The Sins of the Father

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 me 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.’

‘Has she, be damned. Well, you can tell her that two hundred pounds is my final offer. That woman has never had a brass farthing to her name, so I don’t expect we’ll have to wait too much longer before she comes to her senses.’

Prendergast gave a slight cough that Hugo remembered well.

‘If you succeed in purchasing every property in the street except Mrs Clifton’s, four hundred pounds might turn out to be quite reasonable.’

‘She’s bluffing. All we have to do is bide our time.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so. And in any case, I know exactly the right man to convince the Clifton woman that she’d be wise to settle for two hundred pounds.’

Prendergast didn’t look convinced, but satisfied himself by asking, ‘Is there anything else I can do to assist you?’

‘Yes,’ said Hugo, removing the lid from the shoebox. ‘You can deposit this money into my personal account and issue me with a new cheque book.’

‘Of course, Sir Hugo,’ said Prendergast, looking into the box. ‘I’ll count it and issue you with a receipt and a cheque book.’

‘But I’ll need to make an immediate withdrawal, as I have my eye on a Lagonda V12.’

‘Winner of Le Mans,’ said Prendergast, ‘but then, you’ve always been a pioneer in that particular field.’

Hugo smiled as he rose from his chair.

‘Give me a call the moment Mrs Clifton realizes that two hundred pounds is all she’s going to get.’

‘Do we still employ Stan Tancock, Miss Potts?’ Hugo asked as he marched back into the office.

‘Yes, Sir Hugo,’ replied his secretary, following him into the room. ‘He works as a loader in the stock yard.’

‘I want to see him immediately,’ said the chairman, as he slumped down behind his desk.

Miss Potts hurried out of the room.

Hugo stared at the files piled on his desk which he was supposed to have read before the next board meeting. He flicked open the cover of the top one: a list of the union’s demands following their last meeting with management. He had reached number four on the list, two weeks’ paid holiday each year, when there was a tap on the door.

‘Tancock to see you, chairman.’

‘Thank you, Miss Potts. Send him in.’

Stan Tancock walked into the room, removed his cloth cap and stood in front of the chairman’s desk.

‘You wanted to see me, guv?’ he said, looking a little nervous.

Hugo glanced up at the squat, unshaven docker, whose beer belly didn’t leave much doubt where most of his wage packet went on a Friday night.

‘I’ve got a job for you, Tancock.’

‘Yes, guv,’ said Stan looking more hopeful.

‘It concerns your sister, Maisie Clifton, and the plot of land she owns on Broad Street, where Tilly’s tea shop used to stand. Do you know anything about it?’

‘Yes, guv, some geezer offered her two hundred quid for it.’

‘Is that right?’ said Hugo, removing his wallet from an inside pocket. He extracted a crisp five-pound note and laid it on the desk. Hugo remembered the same licking of the lips and the same piggy eyes the last time he’d bribed the man. ‘I want you to make sure, Tancock, that your sister accepts the offer, without the suggestion that I’m in any way involved.’

He slid the five-pound note across the desk.

‘No problem,’ said Stan, no longer looking at the chairman, only at the five-pound note.

‘There will be another of those,’ Hugo said, tapping his wallet, ‘the day she signs the contract.’

‘Consider it done, guv.’

Hugo added casually, ‘I was sorry to hear about your nephew.’

‘Don’t make much odds to me,’ said Stan. ‘Got far too big for his boots, in my opinion.’

‘Buried at sea, I was told.’

‘Yeah, more’n two years back.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘Ship’s doctor came to visit me sister, didn’t he.’

‘And was he able to confirm that young Clifton was buried at sea?’

‘Sure did. Even brought a letter from some mate who was on board the ship when Harry died.’

‘A letter?’ said Hugo leaning forward. ‘What did this letter say?’

‘No idea, guv. Maisie never opened it.’

‘So what did she do with the letter?’

‘Still on the mantelpiece isn’t it?’

Hugo extracted another five-pound note.

‘I’d like to see that letter.’

34

HUGO THREW ON the brakes of his new Lagonda when he heard a paperboy shouting his name from a street corner.

‘Sir Hugo Barrington’s son decorated for gallantry at Tobruk. Read all about it!’

Hugo leapt out of his car, handed the paperboy a halfpenny and looked at a photograph of his son when he was school captain of Bristol Grammar that dominated the front page. He climbed back into his car, turned off the ignition and read all about it.

Second Lieutenant Giles Barrington of the 1st Battalion, the Wessex, son of Sir Hugo Barrington Bt, has been awarded the Military Cross following action in Tobruk. Lt Barrington led a platoon across eighty yards of open desert, killing a German officer and five other soldiers, before over-running an enemy dugout and capturing 63 German infantry men from Rommel’s crack Afrika Korps. Lt/Col. Robertson of the Wessex described Lt Barrington’s action as displaying remarkable leadership and selfless courage in the face of overwhelming odds.

2/Lt Barrington’s platoon commander, Captain Alex Fisher, also an Old Bristolian, was involved in the same action, and mentioned in dispatches, as was Corporal Terry Bates, a local butcher from Broad Street. Lt Giles Barrington MC was later captured by the Germans when Rommel sacked Tobruk. Neither Barrington, nor Bates, is aware of their award for gallantry, because both of them are currently prisoners of war in Germany. Captain Fisher has been reported as missing in action. Full story pages 6 & 7.

Hugo sped home to share the news with his mother.

‘How proud Walter would have been,’ she said once she’d finished reading the report. ‘I must call Elizabeth immediately, in case she hasn’t heard the news.’

It was the first time anyone had mentioned his former wife’s name for a long while.

