Best Kept Secret

by Jeffrey Archer

  She went down to the kitchen to see if Mrs Tibbet was feeling poorly, but there was no sign of her. Janice wondered where she could possibly be.

  Mrs Tibbet was in fact on a No. 148 bus heading down Whitehall. She still didn’t know if she could go through with it. Even if he did agree to see her, what would she say to him? After all, what business was it of hers? She became so preoccupied that the bus had crossed Westminster Bridge before she got off. She took her time walking back across the Thames, and not because, like the tourists, she was admiring the views up and down the river.

  She changed her mind several times before she reached Parliament Square, where her pace became slower and slower until she finally came to a halt outside the entrance to the House of Commons, when, like Lot’s wife, she turned to salt.

  The senior doorkeeper, used to dealing with people who were overawed by their first visit to the Palace of Westminster, smiled at the frozen statue and asked, ‘May I help, madam?’

  ‘Is this where I come to see an MP?’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Mrs Tibbet, hoping she would be turned away.

  ‘Don’t worry, not many people do. You’ll just have to hope he’s in the House, and free to see you. If you’d like to join the queue, one of my colleagues will assist you.’

  Mrs Tibbet walked up the steps, past Westminster Hall, and joined a long, silent queue. By the time she reached the front over an hour later, she remembered she hadn’t told Janice where she was going.

  She was escorted into the Central Lobby, where an official ushered her across to the reception desk.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam,’ said the duty clerk. ‘Which Member were you hoping to see?’

  ‘Sir Giles Barrington.’

  ‘Are you a constituent of his, madam?’

  Another chance to escape, was her first thought. ‘No. I need to speak to him concerning a personal matter.’

  ‘I understand,’ said the clerk, as if nothing would surprise him. ‘If you’ll give me your name, I’ll fill in a visitor’s card.’

  ‘Mrs Florence Tibbet.’

  ‘And your address?’

  ‘Thirty-seven Praed Street, Paddington.’

  ‘And what is it you wish to discuss with Sir Giles?’

  ‘It’s about his nephew, Sebastian Clifton.’

  The clerk completed the card and handed it to a badge messenger.

  ‘How long will I have to wait?’ she asked.

  ‘Members usually respond fairly quickly if they’re in the House. But perhaps you’d like to have a seat while you’re waiting,’ he said, pointing to the green benches that circled the walls of Central Lobby.

  The badge messenger marched down the long corridor to the Lower House. When he entered the members’ lobby he handed the card to one of his colleagues, who in turn took it into the chamber. The house was packed with members who had come to hear Peter Thorneycroft, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, announce that petrol rationing would be lifted following the end of the Suez Crisis.

  The messenger spotted Sir Giles Barrington seated in his usual place and handed the card to a member at the end of the third row, from where it began its slow progress along the packed bench, each member checking the name and then passing it down the line, until it finally reached Sir Giles.

  The Member for Bristol Docklands stuffed the card in a pocket as he leapt to his feet the moment the foreign secretary had dealt with the previous question, in the hope of catching the speaker’s eye.

  ‘Sir Giles Barrington,’ called the speaker.

  ‘Can the foreign secretary tell the House how the president’s announcement will affect British industry, in particular those of our citizens who work in the defence field?’

  Mr Selwyn Lloyd once again rose to his feet and, clutching the dispatch box, said, ‘I can tell the honourable and gallant gentleman that I am in constant touch with our ambassador in Washington, and he assures me . . .’

  By the time Mr Lloyd had answered the final question some forty minutes later, Giles had quite forgotten about his visitor’s card.

  It was about an hour later, when he was sitting in the tearoom with some colleagues, that he pulled out his wallet and the card fell to the floor. He picked it up and glanced at the name, but couldn’t place a Mrs Tibbet. He turned it over and read the message, shot out of his seat, bolted out of the tearoom and didn’t stop running until he had reached Central Lobby, praying that she hadn’t given up on him. When he stopped at the duty clerk’s desk, he asked him to page a Mrs Tibbet.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir Giles, but the lady left a few moments ago. Said she had to get back to work.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Giles, as he turned the card over and checked the address.

