Clifton Chronicles 02 - The Sins of the Father (37 page)

‘The fact that I put one hundred thousand dollars of Sefton Jelks’s money into my company’s bank account this morning,’ Guinzburg replied.

‘And I,’ said Emma, ‘have received a cheque for twenty thousand dollars from the same source. Lloyd’s original advance for Harry’s book.’

‘And don’t forget the cheque for ten thousand you failed to pick up for Mrs Clifton, which I retrieved,’ said Guinzburg. ‘Frankly, we’ve all done very well out of it, and now the contract has been signed, there will be even more to come, for the next fifty years.’

‘Possibly,’ said Phyllis, taking the high ground, ‘but I’m more than a little irked that you’ve allowed Jelks to get away with murder.’

‘I think you’ll find he’s still on Death Row, Mrs Stuart,’ said Guinzburg, ‘though I accept we’ve granted him a three-month stay of execution.’

‘I’m even more confused,’ said Phyllis.

‘Then allow me to explain,’ said Guinzburg. ‘You see, the contract I signed this morning wasn’t with Jelks, but with Pocket Books, a company who have bought the rights to publish all Harry’s diaries in softback.’

‘And what, may I ask, is a softback?’ said Phyllis.

‘Mama,’ said Alistair, ‘softbacks have been around for years now.’

‘So have ten-thousand-dollar bills, but I’ve never seen one.’

‘Your mother makes a fair point,’ said Guinzburg. ‘In fact, it could explain why Jelks was taken in, because Mrs Stuart represents an entire generation who will never come to terms with books being published in softback, and would only ever consider reading a hardback.’

‘What made you realize that Jelks was not fully acquainted with the concept of a softback?’ asked Phyllis.

‘F. Scott Fitzgerald was the clincher,’ said Alistair.

‘I do wish you wouldn’t use slang at the dinner table,’ said Phyllis.

‘It was Alistair who advised us,’ said Emma, ‘that if Jelks was willing to hold a meeting in his office without his legal assistant present, it must mean he hadn’t alerted his partners to the fact there was a missing notebook, and that if it were published it would be even more damning to the firm’s reputation than
The Diary of a Convict
.’

‘Then why didn’t Alistair attend the meeting,’ said Phyllis, ‘and make a record of everything Jelks said? After all, that man is one of the slipperiest lawyers in New York.’

‘Which is precisely why I didn’t attend the meeting, Mother. We didn’t want anything on the record, and I was convinced that Jelks would be arrogant enough to think that all he was up against was a slip of a girl from England and a publisher he was sure he could bribe, which meant we had him by the short and curlies.’

‘Alistair.’

‘However,’ Alistair continued, now in full flow, ‘it was just after Emma had stormed out of the meeting that Mr Guinzburg displayed a moment of true genius.’ Emma looked puzzled. ‘He told Jelks, “I look forward to seeing you again, once the contract has been drawn up.”’

‘And that’s exactly what Jelks did,’ said Guinzburg, ‘because once I’d gone over his contract, I realized it was modelled on one that had originally been drawn up for F. Scott Fitzgerald, a man who was only ever published in hardback. There was nothing in that contract to suggest that we couldn’t publish in softback. So the sub-contract I signed this morning will allow Pocket Books to publish Harry’s earlier diary, without breaking my agreement with Jelks.’ Guinzburg allowed Parker to refill his glass with champagne.

‘How much did you make?’ demanded Emma.

‘There are times, young lady, when you push your luck.’

‘How much did you make?’ asked Phyllis.

‘Two hundred thousand dollars,’ admitted Guinzburg.

‘You’ll need every penny of it,’ said Phyllis, ‘because once that book goes on sale, you and Alistair will be spending the next couple of years in court defending yourself against half a dozen libel writs.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Alistair after Parker had poured him a brandy. ‘In fact, I’d be willing to bet that ten-thousand-dollar bill you’ve never seen, Mama, that Sefton Jelks is now spending his last three months as the senior partner of Jelks, Myers and Abernathy.’

‘What makes you so sure of yourself?’

