Only Time Will Tell

by Jeffrey Archer

  A smile crossed Hugo’s lips. ‘And who’s in charge of the case?’ he asked.

  ‘A Detective Inspector Blakemore,’ said Mitchell. Hugo’s smile was replaced by a frown. ‘Although Blakemore initially thought the subject might be an accomplice of Burrows,’ continued Mitchell, ‘he has since informed the Bristol and West of England Insurance Company that she is no longer a suspect.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ said Hugo, the frown still in place.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Mitchell. ‘The insurance company will be issuing Mrs Clifton with a cheque for six hundred pounds in full and final settlement of her claim.’ Hugo smiled.

  ‘I wonder if she’s told her son,’ said Hugo, almost to himself.

  If Mitchell heard the comment, he ignored it. ‘The only other piece of information that might be of some interest to you,’ he continued, ‘is that Mr Patrick Casey booked into the Royal Hotel on Friday night, and took the subject to the Plimsoll Line for dinner. They returned to the hotel afterwards, when she accompanied him to his room, No. 371, and didn’t leave until just after seven o’clock the following morning.’

  A long silence followed, always the sign that Mitchell had come to the end of his monthly report. Hugo removed an envelope from an inside pocket and slipped it to Mitchell, who didn’t acknowledge the transaction as he threw his last piece of bread to a contented Rosie.

  ‘Mr Prendergast to see you,’ said Miss Potts, standing aside to allow the banker to enter the managing director’s office.

  ‘It’s good of you to come all this way,’ said Hugo. ‘I’m sure you’ll appreciate why I didn’t want to discuss such a highly confidential matter at the bank.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ said Prendergast, who had opened his Gladstone bag and extracted a thick file even before he’d sat down. He passed a single sheet of paper across the desk to Mr Barrington.

  Hugo checked the bottom line, before settling back in his chair.

  ‘Just to recap, if I may,’ said Prendergast. ‘You put up a capital sum of five hundred pounds, which allowed Mrs Clifton to purchase the business known as Tilly’s, a tea shop on Broad Street. The agreed contract was for the full amount, plus compound interest at five per cent per annum, to be paid back to the principal within a period of five years.

  ‘Although Tilly’s managed to declare a small trading profit in Mrs Clifton’s first year and again in her second, there was never a large enough surplus for her either to pay the interest or to return any part of the capital sum, so at the time of the fire, Mrs Clifton owed you PS572 16 shillings. To this sum I must add bank charges of PS20, making a grand total of PS592 16 shillings. This, of course, will be well covered by the insurance payout, which means that while your investment is secure, Mrs Clifton will be left with virtually nothing.’

  ‘How unfortunate,’ said Hugo. ‘May I ask why the final sum doesn’t appear to include any charge for services rendered by Mr Casey?’ he added after studying the figures more closely.

  ‘Because Mr Casey has informed the bank that he will not be submitting any bills for his services.’

  Hugo frowned. ‘At least that is one piece of good news for the poor woman.’

  ‘Indeed. None the less, I fear she will no longer be able to cover her son’s fees at Bristol Grammar School for next term.’

  ‘How sad,’ said Hugo. ‘So will the boy have to be removed?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say that’s the inevitable conclusion,’ said Mr Prendergast. ‘It is a great shame, because she dotes on the child, and I believe she would sacrifice almost anything to keep him there.’

  ‘A great shame,’ repeated Hugo as he closed the file and rose from his chair. ‘I won’t keep you any longer, Mr Prender-gast,’ he added. ‘I have an appointment in the city in about half an hour. Perhaps I can give you a lift?’

  ‘That is most kind of you, Mr Barrington, but it won’t be necessary. I drove myself over here.’

  ‘What do you drive?’ Hugo asked as he picked up his briefcase and headed towards the door.

  ‘A Morris Oxford,’ said Prendergast, quickly stuffing some papers back into his Gladstone bag and following Hugo out of the office.

  ‘The people’s car,’ said Hugo. ‘I’m told that, like you, Mr Prendergast, it’s very reliable.’ Both men laughed as they walked down the stairs together. ‘Sad business, Mrs Clifton,’ said Hugo as they stepped out of the building. ‘But then, I’m not altogether sure I approve of women getting involved in business. It’s not the natural way of things.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Prendergast, as the two men came to a halt by Barrington’s car. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘you could not have done more for the poor woman.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so, Prendergast,’ said Hugo. ‘But despite that, I’d be obliged if my involvement could remain strictly between the two of us.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Prendergast as the two men shook hands, ‘you can rely on me.’

  ‘Let’s keep in touch, old fellow,’ said Hugo as he climbed into his car. ‘I have no doubt I’ll be calling on the bank’s services again.’ Prendergast smiled.

  As Hugo drove towards the city, his thoughts returned to Maisie Clifton. He had dealt her a blow from which she was unlikely to recover, but he now intended to deliver the knockout punch.

