The Sins of the Father

18

EMMA SAT ALONE in her hotel room reading The Diary of a Convict from cover to cover. She didn’t know who Max Lloyd was, but she was sure of one thing: he wasn’t the author.

Only one man could have written this book. She recognized so many familiar phrases, and Lloyd hadn’t even bothered to change all the names, unless of course he had a girlfriend called Emma whom he still adored.

Emma turned the last page just before midnight, and decided to make a phone call to someone who would still be at work.

‘Just one more favour,’ she begged when his voice came on the line.

‘Try me,’ he said.

‘I need the name of Max Lloyd’s parole officer.’

‘Max Lloyd the author?’

‘No less.’

‘I’m not even going to ask why.’

She began to read the book a second time, making pencil notes in the margin, but long before the new deputy librarian had started, she had fallen asleep. She woke around five the next morning, and didn’t stop reading until a prison officer entered the library and said, ‘Lloyd, the warden wants to see you.’

Emma took a long, lazy bath, and considered the fact that all the information she’d been trying so hard to discover had been available for a dollar fifty from any bookstore.

Once she was dressed, she went down to breakfast and picked up a copy of the New York Times. She was taken by surprise as she turned the pages to come across a review of The Diary of a Convict.

We should be grateful to Mr Lloyd for bringing to our attention what is happening in our prisons today. Lloyd is a gifted writer with real talent, and we must hope that now he’s been released, he will not put down his pen.

He never picked it up in the first place, thought Emma indignantly as she signed her bill.

Before going back up to her room, she asked the receptionist to recommend a good restaurant near Doubleday’s bookstore.

‘The Brasserie, madam. It has a first-class reputation. Would you like me to book a table for you?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Emma. ‘I’d like a table for one at lunch today, and another for two this evening.’

The receptionist was quickly learning not to be surprised by the lady from England.

Emma returned to her room and settled down to read the diary once more. She was puzzled why the narrative opened with Harry’s arrival at Lavenham, despite the fact that there were several references scattered throughout the book which suggested that his previous experiences had also been recorded, even if they hadn’t been seen by the publisher, and certainly not the public. In fact, this convinced Emma that there had to be another notebook in existence, which would not only describe Harry’s arrest and trial, but might explain why he had put himself through such an ordeal, when a lawyer of Mr Jelks’s standing must have known that he was not Tom Bradshaw.

After reading marked pages of the diaries for a third time, Emma decided another long stroll in the park was required. As she walked up Lexington Avenue, she dropped into Bloomingdales and placed an order that she was assured would be ready for collection by three o’clock. In Bristol, the same order would have taken a fortnight.

As she walked through the park, a plan was beginning to form in her mind, but she needed to return to Doubleday’s and take a closer look at the store’s layout before she could apply the finishing touches. When she walked into the bookstore, the staff were already preparing for the author signing. A table was in place and a roped-off area showed clearly where the line should form. The poster in the window now had a bold red banner across it declaring, TODAY.

Emma selected a gap between two rows of shelves from which she would have a clear view of Lloyd while he was signing, and would be able to observe her prey while setting him a trap.

She left Doubleday’s just before 1 p.m., and made her way across Fifth Avenue to the Brasserie. A waiter showed her to a table that would never have been considered acceptable by either of her grandfathers. But the meal was, as promised, first class, and when the bill was presented, she took a deep breath, and left a large tip.

‘I’ve booked a table for this evening,’ she said to the waiter. ‘Would it be possible to be seated in an alcove?’ The waiter looked doubtful, until Emma produced a dollar bill, which seemed to remove any doubt. She was getting the hang of how things worked in America.

‘What’s your name?’ Emma asked as she passed him the note.

‘Jimmy,’ the waiter replied.

‘And another thing, Jimmy.’

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘May I keep a copy of the menu?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’

On the way back to the Mayflower, Emma called in at Bloomingdales and picked up her order. She smiled when the clerk showed her an example of the card. ‘I hope it’s satisfactory, madam.’

‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Emma. Once she was back in her room, she went over her prepared questions again and again, and after deciding on the best possible order, she pencilled them neatly on to the back of the menu. Exhausted, she lay down on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

When the persistent ringing of the phone woke her, it was already dark outside. She checked her watch: 5.10 p.m.

‘Damn,’ she said as she picked up the phone.