‘I have a feeling Jelks didn’t tell his partners about the first notebook, so when Pocket Books publish the earlier diary, he will be left with no choice but to hand in his resignation.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘Then they’ll throw him out,’ said Alistair. ‘A firm which is that ruthless with its clients won’t suddenly become humane with its partners. And don’t forget, there’s always someone else who wants to be senior partner . . . So, I’m bound to admit, Emma, you’re far more interesting than Amalgamated Wire—’

‘—versus New York Electric,’ said the others in unison, as they raised their glasses to Emma.

‘And should you ever change your mind about staying in New York, young lady,’ said Guinzburg, ‘there’ll always be a job for you at Viking.’

‘Thank you, Mr Guinzburg,’ said Emma. ‘But the only reason I came to America was to find Harry, and now I discover that he’s in Europe while I’m stranded in New York. So once I’ve had my meeting with Colonel Cleverdon, I’ll be flying home to be with our son.’

‘Harry Clifton’s a damn lucky man to have you in his corner,’ said Alistair wistfully.

‘If you ever meet either of them, Alistair, you’ll realize that I’m the lucky one.’

40

E
MMA WOKE EARLY
the following morning and chatted happily to Phyllis over breakfast about how much she was looking forward to being reunited with Sebastian and her family. Phyllis nodded, but said very little.

Parker collected Emma’s bags from her room, took them down in the lift and left them in the hall. She’d acquired another two since arriving in New York. Does anyone ever go home with less than they started out with? she wondered.

‘I’ll not come downstairs,’ said Phyllis after several attempts to say goodbye. ‘I’ll only make a fool of myself. It’s better that you simply remember an old battleaxe who didn’t like to be disturbed during her bridge parties. When you visit us next time, my dear, bring Harry and Sebastian with you. I want to meet the man who captured your heart.’

A taxi blasted its horn in the street below.

‘Time to go,’ said Phyllis. ‘Go quickly.’

Emma gave her one last hug and then she didn’t look back.

When she stepped out of the lift Parker was standing by the front door waiting for her, the bags already stowed away in the boot of the taxi. The moment he saw her, he walked out on to the pavement and opened the back door of the cab.

‘Goodbye, Parker,’ said Emma, ‘and thank you for everything.’

‘My pleasure, ma’am,’ he replied. Just as she was about to step into the taxi, he added, ‘If it’s not inappropriate, ma’am, I wondered if I might be allowed to make an observation?’

Emma stepped back, trying to mask her surprise. ‘Of course, please do.’

‘I so enjoyed Mr Clifton’s diary,’ he said, ‘that I hope it will not be too long before you return to New York accompanied by your husband.’

It wasn’t long before the train was speeding through the countryside and New York was no more, as they headed towards the capital. Emma found she couldn’t read or sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. Great-aunt Phyllis, Mr Guinzburg, Cousin Alistair, Mr Jelks, Detective Kolowski and Parker all made their exits and entrances.

She thought about what needed to be done once she arrived in Washington. First, she had to go to the British Embassy and sign some forms so she could join the ambassador on his flight to London, as arranged by Rupert Harvey, a second cousin twice removed. ‘Don’t mock, child,’ she could hear her great-aunt remonstrating, and then she fell asleep. Harry entered her dreams, this time in uniform, smiling, laughing, and then she woke with a jolt, quite expecting him to be in the carriage with her.

When the train pulled into Union Station five hours later, Emma had trouble lugging her suitcases on to the platform, until a porter, an ex-serviceman with one arm, came to her rescue. He found a taxi for her, thanked her for the tip and gave her a salute with the wrong arm. Someone else whose destiny had been decided by a war he didn’t declare.

‘The British Embassy,’ Emma said as she climbed into the cab.

She was dropped on Massachusetts Avenue, outside a pair of ornate iron gates displaying the Royal Standard. Two young soldiers ran across to help Emma with her bags.

‘Who are you visiting, ma’am?’ An English accent, an American word.

‘Mr Rupert Harvey,’ she said.

‘Commander Harvey. Certainly,’ said the corporal, who picked up her bags and guided Emma to an office at the rear of the building.

