The Sins of the Father

41

‘I’LL REPORT BACK, SIR, as soon as I’ve located them,’ said Harry, before putting the field phone down.

‘Located who?’ asked Quinn.

‘Kertel’s army. Colonel Benson seems to think they could be in the valley on the other side of that ridge,’ he said, pointing to the top of the hill.

‘There’s only one way we’re going to find out,’ said Quinn, shifting the Jeep noisily into first gear.

‘Take it easy,’ Harry told him, ‘if the Hun are there, we don’t need to alert them.’

Quinn remained in first as they crept slowly up the hill.

‘That’s far enough,’ said Harry when they were less than fifty yards from the brow of the hill. Quinn put the handbrake on and turned the ignition off, and they jumped out and ran on up the incline. When they were only a few yards from the top, they fell flat on their stomachs, then, like two crabs scurrying back into the sea, they crawled until they stopped just below the crest.

Harry peeped over the top and caught his breath. He didn’t need a pair of binoculars to see what they were up against. Field Marshal Kertel’s legendary Nineteenth Armoured Corps was clearly preparing for battle in the valley below. Tanks were lined up as far as the eye could see, and the support troops would have filled a football stadium. Harry estimated that the Second Division of the Texas Rangers would be outnumbered by at least three to one.

‘If we get the hell out of here,’ whispered Quinn, ‘we might just have enough time to prevent Custer’s second-to-last stand.’

‘Not so fast,’ said Harry. ‘We might be able to turn this to our advantage.’

‘Don’t you think we’ve used up enough of our nine lives during the past year?’

‘I’ve counted eight so far,’ said Harry. ‘So I think we can risk just one more.’ He began to crawl back down the hill before Quinn could offer an opinion. ‘Have you got a handkerchief?’ Harry asked as Quinn climbed behind the wheel.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, taking one out of his pocket and passing it to Harry, who tied it to the Jeep’s radio mast.

‘You’re not going to-’

‘-surrender? Yes, it’s our one chance,’ said Harry. ‘So drive slowly to the top of the ridge, corporal, and then on down into the valley.’ Harry only ever called Pat ‘corporal’ when he didn’t want to prolong the discussion.

‘Into the valley of death,’ suggested Quinn.

‘Not a fair comparison,’ said Harry. ‘There were six hundred in the Light Brigade, and we are but two. So I see myself more like Horatius than Lord Cardigan.’

‘I see myself more like a sitting duck.’

‘That’s because you’re Irish,’ said Harry, as they crested the ridge and began the slow journey down the other side. ‘Don’t exceed the speed limit,’ he said, trying to make light of it. He was expecting a hail of bullets to greet their impudent intrusion, but clearly curiosity got the better of the Germans.

‘Whatever you do, Pat,’ Harry said firmly, ‘don’t open your mouth. And try to look as if this has all been planned in advance.’

If Quinn had an opinion, he didn’t express it, which was most unlike him. The corporal drove at a steady pace, and didn’t touch the brake until they reached the front line of tanks.

Kertel’s men stared at the occupants of the Jeep in disbelief, but no one moved until a major pushed his way through the ranks and headed straight for them. Harry leapt out of the Jeep, stood to attention and saluted, hoping his German would be up to it.

‘What in God’s name do you imagine you’re doing?’ asked the major.

Harry thought that was the gist of it. He maintained a calm exterior.

‘I have a message for Field Marshal Kertel, from General Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces in Europe.’ Harry knew that when the major heard the name Eisenhower, he couldn’t risk not taking it to a higher level.

Without another word the major climbed into the back of the Jeep, tapped Quinn on the shoulder with his baton and pointed in the direction of a large, well-camouflaged tent that stood to one side of the assembled troops.

When they reached the tent, the major leapt out. ‘Wait here,’ he ordered, before going inside.

Quinn and Harry sat there, surrounded by thousands of wary eyes.

‘If looks could kill…’ whispered Quinn. Harry ignored him.

It was several minutes before the major returned.

‘What’s it going to be, sir,’ mumbled Quinn, ‘the firing squad, or will he ask you to join him for a glass of schnapps?’

‘The field marshal has agreed to see you,’ said the major, not attempting to hide his surprise.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Harry said as he got out of the Jeep and followed him into the tent.

Field Marshal Kertel rose from behind a long table that was covered in a map that Harry recognized immediately, but this one had models of tanks and soldiers all heading in his direction. He was surrounded by a dozen field officers, none below the rank of colonel.

Harry stood rigidly to attention and saluted.

‘Name and rank?’ the field marshal asked after he had returned Harry’s salute.

‘Clifton, sir, Lieutenant Clifton. I am General Eisenhower’s ADC.’ Harry spotted a bible on a small folding table by the field marshal’s bed. A German flag covered the canvas of one side of the tent. Something was missing.

‘And why would General Eisenhower send his ADC to see me?’

Harry observed the man carefully before answering his question. Unlike Goebbels’s or Goering’s, Kertel’s battle-worn face confirmed that he had seen frontline action many times. The only medal he wore was an Iron Cross with oakleaf cluster, which Harry knew he’d won as a lieutenant at the Battle of the Marne in 1918.

‘General Eisenhower wishes you to know that on the far side of Clemenceau, he has three full battalions of thirty thousand men, along with twenty-two thousand tanks. On his right flank is the Second Division of the Texas Rangers, in the centre, the Third Battalion of the Green Jackets, and on their left flank, a battalion of the Australian Light Infantry.’

The field marshal would have made an excellent poker player, because he gave nothing away. He would have known that the numbers were accurate, assuming those three regiments were actually in place.

‘Then it should prove a most interesting battle, lieutenant. But if your purpose was to alarm me, you have failed.’

‘That is no part of my brief, sir,’ Harry said, glancing down at the map, ‘because I suspect I haven’t told you anything you didn’t already know, including the fact that the Allies have recently taken control of the airfield at Wilhelmsberg.’ A fact that was confirmed by a small American flag pinned on the airport on the map. ‘What you may not know, sir, is that lined up on the runway is a squadron of Lancaster bombers, awaiting an order from General Eisenhower to destroy your tanks, while his battalions advance in battle formation.’

What Harry knew was that the only planes at the airfield were a couple of reconnaissance aircraft stranded because they’d run out of fuel.

‘Get to the point, lieutenant,’ said Kertel. ‘Why did General Eisenhower send you to see me?’

‘I will try to recall the general’s exact words, sir.’ Harry attempted to sound as if he were reciting a message. ‘There can be no doubt that this dreadful war is fast drawing to a close, and only a deluded man with a limited experience of warfare could still believe victory is possible.’

The allusion to Hitler did not go unnoticed by the officers who surrounded their field marshal. That was when Harry realized what was missing. There was no Nazi flag or picture of the Führer in the field marshal’s tent.

‘General Eisenhower holds you and the Nineteenth Corps in the highest regard,’ Harry continued. ‘He has no doubt that your men would lay down their lives for you, whatever the odds. But in the name of God, he asks, for what purpose? This engagement will end with your troops being decimated, while we will undoubtedly lose vast numbers of men. Everyone knows that the end of the war can only be a matter of weeks away, so what can be gained by such unnecessary carnage? General Eisenhower read your book, The Professional Soldier, when he was at West Point, sir, and one sentence in particular has remained indelibly fixed in his memory throughout his military career.’

Harry had read Kertel’s memoirs a fortnight before, when he realized they might be up against him, so he was able to recite the sentence almost word for word.

‘“Sending young men to an unnecessary death is not an act of leadership, but of vainglory, and unworthy of a professional soldier.” That, sir, is something you share with General Eisenhower, and to that end, he guarantees that if you lay down your arms, your men will be treated with the utmost dignity and respect, as set out in the Third Geneva Convention.’

Harry expected the field marshal’s response to be, ‘Good try, young man, but you can tell whoever it is commanding your puny brigade on the other side of that hill that I am about to wipe them off the face of the earth.’ But what Kertel actually said, was, ‘I will discuss the general’s proposal with my officers. Perhaps you would be kind enough to wait outside.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Harry saluted, left the tent and returned to the Jeep. Quinn didn’t speak when he climbed back into the front seat and sat beside him.

It was clear that Kertel’s officers were not of one opinion, as raised voices could be heard from inside the tent. Harry could imagine the words, honour, commonsense, duty, realism, humiliation and sacrifice being bandied about. But the two he feared most were ‘he’s bluffing’.

It was almost an hour before the major summoned Harry back into the tent. Kertel was standing apart from his most trusted advisers, a world-weary look on his face. He had made his decision, and even if some of his officers didn’t agree with it, once he had given the order they would never question him. He didn’t need to tell Harry what that decision was.

‘Do I have your permission, sir, to contact General Eisenhower and inform him of your decision?’

The field marshal gave a curt nod, and his officers quickly left the tent to see that his orders were carried out.

Harry returned to his Jeep accompanied by the major, and watched 23,000 men lay down their arms, climb out of their tanks and line up in columns of three as they prepared to surrender. His only fear was that having bluffed the field marshal, he wouldn’t be able to pull off the same trick with his area commander. He picked up his field phone and only had to wait a few moments before Colonel Benson came on the line. Harry hoped the major hadn’t noticed the bead of sweat that was trickling down his nose.

