’