‘I thought you’d be interested to know,’ said Mitchell, ‘that Mrs Clifton is wearing an engagement ring.’

‘Who would want to marry that bitch?’

‘A Mr Arnold Holcombe, it seems.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘A schoolmaster. Teaches English at Merrywood Elementary. In fact, he used to teach Harry Clifton before he went to St Bede’s.’

‘But that was years ago. Why haven’t you mentioned his name before?’

‘They’ve only recently met up again, when Mrs Clifton began attending evening classes.’

‘Evening classes?’ repeated Hugo.

‘Yes,’ said Mitchell. ‘She’s been learning to read and write. Seems she’s a chip off the young block.’

‘What do you mean?’ snapped Hugo.

‘When the class took their final exam at the end of the course, she came top.’

‘Did she now?’ said Hugo. ‘Perhaps I should visit Mr Holcombe and let him know exactly what his fiancée was up to during the years he lost touch with her.’

‘Perhaps I should mention that Holcombe boxed for Bristol University, as Stan Tancock found to his cost.’

‘I can handle myself,’ said Hugo. ‘Meanwhile I want you to keep an eye on another woman, who just might prove every bit as dangerous for my future as Maisie Clifton.’

Mitchell removed a tiny notebook and pencil from an inside pocket.

‘Her name is Olga Piotrovska, and she lives in London, at number forty-two Lowndes Square. I need to know everyone she comes into contact with, particularly if she’s ever interviewed by any members of your former profession. Spare no details, however trivial or unpleasant you may consider them.’

Once Hugo had finished speaking, the notebook and pencil disappeared. He then handed Mitchell an envelope, a sign that the meeting was over. Mitchell slipped his pay packet into his jacket pocket, stood up and limped away.

Hugo was surprised how quickly he became bored with being chairman of Barrington’s. Endless meetings to attend, countless papers to read, minutes to be circulated, memos to be considered, and a stack of mail that should have been replied to by return of post. And on top of that, before he left every evening, Miss Potts would hand him a briefcase bulging with even more papers that had to be gone over by the time he was back behind his desk at eight the following morning.

Hugo invited three chums to join the board, including Archie Fenwick and Toby Dunstable, in the hope that they would lessen his load. They rarely showed up for meetings, but still expected to receive their stipend.

As the weeks passed, Hugo began turning up at the office later and later, and after Bill Lockwood reminded the chairman that it was only a few days to his sixtieth birthday, when he would be retiring, Hugo capitulated and said that he’d decided Lockwood could stay on for another couple of years.

‘How kind of you to reconsider my position, chairman,’ said Lockwood. ‘But I feel that, having served the company for almost forty years, the time has come for me to make way for a younger man.’

Hugo cancelled Lockwood’s farewell party.

That younger man was Ray Compton, Lockwood’s deputy, who had only been with the company for a few months, and certainly hadn’t got his feet under the table. When he presented Barrington’s year results to the board, Hugo accepted for the first time that the company was only just breaking even, and agreed with Compton that the time had come to start laying off some of the dock labourers before the company couldn’t afford to pay their wages.

As Barrington’s fortunes dwindled, the nation’s future looked more hopeful.

With the German army retreating from Stalingrad the British people began to believe for the first time that the Allies could win the war. Confidence in the future started to seep back into the nation’s psyche as theatres, clubs and restaurants began to reopen all over the country.

Hugo longed to be back in town and to rejoin his social set, but Mitchell’s reports continued to make it clear that London was one city he’d be wise to steer clear of.

The year 1943 didn’t begin well for Barrington’s.

There were several cancelled contracts from customers who became exasperated when the chairman couldn’t be bothered to answer their letters, and several creditors began demanding payment, one or two of them even threatening writs. And then one morning, a ray of sunlight appeared that Hugo believed would solve all of the immediate cashflow problems.

It was a call from Prendergast that raised Hugo’s hopes.

The bank manager had been approached by the United Dominion Real Estate Company, who were showing an interest in purchasing the Broad Street site.

‘I think, Sir Hugo, it would be prudent not to mention the figure over the phone,’ Prendergast intoned slightly pompously.

Hugo was sitting in Prendergast’s office forty minutes later, and even he gasped when he heard how much they were willing to offer.

‘Twenty-four thousand pounds?’ repeated Hugo.

‘Yes,’ said Prendergast, ‘and I’m confident that’s their opening bid, and I can push them up to nearer thirty. Remembering that your original outlay was less than three thousand pounds, I think we can consider it a shrewd investment. But there’s a fly in the ointment.’

‘A fly?’ said Hugo, sounding anxious.

‘In the form of Mrs Clifton,’ said Prendergast. ‘The offer is conditional on you obtaining the freehold for the entire site, including her plot.’

‘Offer her eight hundred,’ Hugo barked.

The Prendergast cough followed, although he didn’t remind his client that had he taken his advice, they could have closed a deal with Mrs Clifton for four hundred pounds some months ago, and if she were ever to find out about United Dominion’s offer…

‘I’ll let you know the moment I’ve heard from her,’ was all Prendergast said.

‘Do that,’ said Hugo, ‘and while I’m here, I need to withdraw a little cash from my private account.’

‘I’m sorry, Sir Hugo, but that account is overdrawn at the present time…’

Hugo was sitting in the front seat of his sleek royal blue Lagonda when Holcombe pushed through the school door and began to walk across the playground. He stopped to speak to a handyman who was giving the front gates a fresh coat of lilac and green paint, the Merrywood school colours.

‘That’s a fine job you’re doing, Alf.’

‘Thank you, Mr Holcombe,’ Hugo heard the handyman say.

‘But I still expect you to concentrate more on your verbs, and do try not to be late on Wednesday.’