‘I know the feeling,’ said a voice on the other end of the line, ‘even if that wasn’t the four-letter word I would have chosen.’ Emma laughed. ‘The name you’re looking for is Brett Elders… I didn’t tell you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Emma. ‘I’ll try not to bother you again.’

‘I wish,’ said the detective, and the line went dead.

Emma wrote the name ‘Brett Elders’ neatly in pencil at the top right-hand corner of the menu. She would like to have taken a quick shower and changed her clothes, but she was already running late and she couldn’t afford to miss him.

She grabbed the menu and three of the cards. Stuffing them into her bag, she then dashed out of the door and down the staircase, not waiting for the elevator. She hailed a cab and leapt into the back. ‘Doubleday’s on Fifth,’ she said, ‘and make it snappy.’

Oh no, Emma thought, as the taxi sped away. What’s happening to me?

Emma entered the crowded bookstore and took her chosen spot between politics and religion, from where she could observe Max Lloyd at work.

He was signing each book with a flourish, basking in the glow of his adoring fans. Emma knew it should have been Harry sitting there receiving the accolades. Did he even know his work had been published? Would she find out tonight?

As it turned out, she needn’t have rushed, because Lloyd went on signing his runaway bestseller for another hour, until the line began to dwindle. He was taking longer and longer with each message, in the hope that it might entice others to join the queue.

As he was chatting expansively to the last customer in the line, Emma deserted her post and strolled across.

‘And how is your dear mother?’ the customer was asking effusively.

‘Very well, thank you,’ said Lloyd. ‘No longer having to work in a hotel,’ he added, ‘following the success of my book.’

The customer smiled. ‘And Emma, dare I ask?’

‘We’re going to be married in the fall,’ said Lloyd after he’d signed her copy.

Are we indeed? thought Emma.

‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ said the customer. ‘She sacrificed so much for you. Do give her my best wishes.’

Why don’t you turn around and do it in person, Emma wanted to say.

‘I most certainly will,’ said Lloyd, as he handed her the book and gave her his back-cover smile.

Emma stepped forward and handed a card to Lloyd. He studied it for a moment before the same smile reappeared.

‘A fellow agent,’ he said, standing to greet her.

Emma shook his outstretched hand, and somehow managed to return his smile. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and several publishers in London are showing considerable interest in the rights to your book. Of course, if you’ve already signed a contract, or are represented by another agent in England, I wouldn’t want to waste your time.’

‘No, no, dear lady, I’m very happy to consider any proposal you might have.’

‘Then perhaps you would join me for dinner, so we can talk further?’

‘I think they’re expecting me to have dinner with them,’ whispered Lloyd, waving an expansive hand in the direction of some of the members of the Doubleday staff.

‘What a pity,’ said Emma. ‘I’m flying to LA tomorrow to visit Hemingway.’

‘Then I’ll have to disappoint them, won’t I?’ said Lloyd. ‘I’m sure they’ll understand.’

‘Good. Shall we meet at the Brasserie, then, when you’ve finished signing?’

‘You’ll do well to get a table at such short notice.’

‘I don’t think that will be a problem,’ said Emma, before one last customer stepped forward, still hoping to get a signature. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you later, Mr Lloyd.’

‘Max, please.’

Emma made her way out of the bookstore and walked across Fifth Avenue to the Brasserie. This time she wasn’t kept waiting.

‘Jimmy,’ she said as the waiter accompanied her to an alcove table, ‘I have a very important client joining me, and I want it to be an evening he won’t forget.’

‘You can rely on me, madam,’ the waiter said as Emma sat down. After he’d gone she opened her bag, took out the menu and went over her list of questions once more. When she saw Jimmy heading towards her with Max Lloyd in his wake, she turned the menu over.

‘You’re obviously well known here,’ said Lloyd as he slipped into the seat opposite her.

‘It’s my favourite New York restaurant,’ said Emma, returning his smile.

‘Can I get you a drink, sir?’

‘Manhattan, on the rocks.’

‘And you, madam?’

‘My usual, Jimmy.’

The waiter hurried off. Emma was curious to discover what he would come back with. ‘Why don’t we order,’ said Emma, ‘and then we can get down to business.’

‘Good idea,’ replied Lloyd. ‘Although I know exactly what I want,’ he added as the waiter reappeared and placed a Manhattan in front of him and a glass of white wine by Emma’s side; the drink she’d ordered at lunch. Emma was impressed.