‘Have you discovered how many of them we’re up against, Clifton?’ were the colonel’s first words.

‘Could you put me through to General Eisenhower, colonel? This is Lieutenant Clifton, his ADC.’

‘Have you gone out of your mind, Clifton?’

‘Yes, I will hold on, sir, while you go and look for him.’ His heart couldn’t have beaten faster if he’d just run a hundred yards, and he began to wonder how long it would be before the colonel worked out what he was up to. He nodded at the major, but the major didn’t respond. Was he standing there hoping to find a chink in his armour? As he waited, Harry watched thousands of fighting men, some perplexed, while others looked relieved, joining the ranks of those who had already abandoned their tanks and laid down their arms.

‘It’s General Eisenhower here. Is that you, Clifton?’ said Colonel Benson when he came back on the line.

‘Yes, sir. I’m with Field Marshal Kertel, and he has accepted your proposal that the Nineteenth Corps lay down their arms and surrender under the terms of the Geneva Convention, in order to avoid, if I remember your words correctly, sir, unnecessary carnage. If you bring forward one of our five battalions, they should be able to carry out the operation in an orderly fashion. I anticipate coming over Clemenceau ridge, accompanied by the Nineteenth Corps -’ he looked at his watch – ‘at approximately 1700 hours.’

‘We’ll be waiting for you, lieutenant.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Fifty minutes later Harry crossed the Clemenceau ridge for the second time that day, the German battalion following him as if he were the Pied Piper, over the hill and into the arms of the Texas Rangers. As the 700 men and 214 tanks surrounded the Nineteenth Corps, Kertel realized he had been duped by an Englishman and an Irishman, whose only weapons were a Jeep and a handkerchief.

The field marshal pulled a pistol from inside his tunic, and Harry thought for a moment that he was going to shoot him. Kertel stood to attention, saluted, placed the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Harry felt no pleasure in his death.

Once the Germans had been rounded up, Colonel Benson invited Harry to lead the nineteenth un-armoured corps in triumph to the compound. As they drove at the head of the column, even Pat Quinn had a smile on his face.

They must have been about a mile away when the Jeep passed over a German landmine. Harry heard a loud explosion, and remembered Pat’s prophetic words, Don’t you think we’ve used up enough of our nine lives during the past year?, as the Jeep cartwheeled into the air before bursting into flames.

And then, nothing.

42

DO YOU KNOW when you’re dead?

Does it happen in an instant, and then suddenly you’re no longer there?

All Harry could be sure of was the images that appeared before him were like actors in a Shakespearian play, each making their exits and entrances. But he couldn’t be sure if it was a comedy, a tragedy or a history.

The central character never changed, and was played by a woman who gave a remarkable performance, while others seemed to flit on and off the stage at her bidding. And then his eyes opened, and Emma was standing by his side.

When Harry smiled, her whole face lit up. She bent down and kissed him gently on the lips. ‘Welcome home,’ she said.

That was the moment when he realized not only how much he loved her, but also that now nothing would ever keep them apart. He took her gently by the hand. ‘You’re going to have to help me,’ he began. ‘Where am I? And how long have I been here?’

‘Bristol General, and just over a month. It was touch and go for a while, but I wasn’t going to lose you a second time.’

Harry gripped her hand firmly and smiled. He felt exhausted, and drifted back into a deep sleep.

When he woke again it was dark, and he sensed that he was alone. He tried to imagine what might have happened to all those characters during the past five years, because, as in Twelfth Night, they must have believed he’d died at sea.

Had his mother read the letter he wrote to her? Had Giles used his colour-blindness as an excuse not to be called up? Had Hugo returned to Bristol once he was convinced Harry was no longer a threat? Were Sir Walter Barrington and Lord Harvey still alive? And one other thought kept returning again and again. Was Emma waiting for the right moment to tell him there was someone else in her life?

Suddenly, the door to his room was thrown open and a little boy came running in, shouting, ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’ before leaping on to his bed and throwing his arms around him.

Emma appeared moments later and watched as the two men in her life met for the first time.

Harry was reminded of the photograph of himself as a boy that his mother kept on the mantelpiece in Still House Lane. He didn’t have to be told that this was his child and he felt a thrill he couldn’t have begun to imagine before. He studied the boy more closely as he leapt up and down on the bed – his fair hair, blue eyes and square jaw, just like Harry’s father.

‘Oh my God,’ said Harry, and fell into a deep sleep.

When he woke again, Emma was sitting on the bed beside him. He smiled and took her hand.

‘Now I’ve met my son, any other surprises?’ he asked. Emma hesitated, before adding with a sheepish grin, ‘I’m not sure where to start.’

‘At the beginning possibly,’ said Harry, ‘like any good story. Just remember that the last time I saw you was on our wedding day.’

Emma began with her trip to Scotland and the birth of their son Sebastian. She’d just pressed the doorbell of Kristin’s apartment in Manhattan, when Harry fell asleep.

When he woke again, she was still with him.

Harry liked the sound of Great-aunt Phyllis and her cousin Alistair, and although he could only just remember Detective Kolowski, he would never forget Sefton Jelks. When Emma came to the end of her story she was on a plane crossing the Atlantic back to England, sitting next to Mr Harold Macmillan.

Emma presented Harry with a copy of The Diary of a Convict. All Harry said was, ‘I must try and find out what happened to Pat Quinn.’

Emma found it difficult to find the right words.

‘Was he killed by the landmine?’ Harry asked quietly.

Emma bowed her head. Harry didn’t speak again that night.

Each day produced new surprises because, inevitably, everyone’s life had moved on in the five years since Harry had seen them.

When his mother came to visit him the following day, she was on her own. He was so proud to learn that she was excelling at reading and writing, and was deputy manager of the hotel, but was saddened when she admitted she had never opened the letter delivered by Dr Wallace before it disappeared.

‘I thought it was from a Tom Bradshaw,’ she explained.

Harry changed the subject. ‘I see you’re wearing an engagement ring, as well as a wedding ring.’

His mother blushed. ‘Yes, I wanted to see you on my own, before you met your stepfather.’

‘My stepfather?’ said Harry. ‘Anyone I know?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said, and would have told him who she’d married, if he hadn’t fallen asleep.

The next time Harry woke it was the middle of the night. He switched on the bedside light and began to read The Diary of a Convict. He smiled several times before he reached the last page.

Nothing Emma told him about Max Lloyd came as a surprise, especially after Sefton Jelks had made a reappearance. However, he was surprised when Emma told him that the book had been an instant bestseller, and that the follow-up was doing even better.

‘The follow-up?’ enquired Harry.

‘The first diary you wrote, about what happened to you before you were sent to Lavenham, has just been published in England. It’s racing up the charts here, as it did in America. That reminds me, Mr Guinzburg keeps asking when he can expect your first novel, the one you hinted at in The Diary of a Convict?’

‘I’ve got enough ideas for half a dozen,’ Harry said.

‘Then why don’t you get started?’ asked Emma.

When Harry woke that afternoon, his mother and Mr Holcombe were standing by his side, holding hands as if they were on their second date. He’d never seen his mother looking so happy.

‘You can’t be my stepfather,’ Harry protested, as the two shook hands.

‘I most certainly am,’ said Mr Holcombe. ‘Truth is, I should have asked your mother to be my wife twenty years ago, but I simply didn’t think I was good enough for her.’

‘And you’re still not good enough, sir,’ said Harry with a grin. ‘But then, neither of us ever will be.’

‘Truth be known, I married your mother for her money.’

‘What money?’ said Harry.

‘The ten thousand dollars Mr Jelks sent, which made it possible for us to buy a cottage in the country.’

‘For which we will be eternally grateful,’ chipped in Maisie.

‘Don’t thank me,’ said Harry. ‘Thank Emma.’

If Harry was taken by surprise when he discovered that his mother had married Mr Holcombe, it was nothing compared to the shock when Giles walked into the room, dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant in the Wessex Regiment. If that wasn’t enough, his chest was covered in combat medals, including the Military Cross. But when Harry asked how he’d won it, Giles changed the subject.

‘I’m planning to stand for Parliament at the next election,’ he announced.

‘To which seat have you granted this honour?’ asked Harry.

‘Bristol Docklands,’ Giles replied.

‘But that’s a safe Labour seat.’

‘And I intend to be the Labour candidate.’

Harry made no attempt to hide his surprise. ‘What caused this Saint Paul-like conversion?’ he asked.

‘A corporal I served with on the frontline called Bates-’

‘Not Terry Bates?’ said Harry.

‘Yes, did you know him?’

‘Sure did. The brightest kid in my class at Merrywood Elementary, and the best sportsman. He left school at twelve to work in his father’s business: Bates and Son, butchers.’

‘That’s why I’m standing as a Labour candidate,’ said Giles. ‘Terry had just as much right to be at Oxford as you or me.’

The following day, Emma and Sebastian returned, armed with pens, pencils, pads and an India rubber. She told Harry the time had come for him to stop thinking and start writing.

During the long hours when he couldn’t sleep, or was simply alone, Harry’s thoughts turned to the novel he had intended to write if he hadn’t escaped from Lavenham.