Alf touched his cap.

Holcombe began walking along the pavement and pretended not to see Hugo sitting behind the wheel of his car. Hugo allowed himself a smirk; everyone gave his Lagonda V12 a second look. Three young lads loitering on the pavement opposite hadn’t been able to take their eyes off it for the past half hour.

Hugo stepped out of the car and stood in the middle of the pavement, but Holcombe still ignored him. He couldn’t have been more than a stride away when Hugo said, ‘I wonder if we could have a word, Mr Holcombe. My name is-’

‘I’m well aware of who you are,’ said Holcombe, and walked straight past him.

Hugo chased after the schoolmaster. ‘It’s just that I felt you ought to know-’

‘Know what?’ said Holcombe, stopping in his tracks and turning to face him.

‘What your fiancée did for a living, not so very long ago.’

‘She was forced into prostitution because you wouldn’t pay for her son’s -’ he looked Hugo straight in the eye – ‘your son’s school fees, when he was in his last two years at Bristol Grammar School.’

‘There’s no proof that Harry Clifton is my son,’ said Hugo defiantly.

‘There was enough proof for a vicar to refuse to allow Harry to marry your daughter.’

‘How would you know? You weren’t there.’

‘How would you know? You ran away.’

‘Then let me tell you something you certainly don’t know,’ said Hugo, almost shouting. ‘This paragon of virtue that you’re planning to spend the rest of your life with has swindled me out of a piece of land I owned in Broad Street.’

‘Let me tell you something you do know,’ said Holcombe. ‘Maisie paid off every penny of your loan, with interest, and all you left her with was less than ten pounds to her name.’

‘That land’s now worth four hundred pounds,’ said Hugo, immediately regretting his words, ‘and it belongs to me.’

‘If it belonged to you,’ said Holcombe, ‘you wouldn’t be trying to buy the site for twice that amount.’

Hugo was livid that he had allowed himself to reveal the extent of his interest in the site, but he wasn’t finished. ‘So when you have sex with Maisie Clifton, do you have to pay for it, schoolmaster, because I certainly didn’t.’

Holcombe raised a fist.

‘Go on, hit me,’ goaded Hugo. ‘Unlike Stan Tancock, I’d sue you for every penny you’re worth.’

Holcombe lowered his fist and marched off, annoyed with himself for having allowed Barrington to rile him.

Hugo smiled. He felt he had delivered the knockout blow.

He turned round to see the lads on the other side of the road sniggering. But then they’d never seen a lilac and green Lagonda before.

35

WHEN THE FIRST cheque bounced, Hugo simply ignored it and waited a few days before he presented it a second time. When it came back again, stamped ‘Refer to Drawer’, he began to accept the inevitable.

For the next few weeks, Hugo found several different ways of getting around the immediate cash problem.

He first raided the office safe and removed the £100 that his father always kept for a rainy day. This was a thunderstorm, and the old man had certainly never had to resort to the cash reserve to pay his secretary’s wages. Once that had run out, he reluctantly let go of the Lagonda. However, the dealer politely pointed out that lilac and green weren’t this year’s colours, and as Sir Hugo required cash, he could only offer him half the original purchase price, because the bodywork would have to be stripped and repainted.

Hugo survived for another month.

With no other available assets to dispose of, he began to steal from his mother. First, any loose change left lying about the house, followed by coins in purses and then notes in bags.

It wasn’t long before he bagged a small silver pheasant that had graced the centre of the dining-room table for years, followed by its parents, all of which flew to the nearest pawn shop.

Hugo then moved on to his mother’s jewellery. He started with items she wouldn’t notice. A hat pin and a Victorian brooch were quickly followed by an amber necklace she rarely wore, and a diamond tiara which had been in the family for over a century and was only worn at weddings or ceremonial occasions. He didn’t anticipate there being many of those in the near future.

He finally turned to his father’s art collection, first taking off the wall a portrait of his grandfather by a young John Singer Sargent, but not before the housekeeper and the cook had handed in their notice, having received no wages for over three months. Jenkins conveniently died a month later.

His grandfather’s Constable (The Mill at Dunning Lock) was followed by his great-grandfather’s Turner (Swans on the Avon), both of which had been in the family for over a century.

Hugo was able to convince himself that it wasn’t theft. After all, his father’s will had stated and all that therein is.

This irregular source of funds ensured that the company survived and only showed a small loss for the first quarter of the year, that is, if you didn’t count the resignation of three more directors and several other senior members of staff who hadn’t received their pay cheques on the last day of the month. When asked, Hugo blamed the temporary setbacks on the war. One elderly director’s parting words were, ‘Your father never found it necessary to use that as an excuse.’

Soon, even the removable assets began to dwindle.

Hugo knew that if he were to put Barrington Hall and its 72 acres of parkland on the market, it would announce to the world that a company that had declared a profit for over a hundred years was insolvent.

His mother continued to accept Hugo’s assurances that the problem was only temporary, and that given time everything would sort itself out. After a time, he started to believe his own propaganda. When the cheques started to bounce again, Mr Prendergast reminded him that there was an offer of £3,500 on the table for his properties in Broad Street, which, Prendergast pointed out, would still show him a profit of £600.

‘What about the thirty thousand I was promised?’ Hugo shouted down the phone.

‘That offer is also still on the table, Sir Hugo, but it remains subject to your purchasing Mrs Clifton’s freehold.’

‘Offer her a thousand,’ he barked.

‘As you wish, Sir Hugo.’

Hugo slammed the phone down and wondered what else could go wrong. The phone rang again.

Hugo was hidden away in a corner alcove of the Railway Arms, a hotel he’d never frequented before, and never would again. He nervously checked his watch every few minutes, while he waited for Mitchell to arrive.