‘Jimmy, I think we’re ready to order.’ The waiter nodded and turned to Emma’s guest.

‘I’ll have one of your juicy sirloin steaks. Make it medium, and don’t spare on the trimmings.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ Turning to Emma, he asked, ‘What can I tempt you with this evening, madam?’

‘A Caesar salad please, Jimmy, but light on the dressing.’

Once the waiter was out of earshot, she turned her menu back over, although she didn’t need to be reminded of the first question. ‘The diary only covered eighteen months of your incarceration,’ she said. ‘But you served more than two years, so I hope we can look forward to another volume.’

‘I still have a notebook full of material,’ said Lloyd, relaxing for the first time. ‘I’ve been thinking about incorporating some of the more extraordinary events I experienced in a novel that I have planned.’

Because if you ever wrote them as a diary, any publisher would realize you weren’t the author, Emma wanted to say.

The sommelier appeared by Lloyd’s side, summoned by the demand of an empty glass.

‘Would you care to see the wine list, sir? Something to complement the steak, perhaps?’

‘Good idea,’ said Lloyd, opening the thick, leather-bound book as if he were the host. He ran his finger down a long list of burgundies, and paused near the bottom. ‘A bottle of the thirty-seven, I think.’

‘An excellent choice, sir.’

Emma presumed that meant it wasn’t cheap. But this was not an occasion to quibble over price.

‘And what a nasty piece of work Hessler turned out to be,’ she said, glancing at her second question. ‘I thought that sort of person only existed in trashy novels, or B-movies.’

‘No, he was real enough,’ said Lloyd. ‘But I did get him transferred to another prison, if you remember.’

‘I do,’ said Emma, as a large steak was placed in front of her guest and a Caesar salad on her side of the table. Lloyd picked up his knife and fork, clearly ready for the challenge.

‘So tell me, what sort of proposal do you have in mind?’ he asked as he dug into the steak.

‘One where you get exactly what you’re worth,’ said Emma, the tone of her voice changing, ‘and not a penny more.’ A puzzled look appeared on Lloyd’s face, and he put down his knife and fork as he waited for Emma to continue. ‘I am well aware, Mr Lloyd, that you didn’t write one word of The Diary of a Convict, other than to replace the real author’s name with your own.’ Lloyd opened his mouth, but before he had time to protest, Emma continued, ‘If you’re foolish enough to keep up the pretence that you wrote the book, my first visit in the morning will be to Mr Brett Elders, your parole officer, and it won’t be to discuss how well your rehabilitation is going.’

The sommelier reappeared, uncorked a bottle, and waited to be told who would be tasting the wine. Lloyd was staring at Emma like a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights, so she gave a slight nod. She took her time swirling the wine around in her glass before taking a sip.

‘Excellent,’ she eventually said. ‘I particularly like the thirty-seven.’ The sommelier bowed slightly, poured two glasses and went off in search of another victim.

‘You can’t prove I didn’t write it,’ said Lloyd defiantly.

‘Yes I can,’ said Emma, ‘because I represent the man who did.’ She took a sip of wine before adding, ‘Tom Bradshaw, your deputy librarian.’ Lloyd sank back into his seat and lapsed into a sullen silence. ‘So let me outline the deal I’m proposing, Mr Lloyd, while at the same time making it clear that there is no room for negotiation, unless, of course, you want to go back to prison on a charge of fraud, as well as theft. Should you end up in Pierpoint, I have a feeling Mr Hessler will be only too happy to escort you to your cell, as he doesn’t come out of the book very well.’

Lloyd didn’t look as if the idea appealed to him.

Emma took another sip of wine before continuing. ‘Mr Bradshaw has generously agreed to allow you to continue the myth that you wrote the diary, and he won’t even expect you to give back the advance you were paid, which in any case I suspect you’ve already spent.’ Lloyd pursed his lips. ‘However, he wishes to make it clear that should you be foolish enough to attempt to sell the rights in any other country, a writ for copyright theft will be issued against you and the publisher concerned. Is that clear?’

‘Yes,’ mumbled Lloyd, clutching the arms of his chair.

‘Good. Then that’s settled,’ said Emma, and after taking another sip of wine added, ‘I feel sure you’ll agree, Mr Lloyd, that there’s no purpose in us continuing this conversation, so perhaps the time has come for you to leave.’