He began to make outline notes of the characters that must turn the page. His detective would have to be a one-off, an original, who he hoped would become part of his readers’ everyday lives, like Poirot, Holmes or Maigret.

He finally settled on the name William Warwick. The Hon. William would be the second son of the Earl of Warwick, and have turned down the opportunity to go to Oxford, much to his father’s disgust, because he wanted to join the police force. His character would be loosely based on his friend Giles. After three years on the beat, walking the streets of Bristol, Bill, as he was known to his colleagues, would become a detective constable, and be assigned to Chief Inspector Blakemore, the man who’d intervened when Harry’s uncle Stan had been arrested and wrongly charged with stealing money from Hugo Barrington’s safe.

Lady Warwick, Bill’s mother, would be modelled on Elizabeth Barrington; Bill would have a girlfriend called Emma, and his grandfathers Lord Harvey and Sir Walter Barrington would make the occasional entrance on the page but only to offer sage advice.

Every night, Harry would read over the pages he’d written that day, and every morning his wastepaper basket needed emptying.

Harry always looked forward to Sebastian’s visits. His young son was so full of energy, so inquisitive and so good-looking, just like his mother, as everyone teased him.

Sebastian often asked questions no one else would have dared to: what’s it like being in prison? How many Germans did you kill? Why aren’t you and Mama married? Harry sidestepped most of them, but he knew Sebastian was far too bright not to work out what his father was up to, and feared it wouldn’t be long before the boy trapped him.

Whenever Harry was alone he continued to work on the outline plot for his novel.

He’d read over a hundred detective novels while he was working as deputy librarian at Lavenham, and he felt that some of the characters he’d come across in prison and in the army could provide material for a dozen novels: Max Lloyd, Sefton Jelks, Warden Swanson, Officer Hessler, Colonel Cleverdon, Captain Havens, Tom Bradshaw and Pat Quinn – especially Pat Quinn.

During the next few weeks, Harry became lost in his own world, but he had to admit that the way some of his visitors had spent the last five years had also turned out to be stranger than fiction.

When Emma’s sister Grace paid him a visit, Harry didn’t comment on the fact that she looked so much older than when he’d last seen her, but then she’d only been a schoolgirl at the time. Now Grace was in her final year at Cambridge and about to sit her exams. She told him with pride that for a couple of years she’d worked on a farm, not going back up to Cambridge until she was convinced the war was won.

It was with sadness that Harry learnt from Lady Barrington that her husband, Sir Walter, had passed away, a man Harry had admired second only to Old Jack.

His uncle Stan never visited him.

As the days went by, Harry thought about raising the subject of Emma’s father, but he sensed that even the mention of his name was off-limits.

And then one evening, after Harry’s doctor had told him that it wouldn’t be too long before they released him, Emma lay down next to him on the bed and told him that her father was dead.

When she came to the end of her story, Harry said, ‘You’ve never been good at dissembling, my darling, so perhaps the time has come to tell me why the whole family is so on edge.’

43

HARRY WOKE the next morning to find his mother, along with the whole Barrington family, seated around his bed.

The only absentees were Sebastian and his uncle Stan, neither of whom it was felt would have made a serious contribution.

‘The doctor has said you can go home,’ said Emma.

‘Great news,’ said Harry. ‘But where’s home? If it means going back to Still House Lane and living with Uncle Stan, I’d prefer to stay in hospital – even go back to prison.’ No one laughed.

‘I’m now living at Barrington Hall,’ said Giles, ‘so why don’t you move in with me? Heaven knows there are enough rooms.’

‘Including a library,’ said Emma. ‘So you’ll have no excuse not to continue working on your novel.’

‘And you can come and visit Emma and Sebastian whenever you want to,’ added Elizabeth Barrington.

Harry didn’t respond for some time.

‘You’re all being very kind,’ he eventually managed, ‘and please don’t think I’m not grateful, but I can’t believe it needed the whole family to decide where I’m going to live.’

‘There’s another reason we wanted to talk to you,’ said Lord Harvey, ‘and the family have asked me to speak on their behalf.’

Harry sat bolt upright, and gave Emma’s grandfather his full attention.

‘A serious issue has arisen concerning the future of the Barrington estate,’ began Lord Harvey. ‘The terms of Joshua Barrington’s will have turned out to be a legal nightmare, rivalled only by Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and could end up being just as financially crippling.’

‘But I have no interest in either the title or the estate,’ said Harry. ‘My only desire is to prove that Hugo Barrington was not my father, so I can marry Emma.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Lord Harvey. ‘However, complications have arisen that I must acquaint you with.’

‘Please do, sir, because I can’t see that there’s any problem.’

‘I’ll try to explain. Following Hugo’s untimely death, I advised Lady Barrington that as she had recently suffered two onerous demands for death duties, and remembering that I am over seventy, it might be wise for our two companies, Barrington’s and Harvey’s, to join forces. This, you understand, was at a time when we still believed you were dead. Therefore, it seemed that any dispute over who would inherit the title and the estate had, however unhappily, been resolved, making it possible for Giles to take his place as head of the family.’

‘And he still can, as far as I’m concerned,’ said Harry.

‘The problem is that other interested parties have become involved and the implications now go far beyond the people in this room. When Hugo was killed, I took over as chairman of the newly merged company, and asked Bill Lockwood to return as managing director. Without blowing my own trumpet, Barrington Harvey has paid its shareholders a handsome dividend for the past two years, despite Herr Hitler. Once we realized you were still alive, we took legal advice from Sir Danvers Barker KC, to be sure that we were not in breach of the terms of Joshua Barrington’s will.’

‘If only I’d opened that letter,’ said Maisie, almost to herself.

‘Sir Danvers assured us,’ continued Lord Harvey, ‘that as long as you renounce any claim to the title or the estate, we could continue trading as we had for the previous two years. And indeed, he drew up a document to that effect.’

‘If someone hands me a pen,’ said Harry, ‘I’ll happily sign it.’

‘I wish it were that easy,’ said Lord Harvey. ‘And it might have been if the Daily Express hadn’t picked up the story.’

‘I’m afraid I’m to blame for that,’ Emma interrupted, ‘because following the success of your book on both sides of the Atlantic, the press have become obsessed with finding out who will inherit the Barrington title – will it be Sir Harry or Sir Giles?’

‘There’s a cartoon in the News Chronicle this morning,’ said Giles, ‘of the two of us on horseback, jousting, with Emma sitting in the stands offering you her handkerchief, while the men in the crowd boo and the women cheer.’

‘What are they alluding to?’ asked Harry.

‘The nation is divided right down the middle,’ said Lord Harvey. ‘The men only seem interested in who’ll end up with the title and the estate, while the women all want to see Emma walking up the aisle a second time. In fact, between you, you’re keeping Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman off the front pages.’

‘But once I’ve signed the document renouncing any claim to the title or the estate, surely the public will lose interest and turn their attention to something else?’

‘This might well have been the case had the Garter King of Arms not become involved.’

‘And who’s he?’ asked Harry.

‘The King’s representative when it comes to deciding who is next in line for any title. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, he simply sends letters patent to the next of kin. On the rare occasions when there’s a disagreement between two parties, he recommends that the matter be settled by a judge in chambers.’

‘Don’t tell me it’s come to that,’ said Harry.

‘I’m afraid it has. Lord Justice Shawcross ruled in favour of Giles’s claim, but only on the condition that once you were fully fit, you signed a disclaimer, waiving your rights to the title and the estate, while allowing the succession to progress from father to son.’

‘Well, I am fully fit now, so let’s make an appointment to see the judge and get this settled once and for all.’

‘I’d like nothing more,’ said Lord Harvey, ‘but I’m afraid the decision has been taken out of his hands.’

‘By who this time?’ asked Harry.

‘A Labour peer called Lord Preston,’ said Giles. ‘He picked up the story in the press and tabled a written question to the Home Secretary, asking him to make a ruling on which one of us was entitled to inherit the baronetcy. He then held a press conference, at which he claimed that I had no right to succeed to the title, because the real candidate was lying unconscious in a Bristol hospital, unable to put his case.’

‘Why would a Labour peer give a damn if it was me or Giles who inherited the title?’

‘When the press asked him the same question,’ said Lord Harvey, ‘he told them if Giles inherited the title it would be a classic example of class prejudice, and that it was only fair that the docker’s son should be able to put forward his claim.’

‘But that defies logic,’ said Harry, ‘because if I am a docker’s son, then Giles would inherit the title anyway.’

‘Several people wrote to The Times making exactly that point,’ said Lord Harvey. ‘However, as we’re so close to a general election, the Home Secretary ducked the issue, and told his noble friend that he would refer the matter to the Lord Chancellor’s office. The Lord Chancellor passed it on to the Law Lords, and seven learned men took their time deliberating and came down by four votes to three. In favour of you, Harry.’

‘But this is madness. Why wasn’t I consulted?’

‘You were unconscious,’ Lord Harvey reminded him, ‘and in any case, they were debating a point of law, not your opinion, so the verdict will stand, unless it’s overturned on appeal in the House of Lords.’

Harry was speechless.