The private detective joined him at 11.34 a.m., only minutes after the Paddington express had pulled into Temple Meads station. Mitchell slipped into the chair opposite his only client, although he hadn’t received any remuneration for several months.

‘What is so urgent that it couldn’t wait?’ demanded Hugo, once a half pint of beer had been placed in front of the private detective.

‘I’m sorry to report, sir,’ Mitchell began after taking a sip, ‘that the police have arrested your friend Toby Dunstable.’ Hugo felt a shiver shoot through his body. ‘They’ve charged him with the theft of the Piotrovska diamonds along with several paintings, including a Picasso and a Monet, that he tried to offload on Agnew’s, the Mayfair art dealer.’

‘Toby will keep his mouth shut,’ said Hugo.

‘I fear not, sir. I am reliably informed that he has turned King’s evidence in exchange for a lighter sentence. It seems Scotland Yard are more interested in arresting the man behind the crime.’

Hugo’s beer went flat while he tried to take in the significance of Mitchell’s words. After a long silence, the private detective continued. ‘I thought you’d also want to know that Miss Piotrovska has hired Sir Francis Mayhew KC to represent her.’

‘Why doesn’t she just leave the police to deal with the case?’

‘She did not seek Sir Francis’s advice on the burglary, but on two other matters.’

‘Two other matters?’ repeated Hugo.

‘Yes. I understand a writ is about to be served on you for breach of promise, and Miss Piotrovska is also lodging a paternity suit, naming you as the father of her daughter.’

‘She’ll never be able to prove it.’

‘Among the evidence that will be presented to the court is the receipt for an engagement ring purchased from a Burlington Arcade jeweller, and both her resident housekeeper and her lady’s maid have signed affidavits confirming that you resided at forty-two Lowndes Square for over a year.’

For the first time in ten years, Hugo asked Mitchell for his advice. ‘What do you think I should do?’ he almost whispered.

‘If I found myself in your position, sir, I’d leave the country as soon as possible.’

‘How long do you think I’ve got?’

‘A week, ten days at the most.’

A waiter appeared by their side. ‘That will be one shilling and nine pence, sir.’

As Hugo didn’t move, Mitchell handed the waiter a florin and said, ‘Keep the change.’

Once the private detective had left to return to London, Hugo sat alone for some time, considering his options. The waiter came over again and asked if he’d like another drink, but Hugo didn’t even bother to reply. Eventually he heaved himself up from his chair and made his way out of the bar.

Hugo headed towards the city centre, slower and slower with each pace, until he’d finally worked out what he had to do next. He marched into the bank a few minutes later.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked the young man on reception. But Hugo was halfway across the hall before he’d had time to call the manager and warn him that Sir Hugo Barrington was heading towards his office.

Prendergast was no longer surprised that Sir Hugo always assumed he would be available at a moment’s notice, but he was shocked to see that the chairman of Barrington’s hadn’t bothered to shave that morning.

‘I have a problem that needs to be dealt with urgently,’ Hugo said as he sank into the chair opposite the manager.

‘Yes of course, Sir Hugo. How can I be of assistance?’

‘What’s the most you could hope to raise for my properties on Broad Street?’

‘But only last week I sent a letter advising you that Mrs Clifton has rejected your latest offer.’

‘I’m well aware of that,’ said Hugo. ‘I meant without her site.’

‘There is still an offer on the table of three thousand five hundred, but I have reason to believe that were you to offer Mrs Clifton a little more, she would release her site and the thirty-thousand-pound bid would still be valid.’

‘I don’t have any more time,’ said Hugo without explanation.

‘If that is the case, I’m confident that I could press my client to raise his bid to four thousand, which would still show you a handsome profit.’

‘If I were to accept that offer, I would need your assurance on one thing.’ Mr Prendergast allowed himself a raised eyebrow. ‘That your client does not have, and never has had, any connection with Mrs Clifton.’

‘I am able to give you that assurance, Sir Hugo.’

‘If your client was to pay me four thousand, how much would that leave in my current account?’

Mr Prendergast opened Sir Hugo’s file and checked the balance sheet. ‘Eight hundred and twenty-two pounds and ten shillings,’ he said.

Hugo no longer joked about the ten shillings. ‘In which case, I require eight hundred pounds in cash immediately. And I’ll instruct you later where to send the proceeds of the sale.’

‘The proceeds of the sale?’ repeated Prendergast.

‘Yes,’ replied Hugo. ‘I’ve decided to place Barrington Hall on the market.’

36

NO ONE SAW HIM leave the house.

He was carrying a suitcase and was dressed in a warm tweed suit, a pair of stout brown shoes that had been made to last, a heavy topcoat and a brown felt hat. A casual glance, and you would have taken him for a commercial traveller.

He walked to the nearest bus stop, which was just over a mile away, most of it his own land. Forty minutes later he boarded a green single-decker bus – a mode of transport he’d never used before. He sat in the back seat, not letting the suitcase out of his sight. He handed the clippie a ten-shilling note, despite the fact that he was only asked for thruppence; his first mistake if he hoped to avoid drawing attention to himself.

The bus continued on its way into Bristol, a journey he would normally cover in about twelve minutes in the Lagonda, but today it took over an hour before they finally pulled into the bus station. Hugo was neither the first nor the last passenger to get off. He checked his watch: 2.38 p.m. He’d left himself enough time.

He walked up the slope to Temple Meads station – he’d never noticed the slope, but then he’d never had to carry his own suitcase before – where he joined a long queue and purchased a third-class single to Fishguard. He asked which platform the train would be leaving from, and once he’d found it, stood at the far end, under an unlit gas light.