Emma entered a large room in which the staff, most dressed in uniform, scurried about in every direction. No one walked. A figure appeared out of the melee and greeted her with a huge smile.

‘I’m Rupert Harvey,’ he said. ‘Sorry about the organized chaos, but it’s always like this when the ambassador is returning to England. It’s even worse this time, because we’ve had a visiting cabinet minister with us for the past week. All your paperwork has been prepared,’ he added, returning to his desk. ‘I just need to see your passport.’

Once he’d flicked through the pages, he asked her to sign here, here and here. ‘A bus will be leaving from the front of the embassy for the airport at six this evening. Please make sure you’re on time as everyone’s expected to be on board the plane before the ambassador arrives.’

‘I’ll be on time,’ said Emma. ‘Would it be possible to leave my bags here while I go sightseeing?’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ said Rupert. ‘I’ll have someone put them on the bus for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Emma.

She was about to leave when he added, ‘By the way, I loved the book. And just to warn you, the minister is hoping to have a private word with you when we’re on the plane. I think he was a publisher before he went into politics.’

‘What’s his name?’ Emma asked.

‘Harold Macmillan.’

Emma recalled some of Mr Guinzburg’s sage advice. ‘Everyone is going to want this book,’ he’d told her. ‘There isn’t a publisher who won’t open their doors for you, so don’t be easily flattered. Try and see Billy Collins and Allen Lane of Penguin.’ He’d made no mention of a Harold Macmillan.

‘Then I’ll see you on the bus around six,’ said her second cousin twice removed, before he disappeared back into the melee.

Emma left the embassy, walked out on to Massachusetts Avenue and checked her watch. Just over two hours to spare before her appointment with Colonel Cleverdon. She hailed a cab.

‘Where to, miss?’

‘I want to see everything the city has to offer,’ she said.

‘How long have you got, a couple of years?’

‘No,’ Emma replied, ‘a couple of hours. So let’s get moving.’

The taxi sped away from the kerb. First stop: the White House – 15 minutes. On to the Capitol – 20 minutes. Circling the Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials – 25 minutes. Dashing into the National Gallery – another 25 minutes. Ending up at the Smithsonian – but there was only 30 minutes left until her appointment, so she didn’t make it past the first floor.

When she jumped back into the cab, the driver asked, ‘Where to now, miss?’

Emma checked the address on Colonel Cleverdon’s letter. ‘3022 Adams Street,’ she replied, ‘and I’m cutting it fine.’

When the cab drew up outside a large white marble building that occupied the entire block, Emma handed the cabbie her last five-dollar note. She would have to walk back to the embassy after her meeting. ‘Worth every cent,’ she told him.

He touched the rim of his cap. ‘I thought it was only us Americans who did that sort of thing,’ he said with a grin.

Emma walked up the steps, past two guards who stared right through her, and on into the building. She noticed that almost everyone was dressed in different shades of khaki, although few of them wore battle ribbons. A young woman behind the reception desk directed her to room 9197. Emma joined a mass of khaki uniforms as they headed towards the lifts, and when she stepped out on the ninth floor, she found Colonel Cleverdon’s secretary waiting to greet her.

‘I’m afraid the colonel has got caught up in a meeting, but he should be with you in a few minutes,’ she said as they walked along the corridor.

Emma was shown into the colonel’s office. Once she had sat down, she stared at a thick file on the centre of the desk. As with the letter on Maisie’s mantelpiece and the notebooks on Jelks’s desk, she wondered how long she would have to wait before its contents were revealed.

The answer was twenty minutes. When the door eventually swung open, a tall, athletic man, around the same age as her father, burst into the room, a cigar bobbing up and down in his mouth.

‘So sorry to have kept you,’ he said, shaking hands, ‘but there just aren’t enough hours in the day.’ He sat down behind his desk and smiled at her. ‘John Cleverdon, and I would have recognized you anywhere.’ Emma looked surprised, until he explained. ‘You’re exactly as Harry described you in his book. Would you like coffee?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Emma, trying not to sound impatient as she glanced at the file on the colonel’s desk.