‘So as things stand,’ continued Lord Harvey, ‘you are now Sir Harry, and the major shareholder in Barrington Harvey, as well as owner of the Barrington estate and, to quote the original will, all that therein is.’

‘Then I’ll appeal against the Law Lords’ judgment, making it clear that I wish to renounce the title,’ said Harry firmly.

‘That’s the irony,’ said Giles, ‘you can’t. Only I can appeal against the verdict, but I have no intention of doing so unless I have your blessing.’

‘Of course you have my blessing,’ said Harry. ‘But I can think of a far easier solution.’

They all looked at him.

‘I could commit suicide.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Emma, sitting down on the bed beside him. ‘You’ve tried that twice, and look where it got you.’

44

EMMA BURST INTO the library clutching a letter. As she rarely interrupted Harry when he was writing, he knew it had to be important. He put down his pen.

‘Sorry, darling,’ she said as she pulled up a chair, ‘but I’ve just had some important news that I had to come across and share with you.’

Harry smiled at the woman he adored. Her idea of important could range from Seb pouring water over the cat, to ‘it’s the Lord Chancellor’s office on the phone and they need to speak to you urgently’. He leaned back in his chair and waited to see which category this would fall into.

‘I’ve just had a letter from Great-aunt Phyllis,’ she said.

‘Whom we all hold in such awe,’ teased Harry.

‘Don’t mock, child,’ said Emma. ‘She’s raised a point that may help us prove Papa wasn’t your father.’

Harry didn’t mock.

‘We know that your blood group and your mother’s are Rhesus negative,’ continued Emma. ‘If my father is Rhesus positive, he can’t be your father.’

‘We’ve discussed this on numerous occasions,’ Harry reminded her.

‘But if we were able to prove that my father’s blood group wasn’t the same as yours, we could get married. That is assuming you still want to marry me?’

‘Not this morning, my darling,’ said Harry, feigning boredom. ‘You see, I’m in the middle of committing a murder.’ He smiled. ‘In any case, we have no idea which blood type your father was, because despite considerable pressure from your mother and Sir Walter, he always refused to be tested. So perhaps you ought to write back, explaining that it will have to remain a mystery.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Emma, unbowed. ‘Because Great-aunt Phyllis has been following the case closely, and thinks she may have come up with a solution neither of us has considered.’

‘Picks up a copy of the Bristol Evening News from a newsstand on the corner of sixty-fourth street every morning, does she?’

‘No, but she does read The Times,’ said Emma, still unbowed, ‘even if it is a week out of date.’

‘And?’ said Harry, wanting to get on with his murder.

‘She says it’s now possible for scientists to identify blood groups long after the person has died.’

‘Thinking of employing Burke and Hare to exhume the body, are we, darling?’

‘No, I am not,’ said Emma, ‘but she also points out that when my father was killed, an artery was severed, so a great deal of blood would have been spilt on the carpet and the clothes he was wearing at the time.’

Harry stood up, walked across the room and picked up the phone.

‘Who are you calling?’ asked Emma.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Blakemore, who was in charge of the case. It may be a long shot, but I swear I’ll never mock you or your great-aunt Phyllis again.’

‘Do you mind if I smoke, Sir Harry?’

‘Not at all, chief inspector.’

Blakemore lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Dreadful habit,’ he said. ‘I blame Sir Walter.’

‘Sir Walter?’ said Harry.

‘Raleigh, not Barrington, you understand.’

Harry laughed as he sat down in the chair opposite the detective.

‘So how can I help you, Sir Harry?’

‘I prefer Mr Clifton.’

‘As you wish, sir.’

‘I was hoping you might be able to supply me with some information concerning the death of Hugo Barrington.’

‘I’m afraid that will depend on whom I’m addressing, because I can have that conversation with Sir Harry Barrington, but not with Mr Harry Clifton.’

‘Why not with Mr Clifton?’

‘Because I can only discuss details of a case like this with a member of the family.’

‘Then on this occasion, I shall revert to being Sir Harry.’

‘So how can I help, Sir Harry?’

‘When Barrington was murdered-’

‘He was not murdered,’ said the chief inspector.

‘But the newspaper reports led me to believe-’

‘It is what the newspapers didn’t report that is significant. But to be fair, they were unable to study the crime scene. Had they done so,’ said Blakemore before Harry could ask his next question, ‘they would have spotted the angle at which the letter opener entered Sir Hugo’s neck and severed his artery.’

‘Why is that significant?’

‘When I examined the body, I noticed that the blade of the letter opener was pointing upwards, not down. If I wanted to murder someone,’ continued Blakemore, rising from his chair and picking up a ruler, ‘and I was taller and heavier than that person, I would raise my arm and strike down into his neck, like this. But if I was shorter and lighter than him, and, more important, if I was defending myself -’ Blakemore knelt down in front of Harry and looked up at him, pointing the ruler towards his neck – ‘that would explain the angle at which the blade entered Sir Hugo’s neck. It is even possible from that angle that he fell on to the blade, which led me to conclude that he was far more likely to have been killed in self-defence than murdered.’

Harry thought about the chief inspector’s words before he said, ‘You used the words “shorter and lighter”, chief inspector, and “defending myself”. Are you suggesting that a woman might have been responsible for Barrington’s death?’

‘You’d have made a first-class detective,’ said Blakemore.

‘And do you know who that woman is?’ asked Harry.

‘I have my suspicions,’ admitted Blakemore.

‘Then why haven’t you arrested her?’

‘Because it’s quite difficult to arrest someone who later throws herself under the London express.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Harry. ‘I never made any connection between those two incidents.’

‘Why should you? You weren’t even in England at the time.’

‘True, but after I was released from hospital I trawled through every newspaper that even mentioned Sir Hugo’s death. Did you ever find out who the lady was?’

‘No, the body was in no state to be identified. However, a colleague from Scotland Yard who was investigating another case at the time informed me that Sir Hugo had been living with a woman in London for over a year, and she gave birth to a daughter not long after he returned to Bristol.’

‘Was that the child discovered in Barrington’s office?’

‘The same,’ said Blakemore.

‘And where is that child now?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Can you at least tell me the name of the woman Barrington was living with?’

‘No, I am not at liberty to do so,’ said Blakemore, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray full of butts. ‘However, it’s no secret that Sir Hugo employed a private detective who is now out of work and might be willing to talk, for a modest remuneration.’

‘The man with the limp,’ said Harry.

‘Derek Mitchell, a damn fine policeman, until he was invalided out of the force.’

‘But there’s one question Mitchell won’t be able to answer, which I suspect you can. You said the letter opener severed an artery, so there must have been a great deal of blood?’

‘There was indeed, sir,’ replied the chief inspector. ‘By the time I arrived, Sir Hugo was lying in a pool of blood.’

‘Do you have any idea what happened to the suit Sir Hugo was wearing at the time, or even the carpet?’

‘No, sir. Once a murder enquiry is closed, all the personal belongings of the deceased are returned to the next of kin. As for the carpet, it was still in the office when I’d completed my investigation.’

‘That’s very helpful, chief inspector. I’m most grateful.’

‘My pleasure, Sir Harry.’ Blakemore stood up and accompanied Harry to the door. ‘May I say how much I enjoyed The Diary of a Convict, and although I don’t normally deal in rumour, I’ve read that you might be writing a detective novel. After our chat today, I shall look forward to reading it.’

‘Would you consider looking at an early draft and giving me your professional opinion?’

‘In the past, Sir Harry, your family haven’t cared too much for my professional opinion.’

‘Let me assure you, chief inspector, that Mr Clifton does,’ Harry replied.

Once Harry had left the police station, he drove over to the Manor House to tell Emma his news. Emma listened attentively and when he’d come to the end, she surprised him with her first question.

‘Did Inspector Blakemore tell you what happened to the little girl?’

‘No, he didn’t seem that interested, but then why should he be?’

‘Because she might just be a Barrington, and therefore my half-sister!’

‘How thoughtless of me,’ said Harry, taking Emma into his arms. ‘It never crossed my mind.’

‘Why should it?’ asked Emma. ‘You have enough to cope with. Why don’t you start by calling my grandfather and asking him if he knows what happened to the carpet, and leave me to worry about the little girl.’

‘I’m a very lucky man, you know,’ said Harry as he reluctantly released her.

‘Get on with it,’ said Emma.

When Harry telephoned Lord Harvey to ask him about the carpet, he was once again taken by surprise.

‘I replaced it within days of the police completing their investigation.’

‘What happened to the old one?’ Harry asked.

‘I personally threw it into one of the shipyard’s furnaces and watched it burn until there was nothing left but ashes,’ Lord Harvey said with considerable feeling.

Harry wanted to say ‘damn’, but held his tongue.

When he joined Emma for lunch, he asked Mrs Barrington if she knew what had happened to Sir Hugo’s clothes. Elizabeth told Harry that she’d instructed the police to dispose of them in any way they considered appropriate.

After lunch, Harry returned to Barrington Hall and called the local police station. He asked the desk sergeant if he could remember what had happened to Sir Hugo Barrington’s clothes once the investigation had been closed.

‘Everything will have been entered in the log book at the time, Sir Harry. If you give me a moment, I’ll check.’