Lloyd hesitated.

‘We’ll meet again at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, at forty-nine Wall Street.’

‘Forty-nine Wall Street?’

‘The office of Mr Sefton Jelks, Tom Bradshaw’s lawyer.’

‘So it’s Jelks who’s behind this. Well that explains everything.’

Emma didn’t understand what he meant, but said, ‘You will bring every single notebook with you, and hand them over. Should you be even one minute late, I will instruct Mr Jelks to call your probation officer and tell him what you’ve been up to since you left Lavenham. Stealing a client’s earnings is one thing, but claiming you wrote his book…’ Lloyd continued to grip the arms of his chair, but said nothing. ‘You may go now, Mr Lloyd,’ said Emma. ‘I look forward to seeing you in the lobby of forty-nine Wall Street at ten tomorrow morning. Don’t be late, unless you want your next appointment to be with Mr Elders.’

Lloyd rose unsteadily to his feet and made his way slowly across the restaurant, leaving one or two customers wondering if he was drunk. A waiter held the door open for him, then hurried over to Emma’s table. Seeing the untouched steak and a full glass of wine, he asked anxiously, ‘I hope everything was all right, Miss Barrington?’

‘It couldn’t have gone better, Jimmy,’ she said, pouring herself another glass of wine.

19

ONCE EMMA had returned to her hotel room, she checked the back of her lunch menu, and was delighted to confirm that she’d been able to tick off almost every question. She thought her demand that the notebooks should be handed over in the lobby of 49 Wall Street was inspired, because it must have left Lloyd with the distinct impression that Mr Jelks was her lawyer, which would have put the fear of God into a perfectly innocent man. Although she was still puzzled by what Lloyd had meant when he’d let slip the words So it’s Jelks who’s behind this. Well that explains everything. She switched off the light and slept soundly for the first time since she’d left England.

Emma’s morning routine followed much the same pattern as previous days. After a leisurely breakfast, shared only with the New York Times, she left the hotel and took a cab to Wall Street. She had planned to be a few minutes early, and the cab dropped her off outside the building at 9.51 a.m. As she handed the driver a quarter, she was relieved that her visit to New York was coming to an end; it had turned out to be far more expensive than she had anticipated. Two meals at the Brasserie with a five-dollar bottle of wine plus tips didn’t help.

However, she wasn’t in any doubt that the trip had been worthwhile. Not least because the photographs taken on board the Kansas Star had confirmed her belief that Harry was still alive and had, for some reason, assumed Tom Bradshaw’s identity. Once she’d got her hands on the missing notebook, the rest of the mystery would unravel, and surely she would now be able to convince Officer Kolowski that Harry should be released. She didn’t intend to return to England without him.

Emma joined a stampede of office workers as they made their way into the building. They all headed towards the nearest available elevator, but Emma didn’t join them. She placed herself strategically between the reception desk and the bank of twelve lifts, which allowed her an unimpeded view of everyone who entered 49 Wall Street.

She checked her watch: 9.54. No sign of Lloyd. She checked it again at 9.57, 9.58, 9.59, and 10 o’clock. He must have been held up by traffic. 10.02, her eyes rested for a split second on every person who came in. 10.04, had she missed him? 10.06, she glanced towards reception; still no sign of him. 10.08, she tried to stop negative thoughts from entering her mind. 10.11, had he called her bluff? 10.14, would her next appointment have to be with Mr Brett Elders? 10.17, how much longer was she willing to hang about? 10.21, and a voice behind her said, ‘Good morning, Miss Barrington.’

Emma swung round and came face to face with Samuel Anscott, who said politely, ‘Mr Jelks wonders if you’d be kind enough to join him in his office.’

Without another word, Anscott turned and walked towards a waiting elevator. Emma only just managed to jump in before the doors closed.

Conversation was out of the question as the packed elevator made its slow, interrupted journey to the 22nd floor, where Anscott stepped out and led Emma down a long oak-panelled, thickly carpeted corridor, lined with portraits of previous senior partners and their colleagues on the board, giving an impression of honesty, integrity and propriety.

Emma would have liked to question Anscott before she met Jelks for the first time, but he remained several paces ahead of her. When he reached a door at the end of the corridor, Anscott knocked, and opened it without waiting for a response. He stood aside to allow Emma to enter, then closed the door, but didn’t join them.