When the train eventually pulled in, he climbed aboard and found a seat in the middle of a third-class compartment, which quickly filled up. He placed his suitcase on the rack opposite him, and rarely took his eyes off it. A woman pulled open the carriage door and glanced into the crowded compartment, but he didn’t offer her his seat.

As the train pulled out of the station, he let out a sigh of relief, delighted to see Bristol disappearing into the distance. He sat back and thought about the decision he’d made. By this time tomorrow, he’d be in Cork. He wouldn’t feel safe until his feet were treading on Irish soil. But they had to arrive in Swansea on schedule if he hoped to link up with the train for Fishguard.

The train pulled into Swansea with half an hour to spare; time for a cup of tea and a Chelsea bun in the station buffet. It wasn’t Earl Grey or Carwardine’s, but he was too tired to care. As soon as he’d finished, he exchanged the buffet for another dimly lit platform and waited for the Fishguard train to appear.

The train was late, but he was confident that the ferry wouldn’t leave the harbour before all the passengers were on board. After an overnight stay in Cork, he would book a passage on a ship, any ship, that was sailing to America. There he would begin a new life, with the money he made from the sale of Barrington Hall.

The idea of his ancestral home going under the hammer made him think about his mother for the first time. Where would she live, once the house had been sold? She could always join Elizabeth at the Manor House. After all, it had more than enough room. Failing that, she could move in with the Harveys, who had three houses, not to mention numerous cottages on their estates.

His thoughts then turned to the Barrington Shipping Line – a business that had been built up by two generations of the family, while the third had managed to bring it to its knees quicker than a bishop’s blessing.

For a moment, he thought about Olga Piotrovska, thankful that he would never see her again. He even spared a passing thought for Toby Dunstable, who had been the cause of all his trouble.

Emma and Grace crossed his mind, but not for very long: he’d never seen the point of daughters. And then he thought about Giles, who had avoided him after escaping from Weinsberg PoW camp and returning to Bristol. People regularly asked after his war hero son, and Hugo had to make up some new story every time. That would no longer be necessary, because once he was in America the umbilical cord would finally be severed, although in time – and Hugo was still determined it would be some considerable time – Giles would inherit the family title, even if all that therein is was no longer worth the paper it was written on.

But most of the time he thought about himself, an indulgence that was only interrupted when the train arrived at Fishguard. He waited for everyone else to leave the carriage before he took his suitcase down from the rack and stepped out on to the platform.

He followed the megaphone directions, ‘Buses to the harbour. Buses to the harbour!’ There were four. He chose the third. This time it was only a short journey, and he couldn’t miss the terminal, despite the blackout; another long third-class queue, this time for the Cork ferry.

After buying a one-way ticket, he walked up the gangway, stepped on board and found a nook that no self-respecting cat would have curled up in. He didn’t feel safe until he heard two blasts on the foghorn and, in the gentle swell, felt the ship drifting away from the quayside.

Once the ferry had passed the harbour wall, he relaxed for the first time, and was so exhausted he rested his head on the suitcase and fell into a deep sleep.

Hugo couldn’t be sure how long he’d been asleep when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up to see two men towering over him.

‘Sir Hugo Barrington?’ one of them asked.

There didn’t seem much point in denying it. They yanked him up by the shoulders and told him he was under arrest. They took their time reading out a long list of the charges.

‘But I’m on my way to Cork,’ he protested. ‘Surely we must be beyond the twelve-mile limit?’

‘No, sir,’ said the second officer, ‘you’re on your way back to Fishguard.’

Several passengers leaned over the ship’s railings to get a closer view of the handcuffed man being escorted down the gangway, who had been the cause of them being delayed.

Hugo was bundled into the back of a black Wolseley car, and moments later he began the long journey back to Bristol.

When the cell door opened a uniformed man brought in some breakfast on a tray – not the kind of breakfast, not the kind of tray and certainly not the kind of uniformed man Sir Hugo was accustomed to seeing first thing in the morning. One look at the fried bread and tomatoes bathed in oil, and he pushed the tray to one side. He wondered how long it would be before this became part of his staple diet. The constable returned a few minutes later, took away the tray and slammed the cell door closed.

The next time the door opened, two officers entered the cell and escorted Hugo up the stone steps to the charge room on the first floor. Ben Winshaw, the Barrington Shipping Line’s company solicitor, was waiting for him.

‘I’m so very sorry, chairman,’ he said.

Hugo shook his head, a look of resignation on his face. ‘What happens next?’ he asked.

‘The superintendent told me they’ll be charging you in the next few minutes. You’ll then be taken to court, where you’ll appear before a magistrate. All you have to do is plead not guilty. The superintendent made it clear that they would oppose any request for bail, and would point out to the magistrate that you were arrested while trying to leave the country in possession of a suitcase containing eight hundred pounds. The press, I fear, are going to have a field day.’

Hugo and his solicitor sat alone in the charge room and waited for the superintendent to appear. The solicitor warned Hugo that he should be prepared to spend several weeks in prison before the trial opened. He suggested the names of four KCs who might be retained to defend him. They had just settled on Sir Gilbert Gray, when the door opened and a sergeant walked in.

‘You are free to leave, sir,’ he said, as if Hugo had committed some minor traffic offence.

It was some time before Winshaw recovered enough to ask, ‘Will my client be expected to return later in the day?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, sir.’

Hugo walked out of the police station a free man.

The story only made a small paragraph on page 9 of the Bristol Evening News. The Hon Toby Dunstable, second son of the eleventh Earl of Dunstable, died of a heart attack, while in custody at Wimbledon Police Station.

It was Derek Mitchell who later filled in the details behind the story.