  32

  ‘PRAED STREET, PADDINGTON,’ said Giles as he climbed into a taxi outside the members’ entrance. ‘And I’m already late,’ he added, ‘so step on it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want me to break the speed limit, would you, guv,’ said the cabbie as he drove out of the main gates and nosed his way into Parliament Square.

  Yes I would, Giles wanted to say, but he held his tongue. Once he learned Mrs Tibbet had left the Commons, he had rung his brother-in-law to tell him about the stranger’s cryptic message. Harry’s first reaction was to want to jump on the next train to London, but Giles advised him against it, in case it turned out to be a false alarm. In any case, Giles told him, it was just possible that Sebastian was on his way back to Bristol.

  Giles sat on the edge of his seat, willing every traffic light to turn green, and urging the driver to change lanes whenever he saw a chance to grab a few yards. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Harry and Emma must have been through during the past two days. Had they told Jessica? If so, she’d be sitting on the top step at the Manor House waiting anxiously for Sebastian to return.

  As the taxi pulled up outside No. 37, the cabbie couldn’t help wondering why a Member of Parliament could possibly be visiting a guest house in Paddington. But it was none of his business, especially as the gentleman gave him such a large tip.

  Giles leapt out of the taxi, ran to the door and hammered several times on the knocker. A few moments later, the door was opened by a young woman who said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but the last room has been taken.’

  ‘I’m not looking for a room,’ Giles told her. ‘I was hoping to see –’ he glanced once again at the visitor’s card – ‘a Mrs Tibbet.’

  ‘Who shall I say wants to see her?’

  ‘Sir Giles Barrington.’

  ‘If you’ll just wait there, sir, I’ll let her know,’ she said before closing the door.

  Giles stood on the pavement, wondering if Sebastian had been just a hundred yards from Paddington Station the whole time. He only had to wait a couple of minutes before the door was flung open again.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sir Giles,’ said Mrs Tibbet, sounding flustered. ‘Janice had no idea who you are. Please come through to the parlour.’

  Once Giles had settled into a comfortable high-backed chair, Mrs Tibbet offered him a cup of tea.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m anxious to find out if you have any news about Seb. His parents are worried out of their minds.’

  ‘Of course they are, poor things,’ said Mrs Tibbet. ‘I did tell him several times that he should get in touch with his mother, but—’

  ‘But?’ interrupted Giles.

  ‘It’s a long story, Sir Giles, but I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  Ten minutes later, Mrs Tibbet was telling him that the last time she’d seen Sebastian was when he left in a taxi to return to Eaton Square, and she hadn’t heard from him since.

  ‘So as far as you know, he’s staying with his friend Bruno Martinez at forty-four Eaton Square?’

  ‘That’s right, Sir Giles. But I did—’

  ‘I am greatly in your debt,’ said Giles, rising from his seat and taking out his wallet.

  ‘You owe me nothing, sir,
’ said Mrs Tibbet, waving a hand. ‘Everything I did was for Sebastian, not for you. But if I may be allowed to give you one piece of advice . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Giles, sitting back down.

  ‘Sebastian is anxious that his parents will be angry with him because he’s thrown away the chance of going to Cambridge, and—’

  ‘But he hasn’t lost his place at Cambridge,’ interrupted Giles.

  ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard all week. You’d better find him quickly and let him know that, because he won’t want to go home while he thinks his parents are still angry with him.’

  ‘My next stop will be number forty-four Eaton Square,’ said Giles as he rose a second time.

  ‘Before you go,’ said Mrs Tibbet, still not budging, ‘you should know that he took the blame for his friend, which is why Bruno Martinez didn’t suffer the same punishment. So perhaps he deserves a pat on the back rather than a telling off.’