It turned out to be several moments before the sergeant came back on the line. ‘How time flies,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten how long ago that case was. But I’ve managed to track down the details you wanted.’ Harry held his breath. ‘We threw out the shirt, underwear and socks, but we gave one overcoat, grey, one hat, brown felt, one suit, lovat-green tweed, and one pair of brogues, brown leather, to Miss Penhaligon, who distributes all unclaimed goods on behalf of the Sally Army. Not the easiest of women,’ the sergeant added without explanation.

The sign on the counter read ‘Miss Penhaligon’.

‘This is most irregular, Sir Harry,’ said the woman standing behind the name. ‘Most irregular.’

Harry was glad that he’d brought Emma along with him. ‘But it could prove incredibly important for both of us,’ he said, taking Emma’s hand.

‘I don’t doubt that, Sir Harry, but it’s still most irregular. I can’t imagine what my supervisor will make of it.’

Harry couldn’t imagine Miss Penhaligon having a supervisor. She turned her back on them and began to study a neat row of box files on a shelf dust was not allowed to settle on. She finally pulled out one marked 1943 and placed it on the counter. She opened it, and had to turn several pages before she came across what she was looking for.

‘No one seemed to want the brown felt hat,’ she announced. ‘In fact, my records show that we still have it in store. The overcoat was allocated to a Mr Stephenson, the suit to someone who goes by the name of Old Joey, and the brown brogues to a Mr Watson.’

‘Do you have any idea where we might find any of those gentlemen?’ asked Emma.

‘They are rarely to be found apart,’ said Miss Penhaligon. ‘In the summer, they never stray far from the municipal park, while in the winter we accommodate them in our hostel. I feel confident that at this time of year you’ll find them in the park.’

‘Thank you, Miss Penhaligon,’ said Harry, giving her a warm smile. ‘You couldn’t have been more helpful.’

Miss Penhaligon beamed. ‘My pleasure, Sir Harry.’

‘I could get used to being addressed as Sir Harry,’ he said to Emma as they walked out of the building.

‘Not if you’re still hoping to marry me,’ she said, ‘because I have no desire to be Lady Barrington.’

Harry spotted him lying on a park bench with his back to them. He was wrapped up in a grey overcoat.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Stephenson,’ said Harry, touching him gently on the shoulder, ‘but we need your help.’

A grimy hand shot out, but he didn’t turn over. Harry placed a half crown in the outstretched palm. Mr Stephenson bit the coin, before cocking his head to take a closer look at Harry. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘We’re looking for Old Joey,’ said Emma softly.

‘The corporal’s got bench number one, on account of his age and seniority. This is bench number two, and I’ll take over bench number one when Old Joey dies, which shouldn’t be long now. Mr Watson’s got bench number three, so he’ll get bench number two when I get bench number one. But I’ve already warned him he’s going to have to wait a long time.’

‘And do you, by any chance, know if Old Joey is still in possession of a green tweed suit?’ asked Harry.

‘Never takes it off,’ said Mr Stephenson. ‘Grown attached to it, you might say,’ he added with a slight chuckle. ‘He got the suit, I got the overcoat and Mr Watson got the shoes. He says they’re a bit tight, but he doesn’t complain. None of us wanted the hat.’

‘So where will we find bench number one?’ asked Emma.

‘Where it’s always been, in the bandstand, under cover. Joey calls it his palace. But he’s a bit soft in the head on account of the fact he still suffers from shellshock.’ Mr Stephenson turned his back on them, on account of the fact that he felt he’d earned his half crown.

It wasn’t difficult for Harry and Emma to find the bandstand, or Old Joey, who turned out to be its only occupant. He was sitting bolt upright in the middle of bench number one as if he were seated on a throne. Emma didn’t need to see the faded brown stains to recognize her father’s old tweed suit, but how would they ever get him to part with it, she wondered.

‘What do you want?’ said Old Joey suspiciously as they walked up the steps and into his kingdom. ‘If it’s my bench you’re after, you can forget it, because possession is nine-tenths of the law, as I keep reminding Mr Stephenson.’

‘No,’ said Emma gently, ‘we don’t want your bench, Old Joey, but we wondered if you’d like a new suit.’

‘No thank you, miss, very happy with the one I got. It keeps me warm, so I don’t need no other one.’

‘But we’d give you a new suit that would be just as warm,’ said Harry.

‘Old Joey’s done nothing wrong,’ he said, turning to face him.

Harry stared at the row of medals on his chest: the Mons Star, the long service medal and the Victory Medal, and a single stripe that had been sewn on to his sleeve. ‘I need your help, corporal,’ he said.

Old Joey sprang to attention, saluted and said, ‘Bayonet fixed, sir, just give the order and the lads are ready to go over the top.’

Harry felt ashamed.

Emma and Harry returned the next day with a herringbone overcoat, a new tweed suit and a pair of shoes for Old Joey. Mr Stephenson paraded around the park in his new blazer and grey flannels, while Mr Watson, bench number three, was delighted with his double-breasted sports jacket and cavalry twills, but as he didn’t need another pair of shoes, he asked Emma to give them to Mr Stephenson. She handed the rest of Sir Hugo’s wardrobe to a grateful Miss Penhaligon.

Harry left the park with Sir Hugo Barrington’s bloodstained lovat-green tweed suit.

Professor Inchcape studied the blood stains under a microscope for some time before he offered an opinion.

‘I’ll need to carry out several more tests before I make a final assessment, but on a preliminary inspection, I’m fairly confident that I’ll be able to tell you which blood group these samples came from.’

‘That’s a relief,’ said Harry. ‘But how long will it be before you know the results?’

‘A couple of days would be my guess,’ said the professor, ‘three at the most. I’ll give you a call as soon as I find out, Sir Harry.’

‘Let’s hope you have to make the call to Mr Clifton.’

‘I’ve phoned the Lord Chancellor’s office,’ said Lord Harvey, ‘and let them know that blood tests are being carried out on Hugo’s clothes. If the blood group is Rhesus positive, I’m sure he’ll ask the Law Lords to reconsider their verdict in light of the fresh evidence.’

‘But if we don’t get the result we’re hoping for,’ said Harry, ‘then what?’

‘The Lord Chancellor will schedule a debate in the parliamentary calendar soon after the House is reconvened after the general election. But let’s hope Professor Inchcape’s findings make that unnecessary. By the way, does Giles know what you’re up to?’

‘No, sir, but as I’m spending the afternoon with him, I’ll be able to bring him up to date.’

‘Don’t tell me he’s talked you into doing a stint of canvassing?’

‘I’m afraid so, although he’s well aware I’ll be voting Tory at the election. But I have assured him that my mother and Uncle Stan will both be supporting him.’

‘Don’t let the press find out that you won’t be voting for him, because they’ll be looking for any opportunity to drive a stake between the two of you. Bosom pals is not on their agenda.’

‘All the more reason to hope that the professor comes up with the right result and we’re all put out of our misery.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Lord Harvey.

William Warwick was just about to solve the crime when the phone rang. Harry still had the gun in his hand as he walked across the library and picked up the receiver.

‘It’s Professor Inchcape. Can I have a word with Sir Harry?’

Fiction was replaced by fact in a cruel moment. Harry didn’t need to be told the results of the blood tests. ‘Speaking,’ he said.

‘I’m afraid my news isn’t what you were hoping for,’ said the professor. ‘Sir Hugo’s blood type turns out to be Rhesus negative, so the possibility of him being your father can’t be eliminated on those grounds.’

Harry telephoned Ashcombe Hall.

‘Harvey here,’ said the voice he knew so well.

‘It’s Harry, sir. I’m afraid you’re going to have to phone the Lord Chancellor and tell him the debate will be going ahead.’

45

GILES HAD BECOME so preoccupied with getting elected to the House of Commons as the Member of Parliament for Bristol Docklands, and Harry was so involved with the publication of William Warwick and the Case of the Blind Witness, that when they received an invitation to join Lord Harvey at his country home for Sunday lunch, they both assumed it would be a family gathering. But when they turned up at Ashcombe Hall, there was no sign of any other member of the family.

Lawson did not escort them to the drawing room, or even the dining room, but to his lordship’s study, where they found Lord Harvey seated behind his desk with two empty leather chairs facing him. He didn’t waste any time on small talk.

‘I’ve been informed by the Lord Chancellor’s office that Thursday September 6th has been reserved in the parliamentary calendar for a debate that will determine which of you will inherit the family title. We have two months to prepare. I will be opening the debate from the front bench,’ said Lord Harvey, ‘and I expect to be opposed by Lord Preston.’

‘What’s he hoping to achieve?’ asked Harry.

‘He wants to undermine the hereditary system, and to do him justice, he doesn’t make any bones about it.’

‘Perhaps if I could get an appointment to see him,’ said Harry, ‘and let him know my views…’

‘He’s not interested in you or your views,’ said Lord Harvey. ‘He’s simply using the debate as a platform to air his well-known opinions on the hereditary principle.’

‘But surely if I were to write to him-’

‘I already have,’ said Giles, ‘and even though we’re in the same party, he didn’t bother to reply.’

‘In his opinion, the issue is far more important than any one individual case,’ said Lord Harvey.