There, sitting in a comfortable high-backed chair by the window, was Max Lloyd. He was smoking a cigarette, and gave Emma the same smile he’d bestowed on her when they had first met at Doubleday’s.

She turned her attention to a tall, elegantly dressed man, who rose slowly from behind his desk. No hint of a smile, or any suggestion that they should shake hands. Behind him was a wall of glass, beyond which skyscrapers towered into the sky, suggesting unfettered power.

‘It’s kind of you to join us, Miss Barrington,’ he said. ‘Please have a seat.’

Emma sank into a leather chair so deep that she almost disappeared from sight. She noticed a stack of notebooks on the senior partner’s desk.

‘My name is Sefton Jelks,’ he began, ‘and I have the privilege of representing the distinguished and acclaimed author, Mr Max Lloyd. My client visited me earlier this morning, to tell me that he had been approached by someone claiming to be a literary agent from London, who was making an accusation, a slanderous accusation, that he was not the author of The Diary of a Convict, which bears his name. It may interest you to know, Miss Barrington,’ continued Jelks, ‘that I am in possession of the original manuscript, every word of which is written in Mr Lloyd’s hand.’ He placed a fist firmly on top of the notebooks, and allowed himself the suggestion of a smile.

‘May I be allowed to see one?’ asked Emma.

‘Of course,’ replied Jelks. He removed the book on top of the pile and handed it to her.

Emma opened it and began to read. The first thing she saw was that it wasn’t written in Harry’s bold hand. But it was Harry’s voice. She handed the book back to Mr Jelks, who replaced it at the top of the pile. ‘May I have a look at one of the others?’ she asked.

‘No. We’ve proved our point, Miss Barrington,’ said Jelks. ‘And my client will take advantage of every remedy the law provides should you be foolish enough to repeat your slander.’ Emma kept her eyes on the pile of notebooks, while Jelks continued in full flow. ‘I also felt it appropriate to have a word with Mr Elders to warn him you might be in touch, and to let him know that should he agree to see you, he would undoubtedly be called as a witness, were this matter to end up in court. Mr Elders felt, on balance, that his best course of action would be to avoid meeting you. A sensible man.’

Emma continued to look at the pile of notebooks.

‘Miss Barrington, it didn’t take a lot of research to discover that you are the granddaughter of Lord Harvey and Sir Walter Barrington, which would account for your misplaced confidence when dealing with Americans. Allow me to suggest that if you intend to continue trying to pass yourself off as a literary agent, perhaps I can offer you some free advice, which is a matter of public record. Ernest Hemingway left America to live in Cuba in 1939-’

‘How very generous of you, Mr Jelks,’ interrupted Emma, before he could continue. ‘Allow me to offer you some free advice in return. I know perfectly well that it was Harry Clifton’ – Jelks’s eyes narrowed – ‘and not your client, who wrote The Diary of a Convict. If you were foolish enough, Mr Jelks, to issue a writ for slander against me, you might well find yourself in court having to explain why you defended a man on a charge of murder who you knew wasn’t Lieutenant Tom Bradshaw.’

Jelks began frantically pressing a button underneath his desk. Emma rose from her chair, smiled sweetly at both of them, and left the room without another word. She marched quickly down the corridor towards the elevator, as Mr Anscott and a security guard hurried past her on their way to Mr Jelks’s office. At least she’d avoided the humiliation of being escorted off the premises.

When she stepped into the lift, the attendant enquired, ‘Which floor, miss?’

‘Ground, please.’

The attendant chuckled. ‘You must be English.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘In America, we call it the first floor.’

‘Of course you do,’ said Emma, giving him a smile as she stepped out of the elevator. She walked across the lobby, pushed through the revolving doors and ran down the steps and out on to the pavement, quite clear what she had to do next. There was only one person left she could turn to. After all, any sister of Lord Harvey had to be a formidable ally. Or would Great-aunt Phyllis turn out to be a close friend of Sefton Jelks, in which case Emma would be taking the next boat back to England.

She hailed a cab, but when she jumped in, she almost had to shout to make herself heard above the blare of the radio.

‘Sixty-fourth and Park,’ she said, working out how she might explain to her great-aunt why she hadn’t visited her earlier. She leant forward and would have asked the driver to turn the volume down, if she hadn’t heard the words, ‘President Roosevelt will address the nation from the Oval Office at twelve thirty this afternoon, Eastern Time’.