  ‘You’re wasted, Mrs Tibbet – you should have joined the diplomatic corps.’

  ‘And you’re an old flatterer, Sir Giles, like most members of parliament. Not that I’ve ever come across one before,’ she admitted. ‘But don’t let me hold you up any longer.’

  ‘Thank you again. Once I’ve caught up with Sebastian and sorted things out,’ said Giles as he rose a third time, ‘perhaps you’ll come back to the Commons and join us both for tea?’

  ‘That’s most considerate of you, Sir Giles. But I can’t afford to take two days off in one week.’

  ‘Then it will have to be next week,’ said Giles as she opened the front door and they walked out on to the pavement. ‘I’ll send a car to pick you up.’

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ said Mrs Tibbet, ‘but—’

  ‘No buts. Sebastian got lucky, very lucky, when he stopped at number thirty-seven.’

  When the phone rang Don Pedro walked across the room, but he didn’t pick it up until he’d checked his study door was closed.

  ‘Your international call from Buenos Aires is on the line, sir.’

  He heard a click, before a voice said, ‘It’s Diego.’

  ‘Listen carefully. Everything has fallen into place, including our Trojan horse.’

  ‘Does that mean Sotheby’s have agreed to—?’

  ‘The sculpture will be included in their sale at the end of this month.’

  ‘So all we need now is a courier.’

  ‘I think I have the ideal person. A school friend of Bruno’s who needs a job and speaks fluent Spanish. Better still, his uncle is a Member of Parliament and one of his grandfathers was a lord, so he’s what the English consider blue blood, which can only smooth the way.’

  ‘Does he know why you picked him?’

  ‘No. That’s best kept secret,’ said Don Pedro, ‘which will allow us to remain at arm’s length for the whole exercise.’

  ‘When does he arrive in Buenos Aires?’

  ‘He’ll be joining me on the ship this evening, and he will be safely back in England long before anyone works out what we were up to.’

  ‘Do you think he’s old enough to carry out such an important job?’

  ‘The boy’s older than his years and, as important, he’s a bit of a risk-taker.’

  ‘Sounds ideal. And have you put Bruno in the picture?’

  ‘No. The less he knows, the better.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Diego. ‘Is there anything else you want me to do before you arrive?’

  ‘Just make sure the cargo is ready for loading and is booked on to the Queen Mary for its return journey.’

  ‘And the bank notes?’

  Don Pedro’s thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. He turned to see Sebastian entering the room.

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting you, sir.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Don Pedro, replacing the receiver and smiling at the young man who had become the last piece in the jigsaw.

  Giles thought about stopping at the nearest phone box so he could ring Harry and let him know that he’d tracked Sebastian down and was on the way to collect him, but he wanted to see the boy face to face before he made that call.

  The Park Lane traffic was bumper to bumper, and the cabbie showed no interest in slipping into gaps, let alone running amber lights. He took a deep breath. What difference would a few minutes make, he thought as they circled Hyde Park Corner.

  The taxi finally drew up outside No. 44 Eaton Square, and Giles paid the exact sum on the meter before walking up the steps and knocking on the door. A giant of a man answered, and smiled at Giles almost as if he’d been expecting him.

  ‘May I help you, sir?’

  ‘I’m looking for my nephew, Sebastian Clifton, who I understand is staying here with his friend Bruno Martinez.’

  ‘He was staying here, sir,’ said the butler politely. ‘But they left for London Airport about twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘Do you know which flight they’re on?’ he asked.

  ‘I have no idea, Sir Giles.’

  ‘Or where they’re going?’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Giles, who after years as an opening batsman recognized stonewalling when he faced it. He turned to look for another taxi as the door closed behind him. He spotted an illuminated yellow sign and hailed the cab, which immediately performed a U-turn to pick him up.

