The Sins of the Father

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 side. 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.’

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 serving 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.’