He reported that the earl had visited his son in his cell, just a couple of hours before Toby took his own life. The officer on duty overheard several sharp exchanges between father and son, during which honour, the family’s reputation and the decent thing to do in the circumstances were repeated again and again by the earl. At the inquest held a fortnight later at Wimbledon Crown Court, the magistrate asked the officer in question if he’d seen any pills pass between the two men during the earl’s visit.

‘No, sir,’ he replied, ‘I did not.’

Death by natural causes was the verdict delivered by the magistrate’s panel at Wimbledon Crown Court later that afternoon.

37

‘MR PRENDERGAST has telephoned several times this morning, chairman,’ said Miss Potts as she followed Sir Hugo into his office, ‘and on the last occasion he emphasized that it was urgent.’ If she was surprised to see the chairman unshaven and wearing a tweed suit that looked as if he’d slept in it, she said nothing.

Hugo’s first thought on hearing that Prendergast wanted to speak to him urgently was that the Broad Street deal must have fallen through and the bank would expect him to return its £800 forthwith. Prendergast could think again.

‘And Tancock,’ said Miss Potts, checking her notepad, ‘says he has some news that you’ll want to hear.’ The chairman didn’t comment. ‘But the most important thing,’ she continued, ‘is the letter I’ve left on your desk. I have a feeling you’ll want to read it immediately.’

Hugo began reading the letter even before he’d sat down. He then read it a second time, but still couldn’t believe it. He looked up at his secretary.

‘Many congratulations, sir.’

‘Get Prendergast on the phone,’ barked Hugo, ‘and then I want to see the managing director, followed by Tancock, in that order.’

‘Yes, chairman,’ said Miss Potts, and hurried out of the room.

While Hugo waited for Prendergast to come on the line, he read the Minister of Shipping’s letter a third time.

Dear Sir Hugo,

I am delighted to inform you that Barrington Shipping has been awarded the contract for…

The phone on Hugo’s desk rang. ‘Mr Prendergast on the line,’ announced Miss Potts.

‘Good morning, Sir Hugo.’ The deference was back in the voice. ‘I thought you’d want to know that Mrs Clifton has finally agreed to sell her site on Broad Street, for a thousand pounds.’

‘But I’ve already signed a contract to sell the rest of my property in the street to United Dominion for four thousand.’

‘And that contract is still on my desk,’ said Prendergast. ‘Unfortunately for them, and more fortunately for you, the earliest time they could make an appointment to see me was at ten o’clock this morning.’

‘Did you exchange contracts?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugo, I most certainly did.’

Hugo’s heart sank.

‘For forty thousand pounds.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Once I was able to assure United Dominion that you were in possession of Mrs Clifton’s plot, as well as the deeds for every other freehold in the street, they wrote out a cheque for the full amount.’

‘Well done, Prendergast. I knew I could rely on you.’

‘Thank you, sir. All you need to do now is countersign Mrs Clifton’s agreement, and then I can bank United Dominion’s cheque.’

Hugo glanced at his watch. ‘As it’s already gone four, I’ll drop in to the bank first thing tomorrow morning.’

The Prendergast cough. ‘First thing, Sir Hugo, is nine o’clock. And may I ask if you still have the eight hundred pounds I advanced to you in cash yesterday?’

‘Yes I do. But how can that still be of any significance?’

‘I do consider it would be prudent, Sir Hugo, to pay Mrs Clifton her thousand pounds before we bank United Dominion’s cheque for forty thousand. We wouldn’t want any embarrassing questions from head office at a later date.’

‘Quite so,’ said Hugo as he looked at his suitcase, relieved that he hadn’t spent one penny of the £800.

‘There’s nothing more for me to say,’ said Prendergast, ‘other than to congratulate you on closing a most successful contract.’

‘How do you know about the contract?’

‘I beg your pardon, Sir Hugo?’ said Prendergast sounding a little puzzled.

‘Oh, I thought you were referring to something else,’ said Hugo. ‘It’s of no importance, Prendergast. Forget I mentioned it,’ he added as he put the phone down.

Miss Potts came back into the room. ‘The managing director is waiting to see you, chairman.’

‘Send him straight in.’

‘You’ve heard the good news, Ray?’ said Hugo as Compton entered the room.

‘I have indeed, chairman, and it couldn’t have come at a better time.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Hugo.

‘You’re due to present the company’s annual results at next month’s board meeting, and although we’ll still have to declare a heavy loss this year, the new contract will guarantee that we go into profit next year.’

‘And for five years after that,’ Hugo reminded him, waving the minister’s letter triumphantly. ‘Why don’t you prepare the agenda for the board meeting, but don’t include the news about the government contract. I’d rather like to make that announcement myself.’

‘As you wish, chairman. I’ll see that all the relevant papers are on your desk by noon tomorrow,’ Compton added before leaving the room.

Hugo read the minister’s letter a fourth time. ‘Thirty thousand a year,’ he said out loud, just as the phone on his desk rang again.

‘A Mr Foster from Savills, the estate agency, is on the line,’ said Miss Potts.

‘Put him through.’

‘Good morning, Sir Hugo. My name is Foster. I’m the senior partner of Savills. I thought perhaps we ought to get together to discuss your instructions to sell Barrington Hall. Perhaps a spot of lunch at my club?’

‘No need to bother, Foster. I’ve changed my mind. Barrington Hall is no longer on the market,’ Hugo said, and put the phone down.

He spent the rest of the afternoon signing a stack of letters and cheques his secretary put in front of him, and it was just after six o’clock when he finally screwed the cap back on his pen.