  ‘London Airport,’ he said, before climbing quickly into the back. ‘And I’ll give you double what’s on the clock if you get me there in forty minutes.’ They pulled away just as the door of No. 44 opened and a young man came running down the steps, waving at him frantically.

  ‘Stop!’ Giles shouted. The taxi screeched to a halt.

  ‘Make your mind up, guv.’

  Giles pulled down the window as the young man ran towards him.

  ‘My name is Bruno Martinez,’ he said. ‘They haven’t gone to the airport. They’re on their way to Southampton to join the SS South America.’

  ‘What’s her departure time?’ asked Giles

  ‘They’re sailing on the last tide around nine o’clock this evening.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Giles. ‘I’ll let Sebastian know—’

  ‘No, please don’t, sir,’ said Bruno. ‘And whatever you do, don’t tell my father I’ve spoken to you.’

  Neither of them noticed that someone was staring out of the window of No. 44.

  Sebastian enjoyed sitting in the back of a Rolls-Royce, but was surprised when they came to a halt in Battersea.

  ‘Ever flown in a helicopter before?’ asked Don Pedro.

  ‘No, sir. I’ve never been on a plane before.’

  ‘It will take two hours off our journey. If you’re going to work for me, you’ll quickly learn that time is money.’

  The helicopter soared into the sky, banked to the right and headed south towards Southampton. Sebastian looked down on the early evening traffic as it continued its snail-like pace out of London.

  ‘I can’t do Southampton in forty minutes, guv,’ said the cabbie.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Giles, ‘but if you can get me to the dockside before the SS South America sails, I’ll still double your fare.’

  The taxi driver shot off like a thoroughbred out of the stalls, and did his best to overcome the rush-hour traffic, taking back doubles, going down side streets Giles hadn’t realized existed, moving across into the oncoming lane before swerving back to run lights that had already turned red. But it still took over an hour before he emerged on to Winchester Road, only to find that long stretches of roadworks restricted them to a single lane and the speed of its slowest driver. Giles looked out of the window and didn’t see that much road work in progress.

  He kept checking his watch, but the second hand was the only thing that kept a steady pace, and the chances of them making it to the docks before nine were looking more and more unlikely by the minute. He prayed that the ship would be held up for just a few minutes, although he knew the captain couldn’t affor
d to miss the tide.

  Giles sat back and thought about Bruno’s words. Whatever you do, don’t tell my father I’ve spoken to you. Sebastian couldn’t have asked more of a friend. He looked at his watch again: 7.30 p.m. How could the butler have made such a simple mistake when he said they were on their way to London Airport? 7.45 p.m. It clearly wasn’t a mistake, because the man had addressed him as ‘Sir Giles’, although he had no way of knowing that he was about to turn up on his doorstep. Unless . . . 8 p.m. And when he said ‘they left for London Airport’, who was the other person he was referring to? Bruno’s father? 8.15 p.m. Giles hadn’t been able to come up with a satisfactory answer to any of these questions by the time the taxi swung off the Winchester Road and headed for the docks. 8.30 p.m. Giles set aside all his misgivings and began to think about what needed to be done if they arrived at the dockside before the ship had raised its anchor. 8.45 p.m.

  ‘Faster!’ he demanded, although he suspected the driver already had his foot flat to the floor. At last he spotted the great liner, and as it grew larger and larger by the minute, he began to believe that they just might make it. But then he heard a sound he had been dreading: three loud, prolonged blasts of a fog horn.

  ‘Time and tide wait for no man,’ said the driver. An observation Giles could have lived without at that particular moment.

  The taxi came to a halt by the side of the South America, but the passenger ramp had already been raised and the mooring ropes released to allow the vast ship to ease its way slowly away from the dockside and out into the open sea.

  Giles felt helpless as he watched two tugs guide the ship out into the estuary, like ants leading an elephant to safer ground.

  ‘The harbourmaster’s office!’ he shouted, without any idea where that might be. The driver had to stop twice to ask for directions before he pulled up outside the only office building that still had all its lights on.