‘Won’t such an intransigent stance go down badly with their lordships?’ asked Harry.

‘Not necessarily,’ replied Lord Harvey. ‘Reg Preston used to be a trade union firebrand, until Ramsay MacDonald offered him a seat in the Lords. He’s always been a formidable orator, and since joining us on the red benches, has become someone you can’t afford to underestimate.’

‘Do you have any sense of how the House might divide?’ asked Giles.

‘The government whips tell me it will be a close-run thing. The Labour peers will get behind Reg because they can’t afford to be seen supporting the hereditary principle.’

‘And the Tories?’ asked Harry.

‘The majority will support me, not least because the last thing they’ll want is to see the hereditary principle being dealt a blow in their own back yard, although there are still one or two waverers I’ll have to work on.’

‘What about the Liberals?’ asked Giles.

‘Heaven alone knows, although they’ve announced that it will be a free vote.’

‘A free vote?’ queried Harry.

‘There will be no party whip,’ explained Giles. ‘Each member can decide which corridor to go into as a matter of principle.’

‘And finally, there are the cross-benchers,’ continued Lord Harvey. ‘They will listen to the arguments on both sides and then go where their conscience guides them. So we’ll only discover how they intend to vote when the division is called.’

‘So what can we do to help?’ asked Harry.

‘You, Harry, as a writer and you, Giles, as a politician can start by assisting me with my speech. Any contribution either of you would care to make will be most welcome. Let’s start by drawing up an outline plan over lunch.’

Neither Giles nor Harry thought it worth mentioning to their host such frivolous matters as forthcoming general elections or publication dates, as the three of them made their way through to the dining room.

‘When’s your book being published?’ Giles asked as they drove away from Ashcombe Hall later that afternoon.

‘July twentieth,’ said Harry. ‘So it won’t be out until after the election. My publishers want me to do a tour of the country, and carry out some signing sessions as well as a few press interviews.’

‘Be warned,’ said Giles, ‘the journalists won’t ask you any questions about the book, only your views on who should inherit the title.’

‘How often do I have to tell them that my sole interest is Emma, and I’ll sacrifice anything to be allowed to spend the rest of my life with her?’ asked Harry, trying not to sound exasperated. ‘You can have the title, you can have the estate, you can have all that therein is, if I can have Emma.’

William Warwick and the Case of the Blind Witness was well received by the critics, but Giles turned out to be right. The press didn’t seem to be particularly interested in the ambitious young detective constable from Bristol, only the writer’s alter ego, Giles Barrington, and his chances of regaining the family title. Whenever Harry told the press that he had no interest in the title, it only made them more convinced he did.

In what the journalists regarded as the battle for the Barrington inheritance, all the newspapers, with the exception of the Daily Telegraph, supported the handsome, brave, self-made, popular, smart grammar-school boy, who, they repeatedly reminded their readers, had been raised in the back streets of Bristol.

Harry took every opportunity to remind the same journalists that Giles had been a contemporary at Bristol Grammar School, was now the Labour MP for Bristol Docklands, just happened to have won the MC at Tobruk, a cricket blue in his first year at Oxford, and certainly wasn’t responsible for which cot he was born in. Harry’s loyal support of his friend only made him even more popular, with both the press and the public.

Despite the fact that Giles had been elected to the House of Commons by over three thousand votes and had already taken his place on the green benches, he knew it would be a debate that was due to take place on the red benches at the other end of the corridor in just over a month’s time that would decide both his and Harry’s future.

46

HARRY WAS USED TO being woken by birds chirping happily in the trees that surrounded Barrington Hall, and Sebastian charging into the library uninvited and unannounced or the sound of Emma arriving for breakfast after her early morning gallop.

But today it was different.

He was woken by street lights, the noise of traffic and Big Ben chiming relentlessly every fifteen minutes, to remind him how many hours were left before Lord Harvey would rise to open a debate after which men he’d never met would cast a vote that would decide his and Giles’s futures, for a thousand years.

He had a long bath, as it was too early to go down for breakfast. Once he was dressed, he phoned Barrington Hall, only to be told by the butler that Miss Barrington had already left for the station. Harry was puzzled. Why would Emma catch the early train when they hadn’t planned to meet up until lunch? When Harry walked into the morning room just after seven, he wasn’t surprised to find Giles already up and reading the morning papers.

‘Is your grandfather up?’ asked Harry.

‘Long before either of us, I suspect. When I came down, just after six, the light was on in his study. Once this dreadful business is behind us, whatever the result, we must get him to spend a few days in Mulgelrie Castle, and take a well-earned rest.’

‘Good idea,’ said Harry as he slumped into the nearest armchair, only to shoot back up again a moment later when Lord Harvey entered the room.

‘Time for breakfast, chaps. Never wise to go to the gallows on an empty stomach.’

Despite Lord Harvey’s advice, the three of them didn’t eat a great deal as they considered the day ahead. Lord Harvey tried out a few key phrases, while Harry and Giles made some last-minute suggestions to be added or taken away from his script.

‘I wish I could tell their lordships how much of a contribution both of you have made,’ said the old man, once he’d added a couple of sentences to his peroration. ‘Right, chaps, time to fix bayonets and go over the top.’

Both of them were nervous.

‘I was hoping you might be able to help me,’ said Emma, unable to look him in the eye.

‘I will if I can, miss,’ he said.

Emma looked up at a man who, although he was cleanshaven and his shoes must have been polished that morning, wore a shirt with a frayed collar, and the trousers of his well-worn suit were baggy.

‘When my father died -’ Emma could never bring herself to say ‘was killed’ – ‘the police found a baby girl in his office. Do you have any idea what happened to her?’

‘No,’ said the man, ‘but as the police weren’t able to contact her next of kin, she would have been placed in a church mission and put up for adoption.’

‘Do you have any idea which orphanage she ended up in?’ asked Emma.

‘No, but I could always make some enquiries if…’

‘How much did my father owe you?’

‘Thirty-seven pounds and eleven shillings,’ said the private detective, who took out a wad of bills from an inside pocket.

Emma waved a hand, opened her purse and extracted two crisp five-pound notes. ‘I’ll settle the balance when we meet again.’

‘Thank you, Miss Barrington,’ Mitchell said as he rose from his place, assuming the meeting was now over. ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I have news.’

‘Just one more question,’ said Emma, looking up at him. ‘Do you know the little girl’s name?’

‘Jessica Smith,’ he replied.

‘Why Smith?’

‘That’s the name they always give a child nobody wants.’

Lord Harvey locked himself in his office on the third floor of the Queen’s Tower for the rest of the morning. He didn’t leave his room even to join Harry, Giles and Emma for lunch, preferring a sandwich and a stiff whisky, while he went over his speech once again.

Giles and Harry sat on the green benches in the central lobby of the House of Commons and chatted amiably as they waited for Emma to join them. Harry hoped that anyone who saw them, peers, commoners and press alike, would be left in no doubt that they were the closest of friends.

Harry kept checking his watch as he knew they had to be seated in the visitors’ gallery of the House of Lords before the Lord Chancellor took his place on the Woolsack at two o’clock.

Harry allowed himself a smile when he saw Emma come rushing into the central lobby just before one. Giles gave his sister a wave, as both men rose to greet her.

‘What have you been up to?’ asked Harry, even before he’d bent down to kiss her.

‘I’ll tell you over lunch,’ promised Emma as she linked arms with both of them. ‘But first I want to be brought up to date on your news.’

‘Too close to call, seems to be the general consensus,’ said Giles as he guided his guests towards the visitors’ dining room. ‘But it won’t be long now before we all learn our fates,’ he added morbidly.

The House of Lords was full long before Big Ben struck twice, and by the time the Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain entered the chamber, there wasn’t a place to be found on the packed benches. In fact, several members were left standing at the bar of the House. Lord Harvey glanced across to the other side of the chamber to see Reg Preston smiling at him like a lion who had just spotted his lunch.

Their lordships rose as one when the Lord Chancellor took his place on the Woolsack. He bowed to the assembled gathering, and they returned the compliment before resuming their seats.

The Lord Chancellor opened his gold-tasselled red leather folder.

‘My lords, we are gathered to give judgment as to whether Mr Giles Barrington or Mr Harry Clifton is entitled to inherit the title, estate and accoutrements of the late Sir Hugo Barrington, Baronet, defender of the peace.’

Lord Harvey looked up to see Harry, Emma and Giles seated in the front row of the visitors’ gallery. He was greeted with a warm smile from his granddaughter and could lip-read her words, ‘Good luck, Gramps!’

‘I call upon Lord Harvey to open the debate,’ said the Lord High Chancellor, before taking his seat on the Woolsack.

Lord Harvey rose from his place on the front bench and gripped the sides of the dispatch box to help steady his nerves, while his colleagues on the benches behind him greeted their noble and gallant friend with cries of ‘Hear, hear!’ He looked around the House, aware that he was about to deliver the most important speech of his life.

‘My lords,’ he began, ‘I stand before you today representing my kinsman, Mr Giles Barrington, a member of the other place, in his lawful claim to the Barrington title and all the possessions of that lineage. My lords, allow me to acquaint you with the circumstances that have brought this case to your lordships’ attention. In 1877, Joshua Barrington was created a baronet by Queen Victoria, for services to the shipping industry, which included the Barrington Line, a fleet of ocean-going vessels that are, to this day, still based in the port of Bristol.