When Miss Potts returned to collect all the correspondence, Hugo said, ‘I’ll see Tancock now.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Miss Potts with a hint of disapproval.

While Hugo waited for Tancock to appear, he fell on his knees and opened the suitcase. He stared at the £800 that would have made it possible for him to survive in America while he waited for the funds raised by the sale of Barrington Hall. Now, that same £800 would be used to make him a fortune on Broad Street.

When he heard a knock on the door, he snapped the lid of the suitcase closed and quickly returned to his desk.

‘Tancock to see you,’ said Miss Potts before closing the door behind her.

The docker marched confidently into the room and approached the chairman’s desk.

‘So what’s this news that can’t wait?’ asked Hugo.

‘I’ve come to collect the other five quid what you owe me,’ Tancock said, with a look of triumph in his eyes.

‘I owe you nothing,’ said Hugo.

‘But I talked my sister into selling that land you wanted, didn’t I?’

‘We agreed on two hundred pounds, and I ended up having to pay five times that amount, so as I said, I owe you nothing. Get out of my office, and go back to work.’

Stan didn’t budge. ‘And I’ve got that letter you said you wanted.’

‘What letter?’

‘The letter what our Maisie got from that doctor off the American ship.’

Hugo had completely forgotten about the letter of condolence from Harry Clifton’s shipmate, and couldn’t imagine that it would be of any significance now Maisie had agreed to the sale. ‘I’ll give you a pound for it.’

‘You said you’d give me a fiver.’

‘I suggest you leave my office while you’ve still got a job, Tancock.’

‘OK, OK,’ said Stan, backing down, ‘you can have it for a quid. What’s it to me?’ He took a crumpled envelope out of his back pocket and handed it over to the chairman. Hugo extracted a ten-shilling note from his wallet and placed it on the desk in front of him.

Stan stood his ground as Hugo put his wallet back in an inside pocket and stared defiantly at him.

‘You can have the letter or the ten-bob note. Take your choice.’

Stan grabbed the ten-bob note and left the room grumbling under his breath.

Hugo put the envelope to one side, leant back in his chair and thought about how he would spend some of the profit he’d made on the Broad Street deal. Once he’d been to the bank and signed all the necessary documents, he would walk across the road to the car saleroom. He had his eye on a 1937 2-litre 4-seater Aston Martin. He would then drive it across town and visit his tailor – he hadn’t had a suit made for longer than he cared to remember – and after the fitting, lunch at the club, where he would settle his outstanding bar bill. During the afternoon, he would set about replenishing the wine cellar at Barrington Hall, and might even consider redeeming from the pawnbroker some of the jewellery his mother seemed to miss so much. In the evening- there was a tap at the door.

‘I’m just leaving,’ said Miss Potts. ‘I want to get to the post office before seven to catch the last delivery. Do you need anything else, sir?’

‘No, Miss Potts. But I may be in a little late tomorrow, as I have an appointment with Mr Prendergast at nine o’clock.’

‘Of course, chairman,’ said Miss Potts.

As the door closed behind her, his eyes settled on the crumpled envelope. He picked up a silver letter opener, slit the envelope open and pulled out a single sheet of paper. His eyes impatiently scanned the page, searching for relevant phrases.

New York,

September 8th, 1939

My dearest mother,

… I did not die when the Devonian was sunk… I was plucked out of the sea… the vain hope that at some time in the future I might be able to prove that Arthur Clifton and not Hugo Barrington was my father… I must beg you to keep my secret as steadfastly as you kept your own for so many years.

Your loving son,

Harry

Hugo’s blood ran cold. All the triumphs of the day evaporated in an instant. This was not a letter he wanted to read a second time or, more important, that he wished anyone else to become aware of.

He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and took out a box of Swan Vestas. He lit a match, held the letter over the wastepaper basket and didn’t let it go until the frail black cinders had evaporated into dust. The best ten shillings he’d ever spent.

Hugo was confident that he was the only person who knew Clifton was still alive, and he intended it to remain that way. After all, if Clifton kept his word and continued to go by the name of Tom Bradshaw, how could anyone else find out the truth?

He suddenly felt sick when he remembered that Emma was still in America. Had she somehow discovered that Clifton was alive? But surely that wasn’t possible if she hadn’t read the letter. He needed to find out why she’d gone to America.

He had picked up the phone and begun to dial Mitchell’s number when he thought he heard footsteps in the corridor. He replaced the receiver, assuming it must be the night watchman checking to see why his light was still on.

The door opened, and he stared at a woman he had hoped never to see again.

‘How did you get past the guard on the gate?’ he demanded.

‘I told him we had an appointment to see the chairman; a long overdue appointment.’

‘We?’ said Hugo.

‘Yes, I’ve brought you a little present. Not that you can give something to someone when it’s already theirs.’ She placed a wicker basket on Hugo’s desk, and removed a thin muslin cloth to reveal a sleeping baby. ‘I felt it was about time you were introduced to your daughter,’ Olga said, standing aside to allow Hugo to admire her.

‘What makes you think I would have the slightest interest in your bastard?’

‘Because she’s also your bastard,’ said Olga calmly, ‘so I will assume you want to give her the same start in life you gave Emma and Grace.’

‘Why would I even consider making such a ridiculous gesture?’

‘Because Hugo,’ she said, ‘you bled me dry, and now it’s your turn to face up to your responsibility. You can’t assume you will always get away with it.’

‘The only thing I got away from was you,’ said Hugo with a smirk. ‘So you can bugger off and take that basket with you, because I won’t be lifting a finger to help her.’

‘Then perhaps I’ll have to turn to someone who just might be willing to lift a finger to help her.’

‘Like who?’ snapped Hugo.