  He drove into Bristol wondering where she was at that moment. Probably sitting her son down to explain to him why he would have to leave BGS at the end of the summer term. Had she even for one fleeting moment imagined that Harry might be able to continue his studies as if nothing had happened? Hugo decided that he wouldn’t raise the subject with Giles until the boy told him the sad news that his friend Harry would not be returning to BGS to join him in the sixth form.

  Even the thought of his own son having to go to Bristol Grammar School still made him pulse with anger, but he had never let Elizabeth or his father know the real reason Giles had failed to get a place at Eton.

  Once he’d driven past the cathedral, he continued across College Green before turning into the entrance of the Royal Hotel. He was a few minutes early for his appointment, but he was confident the manager would not keep him waiting. He pushed his way through the revolving doors and strolled across the lobby, not needing to be told where Mr Frampton’s office was.

  The manager’s secretary leapt up the moment Hugo entered the room. ‘I’ll let Mr Frampton know you’re here,’ she said, almost running into the adjoining office. The manager appeared a moment later.

  ‘What a pleasure to see you, Mr Barrington,’ he said, ushering him into his office. ‘I do hope you and Mrs Barrington are both well.’ Hugo nodded and took a seat opposite the hotel manager, but didn’t shake hands.

  ‘When you asked to see me, I took the liberty of checking over the arrangements for your company’s annual dinner,’ said Frampton. ‘Just over three hundred guests will be attending, I understand?’

  ‘I have no interest how many guests are attending,’ said Hugo. ‘That isn’t the reason I came to see you, Frampton. I wish to discuss a private matter that I find most distasteful.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said Frampton, sitting bolt upright.

  ‘One of our non-executive directors was staying at the hotel on Thursday night, and the following day he made a most serious allegation that I feel it is my duty to bring to your attention.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Frampton, rubbing his sweating palms on his trousers. ‘The last thing we would want to do is annoy one of our most valued customers.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Hugo. ‘The gentleman in question checked into the hotel after the restaurant had closed and went into the Palm Court in the hope of being provided with some light refreshment.’

  ‘A service I myself instituted,’ said Frampton, allowing himself a strained smile.

  ‘He gave his order to a young lady who appeared to be in charge,’ continued Hugo, ignoring the comment.

  ‘Yes, that would be our Mrs C
lifton.’

  ‘I’ve no idea who it was,’ said Hugo. ‘However, as she was serving him with a cup of coffee and some sandwiches, another gentleman entered the Palm Court, made an order and asked if it could be sent up to his room. The only thing my friend recalls about the man was that he had a slight Irish accent. My friend then signed his bill and retired for the night. He rose early the following morning, as he wished to have breakfast and go over his papers before the board meeting. When he came out of his room he observed the same woman, still dressed in her hotel uniform, leaving room 371. She then walked to the end of the corridor, climbed through the window and out on to the fire escape.’

  ‘I’m absolutely appalled, sir. I …’

  ‘The board member concerned has requested that whenever he comes to Bristol in the future, he should be booked into another hotel. Now, I don’t wish to appear prudish, Frampton, but the Royal has always been somewhere I’ve been happy to bring my wife and children.’

  ‘Be assured, Mr Barrington, the person concerned will be dismissed immediately, and not supplied with a reference. May I add how grateful I am that you have brought this matter to my attention.’

  Hugo rose from his place. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t want any reference made to me or the company should you feel it necessary to dismiss the lady in question.’

  ‘You can be assured of my discretion,’ said Frampton.

  Hugo smiled for the first time. ‘On a happier note, may I say how much we’re all looking forward to the annual dinner, which no doubt will be up to your usual high standard. Next year we’ll be celebrating the company’s centenary, so I feel sure my father will want to push the boat out.’ Both men laughed a little too loudly.

  ‘You can rely on us, Mr Barrington,’ said Frampton as he followed his client out of the office.

  ‘And one more thing, Frampton,’ said Hugo, as they walked across the foyer. ‘I’d rather you didn’t say anything to Sir Walter about this. My father can be a little old-fashioned when it comes to such matters, so I think it’s best kept between ourselves.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, Mr Barrington,’ said Frampton. ‘You can be assured I shall deal with the matter personally.’

  As Hugo pushed his way back through the revolving doors, he couldn’t help wondering just how many hours Mitchell must have spent at the Royal before he was able to supply him with such a priceless piece of information.

  He jumped back into his car, switched on the engine and continued on his journey home. He was still thinking about Maisie Clifton when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He experienced a moment of blind panic as he turned around and saw who was sitting on the back seat. He even wondered if somehow she’d found out about his meeting with Frampton.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, not slowing down for fear that someone might see them together.

  As he listened to her demands, he could only wonder how she was so well informed. Once she’d finished, he readily agreed to her terms, knowing that it would be the easiest way of getting her out of the car.

  Mrs Clifton placed a thin brown envelope on the passenger seat next to him. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you,’ she said.

  Hugo put the envelope in an inside pocket. He only slowed down when he came to an unlit alley, but didn’t stop until he was certain no one else could see them. He leapt out of the car and opened the back door. When he saw the look on her face, it was clear she felt she’d more than achieved her purpose.