‘Joshua was the fifth child in a family of nine, and left school at the age of seven, unable to read or write, before he began life as an apprentice at the Coldwater Shipping Company, where it soon became clear to all those around him that this was no ordinary child.

‘By the age of thirty, he had gained his master’s certificate, and at forty-two he was invited to join the board of Coldwater’s, which was experiencing difficult times. During the next ten years, he rescued the company virtually single-handed, and for the next twenty-two years, served as its chairman.

‘But, my lords, you need to know a little more about Sir Joshua the man, to understand why we are gathered here today, because it certainly would not have been at his bidding. Above all, Sir Joshua was a God-fearing man, who considered his word was his bond. A handshake was enough for Sir Joshua to accept that a contract had been signed. Where are such men today, my lords?’

‘Hear, hear’ echoed around the chamber.

‘But like so many successful men, my lords, Sir Joshua took a little longer than the rest of us to accept his own mortality.’ A ripple of laughter greeted this statement. ‘So when the time came for him to make his first and only will, he had already fulfilled the maker’s contract of three score years and ten. That did not stop him approaching the task with his usual vigour and vision. To that end, he invited Sir Isaiah Waldegrave, the leading QC in the land, to represent him, an advocate who, like you, my lord,’ he said, turning to face the Woolsack, ‘ended his judicial days as Lord High Chancellor. I mention this, my lords, to emphasize that Sir Joshua’s testament bears a legal weight and authority that does not allow it to be questioned by his successors.

‘In that will, he left everything to his first born and next of kin, Walter Barrington, my oldest and dearest friend. That included the title, the shipping company, the estates and, I quote the exact words of the will, “all that therein is”. This debate, my lords, is not about the validity of Sir Joshua’s last will and testament, but only about who can rightfully claim to be his heir. At this point, my lords, I would like you to take something into consideration that would never have crossed Sir Joshua’s God-fearing mind; the possibility that an heir of his could ever father an illegitimate son.

‘Hugo Barrington became next in line when his elder brother Nicholas was killed fighting for his country at Ypres in 1918. Hugo succeeded to the title in 1942 on the death of his father, Sir Walter. When the House divides, my lords, you will be called upon to decide between my grandson, Mr Giles Barrington, who is the legitimate son of a union between the late Sir Hugo Barrington and my only daughter, Elizabeth Harvey, and Mr Harry Clifton, who, I would suggest, is the legitimate son of Mrs Maisie Clifton and the late Arthur Clifton.

‘May I at this point, my lords, seek your indulgence and speak for a moment a little about my grandson, Giles Barrington. He was educated at Bristol Grammar School, from where he went on to win a place at Brasenose College, Oxford. However, he did not complete his degree, rather he decided to abandon the life of an undergraduate to join the Wessex Regiment soon after the outbreak of war. While serving in Tobruk as a young lieutenant, he won the Military Cross defending that place against Rommel’s Afrika Korps. He was later captured and taken to Weinsberg prisoner of war camp in Germany, from where he escaped to return to England and rejoin his regiment for the remainder of the hostilities. In the general election he stood for, and indeed won, a seat in another place as the honourable member for Bristol Docklands.’

Loud ‘Hear, hear’s came from the benches opposite.

‘On the death of his father, he inherited the title, without dispute, as it had been widely reported that Harry Clifton had been buried at sea, not long after the declaration of war. It is one of the ironies of life, my lords, that my granddaughter, Emma, through her diligence and determination, was the person who discovered that Harry was still alive, and she unwittingly set in motion the train of events that has brought your lordships to this House today.’ Lord Harvey looked into the gallery, and gave his granddaughter a warm smile.

‘There is, my lords, no dispute that Harry Clifton was born before Giles Barrington. However, there is, I would submit, no definite or conclusive proof that Harry Clifton is the result of a liaison between Sir Hugo Barrington and Miss Maisie Tancock, later to become Mrs Arthur Clifton.

‘Mrs Clifton does not deny that she had sexual intercourse with Hugo Barrington on one occasion in 1919, and one occasion only. However, a few weeks later she married Mr Arthur Clifton, and a child was later born whose name was entered on the birth certificate as Harry Arthur Clifton.

‘You therefore have, my lords, on the one hand, Giles Barrington, the legitimate offspring of Sir Hugo Barrington. On the other, you have Harry Clifton, who, perchance, could possibly be the progeny of Sir Hugo, while there can be no doubt that Giles Barrington is. And is that a risk you are willing to take, my lords? If it is, allow me to add just one more factor that might help your lordships decide which lobby they should enter at the conclusion of this debate. Harry Clifton, who is seated in the visitors’ gallery this afternoon, has made his own position clear again and again. He has no interest in being burdened – I use his own word – with the title, but would far rather it was inherited by his close friend, Giles Barrington.’

Several peers looked up into the gallery to see Giles and Emma Barrington seated on either side of Harry Clifton, who was nodding. Lord Harvey did not continue until he had regained the attention of the whole House.

‘And so, my lords, when you cast your votes later tonight, I urge you to take into consideration the wishes of Harry Clifton, and the intentions of Sir Joshua Barrington, and give the benefit of the doubt to my grandson Giles Barrington. I am grateful to the House for its indulgence.’

Lord Harvey lowered himself on to the bench, to be greeted with loud cheers and the waving of order papers. Harry felt confident that he had won the day.

When the House had regained its composure, the Lord Chancellor rose from his place, and said, ‘I call upon Lord Preston to respond.’

Harry looked down from the gallery and watched as a man he’d never seen before rose slowly from the opposition benches. Lord Preston could not have been an inch above five foot, and his squat, muscular body and furnace-lined face would have left no one in any doubt that he had been a labourer all his working life, while his pugnacious expression suggested that he feared no man.

Reg Preston spent a moment surveying the benches opposite, like a private soldier who puts his head above the parapet to take a closer look at the enemy.

‘My lords, I would like to open my remarks by congratulating Lord Harvey on a brilliant and moving speech. However, I would suggest that its very brilliance was its weakness, and bears the seeds of its downfall. The noble lord’s contribution was indeed moving, but as it progressed, he sounded more and more like an advocate who’s only too aware that he’s defending a weak case.’ Preston had created a silence in the chamber that Lord Harvey had not managed.

‘Let us, my lords, consider some of the facts so conveniently papered over by the noble and gallant Lord Harvey. No one disputes that the young Hugo Barrington had sexual relations with Maisie Tancock some six weeks before she married Arthur Clifton. Or that nine months later, almost to the day, she gave birth to a son whose name was conveniently entered on the birth certificate as Harry Arthur Clifton. Well, that’s sorted out that little problem, hasn’t it, my lords? Except for the inconvenient fact that if Mrs Clifton conceived that child on the day she married, he was born seven months and twelve days later.

‘Now, my lords, I’d be the first to accept that’s a possibility, but as a betting man, if I was given the choice between nine months and seven months and twelve days, I know where I’d place my wager, and I don’t think the bookies would offer me very long odds.’

A little laughter broke out on the Labour benches.

‘And I should add, my lords, that the child weighed in at nine pounds four ounces. That doesn’t sound premature to me.’

The laughter was even louder.

‘Let us next consider something else that must have slipped Lord Harvey’s agile mind. Hugo Barrington, like his father and his grandfather before him, suffered from a hereditary condition known as colour-blindness, as does his son, Giles. And so does Harry Clifton. The odds are shortening, my lords.’

More laughter followed, and muttered discussion broke out on both sides of the House. Lord Harvey looked grimly on, as he waited for the next punch to land.

‘Let us shorten those odds still further, my lords. It was the great Dr Milne of St Thomas’ Hospital who discovered that if parents shared the same Rhesus negative blood type, then their children will also be Rhesus negative. Sir Hugo Barrington was Rhesus negative. Mrs Clifton is Rhesus negative. And surprise, surprise, Harry Clifton is Rhesus negative, a blood type that only twelve per cent of the British people share. I think the bookies are paying out, my lords, because the only other horse in the race didn’t reach the starting gate.’

More laughter followed, and Lord Harvey slumped even lower on the bench, angry that he hadn’t pointed out that Arthur Clifton was also Rhesus negative.

‘Now allow me to touch on one thing, my lords, on which I am whole-heartedly in agreement with Lord Harvey. No one has the right to question Sir Joshua Barrington’s will, when it has such a fine legal pedigree. Therefore, all we have to decide is what the words “first born” and “next of kin” actually mean.

‘Most of you in this House will be well aware of my strongly held views on the hereditary principle.’ Preston smiled before adding, ‘I consider it to be without principle.’

This time the laughter only came from one side of the House, while those on the benches opposite sat in stony silence.

‘My lords, should you decide to ignore legal precedent and tamper with historical tradition, simply to suit your own convenience, you will bring the hereditary concept into disrepute, and in time the whole edifice will surely come crashing down on your lordships’ heads,’ he said, pointing to the benches opposite.

