Clifton Chronicles 01 - Only Time Will Tell (32 page)

‘So I get art appreciation,’ said Old Jack. ‘His new passion. I can still hold my own with Harry when it comes to Rembrandt and Vermeer, even this new chap, Matisse. Now he’s trying to get me interested in a Spaniard called Picasso, but I can’t see it myself.’

‘I’ve never heard of him,’ admitted Holcombe.

‘And I doubt if you ever will,’ said Old Jack, ‘but don’t tell Harry I said so.’ He picked up a small tin box, opened it, and took out three notes and almost all the coins he possessed.

‘No, no,’ said Holcombe, ‘that isn’t the reason I came to see you. In fact, I plan to visit Mr Craddick later this afternoon, and I’m confident he’ll—’

‘I think you’ll find that I take precedence over Mr Craddick,’ said Old Jack, handing across the money.

‘That’s very generous of you.’

‘Money well spent,’ said Old Jack, ‘even if it is the widow’s mite. At least my father would approve,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘Your father?’ repeated Holcombe.

‘He’s the resident canon at Wells Cathedral.’

‘I had no idea,’ said Holcombe. ‘So at least you’re able to visit him from time to time.’

‘Sadly not. I fear I am a modern prodigal son,’ said Old Jack. Not wishing to go any further down that road, he said, ‘So tell me, young man, why did you want to see me?’

‘I can’t remember the last occasion anyone called me “young man”.’

‘Just be grateful that anyone still does,’ said Old Jack.

Holcombe laughed. ‘I’ve got a couple of tickets for the school play,
Julius Caesar
. As Harry is performing, I thought you might like to join me for the opening night.’

‘I knew he was auditioning,’ said Old Jack. ‘What part did he get?’

‘He’s playing Cinna,’ said Holcombe.

‘Then we’ll know him by his gait.’

Holcombe bowed low. ‘Does that mean you’ll join me?’

‘I fear not,’ said Old Jack, raising a hand. ‘It’s extremely kind of you to think of me, Holcombe, but I’m not yet ready for a live performance, even as just a member of the audience.’

Old Jack was disappointed to miss Harry’s performance in the school play and had to be satisfied with being told the boy’s version of how he had performed. The following year, when Holcombe suggested that perhaps Old Jack should attend because Harry’s roles were getting bigger, he nearly gave in, but it wasn’t until Harry played Puck, a year later, that he finally allowed the dream a reality.

Although he was still fearful of large crowds, Old Jack had decided that he would slip into the back of the school hall, where no one would see him or, even worse, recognize him.

It was while he was trimming his beard in the fifth-floor washroom of Barrington House that he noticed the screaming headline in a copy of the local rag that someone had left behind.
Tilly’s tea shop burnt to the ground. Arson suspected.
When he saw the photograph below it, he felt sick; Mrs Clifton was standing on the pavement surrounded by her staff, surveying the burnt-out remains of the shop.
Turn to page 11 for full story.
Old Jack obeyed the instruction, but there was no page 11.

He quickly left the washroom, hoping to find the missing page on Miss Potts’s desk. He wasn’t surprised to find that her desk was clear and her wastepaper basket had been emptied. He tentatively opened the door to the managing director’s office, looked inside and spotted the missing page laid out on Mr Hugo’s desk. He sat down in the high-backed leather chair and began to read.

Jack’s immediate reaction once he’d finished was to wonder if Harry would have to leave school.

The report noted that unless the insurance company paid the full amount on her premium, Mrs Clifton would be facing bankruptcy. The reporter went on to say that a spokesman for the Bristol and West of England had made it clear that the company wouldn’t be paying out a brass farthing until the police had eliminated all suspects from their enquiries. What else could possibly go wrong for the poor woman, Old Jack wondered.

The reporter had been careful not to refer to Maisie by name, but Old Jack wasn’t in any doubt why her photograph was so prominently displayed on the front page. He continued to read the article. When he discovered that Detective Inspector Blakemore was in charge of the case, he felt a little more hopeful. It wouldn’t take that particular gentleman long to work out that Mrs Clifton built things up; she didn’t burn them down.

As Old Jack placed the newspaper back on Mr Hugo’s desk, he noticed a letter for the first time. He would have ignored it, none of his business, if he hadn’t seen the name ‘Mrs Clifton’ in the first paragraph.

He began to read the letter, and found it hard to believe it was Hugo Barrington who had put up the five hundred pounds that had made it possible for Mrs Clifton to purchase Tilly’s. Why would he want to help Maisie, he wondered. Was it possible he felt some remorse about the death of her husband? Or did he feel ashamed that he had sent an innocent man to prison for a crime he had not committed? Certainly he had given Tancock his old job back the moment he was released. Old Jack began to wonder if he should perhaps give Hugo the benefit of the doubt. He recalled Sir Walter’s words: ‘He’s not all bad, you know.’

He read the letter once again. It was from Mr Prendergast, the manager of the National Provincial Bank, who wrote that he had been pressing the insurance company to fulfil its contractual obligations and recompense Mrs Clifton for the full value of the policy, which was £600. Mrs Clifton, Prendergast pointed out, was the innocent party, and Detective Inspector Blakemore had recently informed the bank that she no longer played any part in his enquiries.

In the final paragraph of his letter, Prendergast suggested that he and Barrington should meet in the near future to resolve the matter, so that Mrs Clifton could receive the full amount she was entitled to. Old Jack looked up when the little clock on the desk chimed seven times.

He switched off the light, ran into the corridor and down the stairs. He didn’t want to be late for Harry’s performance.