  Hugo allowed her a moment of triumph, before he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her as if he was trying to remove an obstinate apple from a tree. Once he’d left her in no doubt what would happen if she ever bothered him again, he punched her in the face with all his strength. She collapsed to the ground curled up into a ball, and didn’t stop shaking. Hugo thought about kicking her in the stomach but didn’t want to risk being witnessed by a passer-by. He drove away without giving her another thought.

  OLD JACK TAR

  1925-1936

  27

  On a balmy Thursday afternoon in the Northern Transvaal, I killed eleven men, and a grateful nation awarded me the Victoria Cross for service above and beyond the call of duty. I haven’t had a peaceful night’s sleep since.

  If I’d killed one Englishman in my homeland, a judge would have sentenced me to hang by the neck until I was dead. Instead, I have been sentenced to life imprisonment, because I still see the faces of those eleven wretched young men every day, like an image on a coin that never fades. I’ve often considered suicide, but that would be the coward’s way out.

  In the citation, gazetted in The Times, it was stated that my actions had been responsible for saving the lives of two officers, five non-commissioned officers and seventeen private soldiers of the Royal Gloucesters. One of those officers, Lieutenant Walter Barrington, has made it possible for me to serve my sentence with some dignity.

  Within weeks of the action I was shipped back to England, and a few months later I was honourably discharged following what would now be described as a mental breakdown. After six months in an army hospital, I was released back into the world. I changed my name, avoided my home town of Wells in Somerset, and set off for Bristol. Unlike the prodigal son, I refused to travel a few miles into the next county where I would have been able to enjoy the tranquillity of my father’s home.

  During the day, I would roam the streets of Bristol, rummaging around in dustbins for scraps, while at night my bedroom was a park, my resting place a bench, my blanket a newspaper, my morning call the first bird to announce a new dawn. When it was too cold or wet, I retreated to the waiting room of a local railway station, where I slept below the bench and rose before the first train shunted in the next morning. As the nights became longer, I signed up as a non-paying guest of the Salvation Army on Little George Street, where kind ladies supplied me with thick bread and thin soup before I fell asleep on a horse-hair mattress below a single blanket. Luxury.

  As the years passed I hoped that my former companions-inarms and brother officers would assume I was dead. I had no desire for them to find out that this was the prison I’d chosen to carry out my life sentence in. And it might have stayed thus, had a Rolls-Royce not screeched to a halt in the middle of the road. The back door swung open and out leapt a man I hadn’t seen for years.

  ‘Captain Tarrant!’ he cried as he advanced towards me. I looked away, hoping he’d think he’d made a mistake. But I remembered only too well that Walter Barrington was not a man who suffered from self-doubt. He grabbed me by the shoulders and stared at me for some time before he said, ‘How can this be possible, old fellow?’

  The more I tried to convince him I did not need his help, the more determined he became to be my saviour. I finally gave in, but not before he had agreed to my terms and conditions.

  At first he begged me to join him and his wife at the Manor House, but I’d survived too long without a roof over my head to regard such comfort as anything other than a burden. He even offered me a seat on the board of the shipping company that bore his name.

  ‘What use could I possibly be to you?’ I asked.

  ‘Your very presence, Jack, would be an inspiration to us all.’

  I thanked him, but explained that I had not yet completed my sentence for the murder of eleven men. Still he didn’t give in.

  I finally agreed to take the job of night watchman at the docks, with three pounds a week pay and accommodation provided: an abandoned Pullman railway carriage now became my prison cell. I suppose I might have continued my life sentence until the day I died, had I not come into contact with Master Harry Clifton.

  Harry would claim, years later, that I had shaped his whole life. In truth, it was he who saved mine.

  The first time I came across young Harry, he couldn’t have been more than four or five. ‘Come on in, lad,’ I called to him when I spotted him crawling towards the carriage on his hands and knees. But he immediately leapt up and ran away.

  The following Saturday he go
t as far as looking in through the window. I tried again. ‘Why don’t you come in, my boy? I’m not going to bite you,’ I said, trying to reassure him. This time he took up my offer and opened the door, but after exchanging a few words, he ran away again. Was I that frightening a figure?

  The next Saturday, he not only opened the door, but stood, feet apart, in the doorway, staring at me defiantly. We chatted for over an hour, about everything from Bristol City FC to why snakes shed their skins and who built Clifton Suspension Bridge, before he said, ‘I’ll have to be off now, Mr Tar, my mum’s expecting me home for tea.’ This time he walked away, but looked back several times.

  After that, Harry came to visit me every Saturday until he went to Merrywood Elementary School, when he started turning up most mornings. It took me some time to convince the boy that he should stay at school and learn to read and write. Frankly I wouldn’t have managed even that without the help of Miss Monday, Mr Holcombe and Harry’s spirited mother. It took a formidable team to get Harry Clifton to realize his potential, and I knew we had succeeded when once again he could only find the time to visit me on Saturday mornings because he was preparing to enter for a choral scholarship to St Bede’s.

  Once Harry had started at his new school, I didn’t expect to see him again until the Christmas holidays. But to my surprise, I found him standing outside my door just before eleven o’clock on the first Friday night of term.