‘Your mother might be a good place to start, although she’s probably the last person on earth who still believes a word you say.’

Hugo leapt up from his seat, but Olga didn’t flinch. ‘And if I can’t convince her,’ she continued, ‘my next stop would be the Manor House, where I would take afternoon tea with your ex-wife, and we could talk about the fact that she’d already divorced you long before we even met.’

Hugo stepped out from behind his desk, but it didn’t stop Olga continuing. ‘And if Elizabeth is not at home, I can always pay a visit to Mulgelrie Castle and introduce Lord and Lady Harvey to yet another of your offspring.’

‘What makes you think they’d believe you?’

‘What makes you think they wouldn’t?’

Hugo moved towards her, only stopping when they were a few inches apart, but Olga still hadn’t finished.

‘And then finally, I’d feel I owe it to myself to visit Maisie Clifton, a woman I greatly admire, because if all I’ve heard about her-’

Hugo grabbed Olga by the shoulders and began to shake her. He was only surprised that she made no attempt to defend herself.

‘Now you listen to me, you Yid,’ he shouted. ‘If you so much as hint to anyone that I’m the father of that child, I’ll make your life so miserable that you’ll wish you’d been dragged off by the Gestapo with your parents.’

‘You don’t frighten me any longer, Hugo,’ said Olga, with an air of resignation. ‘I only have one interest left in life, and that’s to make sure you don’t get away with it a second time.’

‘A second time?’ repeated Hugo.

‘You think I don’t know about Harry Clifton, and his claim to the family title?’

Hugo let go of her and took a step back, clearly shaken. ‘Clifton is dead. Buried at sea. Everyone knows that.’

‘You know he’s still alive, Hugo, however much you want everyone else to believe he isn’t.’

‘But how can you possibly know-’

‘Because I’ve learnt to think like you, behave like you, and more important, act like you, which is why I decided to hire my own private detective.’

‘But it would have taken you years-’ began Hugo.

‘Not if you come across someone who’s out of work, whose only client has run away a second time and who hasn’t been paid for six months.’ Olga smiled when Hugo clenched his fists, a sure sign that her words had hit home. Even when he raised his arm she didn’t flinch, just stood her ground.

When the first blow came crashing into her face, she toppled back, clutching her broken nose, just as a second punch landed in her stomach, causing her to double up.

Hugo stood back and laughed while she swayed from side to side, trying to stay on her feet. He was about to hit her a third time when her legs crumpled and she collapsed to the ground in a heap, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

‘Now you know what you can expect if you’re ever foolish enough to bother me again,’ shouted Hugo, as he towered over her. ‘And if you don’t want more of the same, you’ll get out while you’ve still got the chance. Just be sure to take that bastard with you back to London.’

Olga slowly pushed herself up off the floor and on to her knees, blood still pouring from her nose. She attempted to stand, but was so weak that she stumbled forward, only breaking her fall by clinging on to the edge of the desk. She paused for a moment and took several deep breaths as she tried to recover. When she finally raised her head, she was distracted by a long, thin silver object that glistened in a circle of light thrown out by the desk lamp.

‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ Hugo hollered as he stepped forward, grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back.

With all the force she could muster, Olga jerked her leg back and rammed the heel of her shoe into his groin.

‘You bitch,’ screamed Hugo as he let go of her hair and fell back, allowing Olga a split second to grab the letter opener and conceal it inside the sleeve of her dress. She turned to face her tormentor. When Hugo had caught his breath, he once again moved towards her. As he passed a side table, he grabbed a heavy glass ashtray and raised it high above his head, determined to deliver a blow from which she would not so easily recover.

When he was only a pace away, she pulled up her sleeve, gripped the letter opener with both hands and pointed the blade towards his heart. Just as he was about to bring the ashtray crashing down on her head, he spotted the blade for the first time, tried to swerve to one side, tripped and lost his balance, falling heavily on top of her.

There was a moment’s silence before he sank slowly to his knees and let out a scream that would have woken all Hades. Olga watched as he grabbed at the handle of the letter opener. She stood mesmerized, as if she was watching a slow-motion clip from a film. It must have been only a moment, although it felt interminable to Olga, before Hugo finally collapsed and slumped to the floor at her feet.

She stared down at the blade of the letter opener. The tip was sticking out of the back of his neck and blood was spurting in every direction, like an out-of-control fire hydrant.

‘Help me,’ Hugo whimpered, trying to raise a hand.

Olga knelt by his side and took the hand of a man she’d once loved. ‘There is nothing I can do to help you, my darling,’ she said, ‘but then there never was.’

His breathing was becoming less regular, although he still gripped her hand tightly. She bent down to be sure that he could hear her every word. ‘You only have a few more moments to live,’ she whispered, ‘and I wouldn’t want you to go to your grave without knowing the details of Mitchell’s latest report.’

Hugo made one last effort to speak. His lips moved, but no words came out.

‘Emma has found Harry,’ said Olga, ‘and I know you’ll be pleased to hear he’s alive and well.’ Hugo’s eyes never left her as she leant even closer, until her lips were almost touching his ear. ‘And he’s on his way back to England to claim his rightful inheritance.’

It wasn’t until Hugo’s hand went limp that she added, ‘Ah, but I forgot to tell you, I’ve also learnt how to lie like you.’

The Bristol Evening Post and the Bristol Evening News ran different headlines on the first editions of their papers the following day.

SIR HUGO BARRINGTON

STABBED TO DEATH

was the banner headline in the Post, while the News preferred to lead with

UNKNOWN WOMAN THROWS HERSELF

IN FRONT OF LONDON EXPRESS

Only Detective Chief Inspector Blakemore, the head of the local CID, worked out the connection between the two.