32

W
HEN
O
LD
J
ACK
got home later that night, he picked up a copy of
The Times
Harry had left for him earlier in the week. He never bothered with the personal ads on the front page as he didn’t need a new bowler hat, a pair of suspenders or a first edition of
Wuthering Heights
.

He turned the page to find a photo of King Edward VIII, enjoying a yachting holiday in the Mediterranean. Standing by his side was an American woman called Mrs Simpson. The report was couched in ambiguous terms, but even the Thunderer was finding it hard to support the young King in his desire to marry a divorced woman. It made Old Jack sad, because he admired Edward, especially after his visit to the Welsh miners when he had so clearly been affected by their plight. But as his old nanny used to say, there’ll be tears before bedtime.

Old Jack then spent some considerable time reading a report on the Tariff Reform Bill, which had just passed its second reading in the House, despite the firebrand Winston Churchill declaring that it was neither ‘fish nor fowl’, and no one would benefit from it, including the government, when it came to an election. He couldn’t wait to hear Sir Walter’s unexpurgated views on that particular subject.

He turned a page to learn that the British Broadcasting Corporation had made its first television broadcast from Alexandra Palace. This was a concept he couldn’t begin to comprehend. How could a picture be beamed into your home? He didn’t even have a radio, and had absolutely no desire to own a television.

He moved on to the sports pages, to find a photograph of an elegantly dressed Fred Perry under the headline,
Three times Wimbledon champion tipped to win the American Open.
The tennis correspondent went on to suggest that some of the foreign competitors might be wearing shorts at Forest Hills, something else Jack couldn’t come to terms with.

As he did whenever he read
The Times,
Old Jack saved the obituaries till last. He’d reached that age when men younger than himself were dying, and not just in wars.

When he turned the page, the colour drained from his face, and he experienced an overwhelming sadness. He took his time reading the obituary of the Reverend Thomas Alexander Tarrant, Resident Canon of Wells Cathedral, described in the headline as a godly man. When Old Jack had finished reading his father’s obituary, he felt ashamed.

‘Seven pounds four shillings?’ repeated Old Jack. ‘But I thought you got a cheque for six hundred pounds from the Bristol and West of England Insurance Company, “in full and final settlement”, if I recall the exact words.’

‘I did,’ said Maisie, ‘but by the time I’d paid back the original loan, the compound interest on that loan, as well as bank charges, I ended up with seven pounds and four shillings.’

‘I’m so naive,’ said Old Jack. ‘And to think that for a moment, just a moment, I actually thought Barrington was trying to be helpful.’

‘You’re not half as naive as me,’ said Maisie. ‘Because if I had thought, even for one moment, that man was involved, I would never have taken a penny of his money, and because I did, I’ve lost everything. Even my job at the hotel.’

‘But why?’ asked Old Jack. ‘Mr Frampton always said you were irreplaceable.’

‘Well, it seems I’m not any more. When I asked him why he’d sacked me, he refused to give a reason, other than to say he’d received a complaint about me from an “unimpeachable source”. It can’t be a coincidence that I was sacked the day after that “unimpeachable source” dropped into the Royal Hotel for a chat with the manager.’

‘Did you see Barrington going into the hotel?’ asked Old Jack.

‘No, I didn’t, but I saw him coming out. Don’t forget, I was hiding in the back of his car, waiting for him.’

‘Of course,’ said Old Jack. ‘So what happened when you confronted him about Harry?’

‘While we were in the car,’ said Maisie, ‘he virtually admitted to being responsible for Arthur’s death.’

‘He finally came clean after all these years?’ said Old Jack in disbelief.

‘Not exactly,’ said Maisie. ‘More a slip of the tongue, but when I left the envelope with the invoice for next term’s fees on the front seat of his car, he put it in his pocket and said he’d see what he could do to help.’

‘And you fell for it?’

‘Hook, line and sinker,’ admitted Maisie, ‘because when he stopped the car he even got out to open the back door for me. But the moment I stepped out, he knocked me to the ground, tore up the bill and drove off.’

‘Is that how you got the black eye?’

Maisie nodded. ‘And he also warned me he’d have me committed to a mental asylum if I even thought about contacting his wife.’

‘That’s nothing more than a bluff,’ said Old Jack, ‘because even he couldn’t get away with that.’

‘You may be right,’ said Maisie, ‘but it’s not a risk I’m willing to take.’

‘And if you did tell Mrs Barrington that her husband was responsible for Arthur’s death,’ said Old Jack, ‘all he’d have to do is let her know you’re Stan Tancock’s sister, and she’d dismiss it out of hand.’

‘Possibly,’ said Maisie. ‘But she wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand if I told her her husband might be Harry’s father . . .’

Old Jack was stunned into silence as he tried to take in the implications of Maisie’s words. ‘I’m not only naive,’ he eventually managed, ‘but I’m also bone stupid. Hugo Barrington won’t care if his wife does or doesn’t believe he was involved in your husband’s death. His greatest fear is Harry ever finding out that he might be his father . . .’

‘But I would never tell Harry,’ said Maisie. ‘The last thing I’d want is for him to spend the rest of his life wondering who his father is.’

‘That is precisely what Barrington is banking on. And now he’s broken you, he’ll be hell-bent on destroying Harry.’

‘But why?’ asked Maisie. ‘Harry’s never done him any harm.’

‘Of course he hasn’t, but if Harry were able to prove that he is Hugo Barrington’s eldest son, he might just be in line to inherit not only the title, but everything that goes with it, and at the same time, Giles would end up with nothing.’