‘So let us consider the two young men involved in this sad dispute, not, I might say, my lords, a dispute of their making. Harry Clifton, we are told, would prefer that his friend Giles Barrington inherit the title. How very decent of him. But then Harry Clifton is, without question, a decent man. However, my lords, should we travel down that road, every hereditary peer in the land would, in future, be able to decide which of his offspring he would prefer to succeed him, and that, my lords, is a road with a dead-end sign.’

The House had fallen silent and Lord Preston was able to lower his voice to barely a whisper.

‘Did this decent young man, Harry Clifton, have any ulterior motive when he told the world that he wanted his friend Giles Barrington to be acknowledged as the firstborn?’

Every eye was on Lord Preston.

‘You see, my lords, the Church of England would not allow Harry Clifton to marry the woman he loved, Giles Barrington’s sister Emma Barrington, because they weren’t in much doubt that they shared the same father.’

Harry had never loathed a man more in his life.

‘I see the bishops’ benches are packed today, my lords,’ continued Preston, turning to face the churchmen. ‘I shall be fascinated to discover the ecclesiastical view on this matter, because they cannot have it both ways.’ One or two of the bishops looked uneasy. ‘And while I am on the subject of Harry Clifton’s pedigree, may I suggest that as a candidate in the lists, he is every bit the equal of Giles Barrington. Brought up in the back streets of Bristol, against all the odds he wins a place at Bristol Grammar School, and five years later an exhibition to Brasenose College, Oxford. And young Harry didn’t even wait for war to be declared before he left the university with the intention of joining up, only being prevented from doing so when his ship was torpedoed by a German U-boat, leading Lord Harvey and the rest of the Barrington family to believe that he had been buried at sea.

‘Anyone who has read Mr Clifton’s moving words in his book The Diary of a Convict, knows how he ended up serving in the US Army, where he won the Silver Star before being badly wounded by a German landmine only weeks before peace was declared. But the Germans couldn’t kill off Harry Clifton quite that easily, my lords, and neither should we.’

The Labour benches erupted as one, and Lord Preston waited until the House had fallen silent once again.

‘Finally, my lords, we should ask ourselves why we are here today. I will tell you why. It is because Giles Barrington is appealing against a judgment made by the seven leading legal minds in the land, something else Lord Harvey failed to mention in his heartfelt speech. But I will remind you that, in their wisdom, the Law Lords came down in favour of Harry Clifton inheriting the baronetcy. If you are thinking of reversing that decision, my lords, before you do so, you must be certain that they have made a fundamental error of judgment.

‘And so, my lords,’ said Preston as he began his peroration, ‘when you cast your votes to decide which of these two men should inherit the Barrington title, do not base your judgment on convenience, but on strong probability. Because then, to quote Lord Harvey, you will give the benefit of the doubt not to Giles Barrington, but to Harry Clifton, as the odds, if not the pedigree, are stacked in his favour. And may I conclude, my lords,’ he said, staring defiantly at the benches opposite, ‘by suggesting that when you enter the division lobby, you should take your consciences with you, and leave your politics in the chamber.’

Lord Preston sat down to loud acclamation from his own benches, while several peers on the opposite side of the House could be seen nodding.

Lord Harvey wrote a note to his opponent, congratulating him on a powerful speech that was made even more persuasive by its obvious conviction. Following the tradition of the House, both opening speakers remained in their places to listen to the views of fellow members who followed them.

There turned out to be several unpredictable contributions delivered from both sides of the House, which only left Lord Harvey even more unsure what the outcome would be when the votes were finally cast. One speech that was listened to with rapt attention from all quarters of the chamber was delivered by the Bishop of Bristol, and was clearly endorsed by his noble and ecclesiastical friends, who sat on the benches beside him.

‘My lords,’ said the bishop, ‘if, in your wisdom, you vote tonight in favour of Mr Giles Barrington inheriting the title, my noble friends and I would be left with no choice but to withdraw the church’s objection to a lawful marriage taking place between Mr Harry Clifton and Miss Emma Barrington. Because, my lords, were you to decide that Harry is not the son of Hugo Barrington, there can be no objection to such a union.’

‘But how will they vote?’ Lord Harvey whispered to the colleague sitting beside him on the front bench.

‘My colleagues and I will not be casting a vote in either lobby when the division is called, as we feel we are not qualified to make either a political or a legal judgment on this issue.’

‘What about a moral judgment?’ said Lord Preston, loud enough to be heard on the bishops’ benches. Lord Harvey had at last found something on which the two of them were in agreement.

Another speech that took the House by surprise was delivered by Lord Hughes, a cross-bencher and a former president of the British Medical Association.

‘My lords, I must inform the House that recent medical research, carried out at the Moorfields Hospital, has shown that colour-blindness can only be passed down through the female line.’

The Lord Chancellor opened his red folder and made an emendation to his notes.

‘And therefore, for Lord Preston to suggest that because Sir Hugo Barrington was colour-blind, it is more likely that Harry Clifton is his son, is bogus, and should be dismissed as nothing more than a coincidence.’

When Big Ben struck ten times, there were still several members who wished to catch the Lord Chancellor’s eye. In his wisdom, he decided to allow the debate to run its natural course. The final speaker sat down a few minutes after three the following morning.

When the division bell finally rang, rows of dishevelled and exhausted members trooped out of the chamber and into the voting lobby. Harry, still seated in the gallery, noticed that Lord Harvey was fast asleep. No one commented. After all, he hadn’t left his place for the past thirteen hours.

‘Let’s hope he wakes up in time to vote,’ said Giles with a chuckle, which he stifled as his grandfather slumped further down on to the bench.

A badge messenger quickly left the chamber and called for an ambulance, while two ushers rushed on to the floor of the House and gently lowered the noble lord on to a stretcher.

Harry, Giles and Emma left the visitors’ gallery and ran down the stairs, and reached the peers’ lobby just as the stretcher bearers came out of the chamber. The three of them accompanied Lord Harvey out of the building and into a waiting ambulance.

Once members had cast their votes in the lobby of their choice, they slowly made their way back into the chamber. No one wanted to leave before they’d heard the result of the count. Members on both sides of the House were puzzled not to see Lord Harvey in his place on the front bench.

Rumours began to circulate around the chamber, and when Lord Preston was told the news, he turned ashen-white.

It was several more minutes before the four whips on duty returned to the chamber to inform the House of the result of the division. They marched up the centre aisle in step, like the guards officers they had been, and came to a halt in front of the Lord Chancellor.

A hush descended on the House.

The chief whip raised the voting slip and declared in a loud voice, ‘Contents to the right, two hundred and seventy-three votes. Non-contents to the left, two hundred and seventy-three votes.’

Pandemonium broke out in the chamber and in the gallery above, as members and visitors sought guidance as to what would happen next. Old hands realized that the Lord Chancellor would have the casting vote. He sat alone on the Woolsack, inscrutable and unmoved by the noise and clamour all around him as he waited patiently for the House to come to order.

Once the last whisper had died away, the Lord Chancellor rose slowly from the Woolsack, adjusted his full-bottomed wig and tugged the lapels of his black and gold-braided robe, before he addressed the House. Every eye in the chamber was fixed upon him. In the packed gallery overlooking the chamber, those who had been fortunate enough to acquire a ticket leant over the railings in anticipation. There were three empty seats in the distinguished guests’ gallery: those of the three people whose future the Lord Chancellor held in his gift.

‘My lords,’ he began. ‘I have listened with interest to each and every contribution your lordships have made during this long and fascinating debate. I have considered the arguments so eloquently and so passionately delivered from all parts of the House and find myself facing something of a dilemma. I would like to share my concerns with you all.

‘In normal circumstances, being presented with a tied vote, I would not hesitate to support the Law Lords in their earlier judgment, when they came down in favour by four votes to three, of Harry Clifton inheriting the Barrington title. Indeed, it would have been irresponsible of me not to do so. However, your lordships may not be aware that just after the division was called, Lord Harvey, the proposer of the motion, was taken ill, and therefore unable to cast his vote. None of us can be in any doubt which corridor he would have entered, ensuring that he would have won the day even if it was by the slimmest of margins, and the title would therefore have passed to his grandson Giles Barrington.

‘My lords, I am sure the House will agree that given these circumstances, my final judgment will require the wisdom of Solomon.’

Muffled ‘hear, hear’s could be heard from both sides of the House.

‘However, I have to tell the House,’ the Lord Chancellor continued, ‘that I have not yet decided which son I should cut in half, and which son I should restore to his birthright.’

A ripple of laughter followed these remarks, which helped break the tension in the chamber.

‘Therefore, my lords,’ he said, once he had again captured the attention of the whole House, ‘I will announce my judgment in the case of Barrington versus Clifton at ten o’clock this morning.’ He resumed his seat on the Woolsack without uttering another word. The chief usher banged his rod on the ground three times, but could barely be heard above the clamour.

‘House will reconvene at ten o’clock in the forenoon,’ he bellowed, ‘when the Lord Chancellor will deliver his judgment in the case of Barrington versus Clifton. House will rise!’

The Lord Chancellor rose from his place, bowed to the assembled gathering, and their lordships repaid the compliment.

The chief usher once again banged his rod three times on the ground.

‘House is adjourned!’