Only Time Will Tell

by Jeffrey Archer

  He picked up a telephone for the first time in his life, not quite sure what to do next. A voice came on the line. ‘Number please?’

  ‘TEM 8612,’ said Jack, his forefinger resting just below the number.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ As he waited, Old Jack became more nervous by the minute. What would he say if someone else came on the line? He’d just put the phone down. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and laid it out on the desk in front of him. Next, he heard a ringing tone, followed by a click, then a man’s voice. ‘Frobisher House.’

  ‘Is that Noel Frobisher?’ he asked, recalling the tradition that each house at St Bede’s was named after the housemaster of the day. He looked down at his script; each line had been carefully prepared and endlessly rehearsed.

  ‘Speaking,’ said Frobisher, clearly surprised to hear a voice he didn’t recognize addressing him by his Christian name. A long silence followed. ‘Is there anyone there?’ Frobisher asked, sounding a little irritated.

  ‘Yes, it’s Captain Jack Tarrant.’

  There was an even longer silence, before Frobisher eventually said, ‘Good evening, sir.’

  ‘Forgive me for calling at this late hour, old fellow, but I need to seek your advice.’

  ‘Not at all, sir. It’s a great privilege to speak to you after all these years.’

  ‘Kind of you to say so,’ said Old Jack. ‘I’ll try not to waste too much of your time, but I need to know if St Bede’s still supplies St Mary Redcliffe with trebles for its choir?’

  ‘We do indeed, sir. Despite so many changes in this modern world, that’s one tradition that remains constant.’

  ‘And in my day,’ said Old Jack, ‘the school awarded a choral scholarship each year to a treble who showed exceptional talent.’

  ‘We still do, sir. In fact, we will be considering applications for the position in the next few weeks.’

  ‘From any school in the county?’

  ‘Yes, from any school that can produce a treble of outstanding quality. But they must also have a solid academic grounding.’

  ‘Well, if that’s the case,’ said Old Jack, ‘I would like to submit a candidate for your consideration.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Which school is the boy attending at the moment?’

  ‘Merrywood Elementary.’

  Another long silence followed. ‘I have to admit that it would be the first time we’ve had an applicant from that particular school. Do you by any chance know the name of its music master?’

  ‘It doesn’t have a music master,’ said Old Jack, ‘but you should get in touch with the boy’s teacher, Mr Holcombe, who will introduce you to his choir mistress.’

  ‘May I ask the boy’s name?’ said Frobisher.

  ‘Harry Clifton. If you want to hear him sing, I recommend you attend Matins at Holy Nativity Church this Sunday.’

  ‘Will you be there, sir?’

  ‘No,’ said Old Jack.

  ‘How do I get in touch with you once I’ve heard the boy sing?’ asked Frobisher.

  ‘You don’t,’ said Old Jack firmly, and put the phone down. As he folded up his script and placed it back in his pocket, he could have sworn he heard footsteps crunching across the gravel outside. He quickly switched off the light, slipped out of Mr Hugo’s office and into the corridor.

  He heard a door open, and voices on the stairs. The last thing he needed was to be found on the fifth floor, which was strictly out of bounds to anyone other than the company’s executives and Miss Potts. He wouldn’t want to embarrass Sir Walter.

  He began to walk quickly down the stairs. He’d reached the third floor when he saw Mrs Nettles heading towards him, a mop in one hand, a bucket in the other, a woman he didn’t recognize by her side.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Nettles,’ said Old Jack. ‘And what a fine evening it is to be doing my rounds.’

  ‘Evenin’, Old Jack,’ she replied as she ambled past him. Once he had turned the corner, he stopped and listened attentively. ‘That’s Old Jack,’ he heard Mrs Nettles say. ‘The so-called night watchman. He’s completely crackers, but quite harmless. So if you come across him, just ignore him …’ Old Jack chuckled as her voice faded with each step she took.

  As he strolled back towards the railway carriage, he wondered how long it would be before Harry came to seek his advice on whether he should enter his name for a choral scholarship to St Bede’s.

  30

  HARRY KNOCKED ON the carriage door, strolled in and took the seat opposite Old Jack in first class.

  During term time at St Bede’s, Harry had only been able to see Old Jack regularly on Saturday mornings. Jack had returned the compliment by attending Matins at St Mary Redcliffe, where from the back pew he enjoyed watching Mr Frobisher and Mr Holcombe beam with pride at his protege.

  In the school holidays, Old Jack could never be sure exactly when Harry was going to turn up because he treated the railway carriage like a second home. Whenever he returned to St Bede’s at the beginning of a new term, Old Jack missed the boy’s company. He was touched when Mrs Clifton described him as the father Harry never had. In truth, Harry was the son he’d always wanted.

  ‘Finished your paper round early?’ said Old Jack, rubbing his eyes and blinking, when Harry strolled into the carriage that Saturday morning.

  ‘No, you just dozed off, old man,’ said Harry, passing him a copy of the previous day’s Times.

  ‘And you’re getting cheekier by the day, young man,’ Old Jack said with a grin. ‘So, how’s the paper round working out?’

  ‘Good. I think I’m going to be able to save enough money to buy my mum a watch.’

  ‘A sensible present, considering your mother’s new job. But can you afford it?’

  ‘I’ve already saved four shillings,’ said Harry. ‘I reckon I’ll have about six by the end of the holidays.’

  ‘Have you chosen the watch you want?’

  ‘Yes. It’s in Mr Deakins’s display cabinet, but it won’t be there for much longer,’ said Harry, grinning.

  Deakins. A name Old Jack could never forget. ‘How much is it?’ he asked.

  ‘No idea,’ said Harry. ‘I’m not going to ask Mr Deakins until the day before I go back to school.’

  Old Jack wasn’t sure how to tell the boy that six shillings wasn’t going to be enough to buy a watch, so he changed the subject. ‘I hope the paper round isn’t stopping you from studying. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that the exams are getting closer by the day.’

  ‘You’re worse than the Frob,’ said Harry, ‘but you’ll be pleased to learn that I’m spending two hours every morning in the library with Deakins, and another two most afternoons.’

  ‘Most afternoons?’

  ‘Well, Giles and I do occasionally go to the flicks, and as Gloucestershire are playing Yorkshire at the county ground next week, it will be a chance to see Herbert Sutcliffe batting.’

  ‘You’ll miss Giles when he goes to Eton,’ said Old Jack.

  ‘He’s still working on his father to let him join me and Deakins at BGS.’

  ‘Deakins and me,’ said Old Jack. ‘And be warned, if Mr Hugo has made up his mind, it will take more than Giles to shift him.’

  ‘Mr Barrington doesn’t like me,’ said Harry, taking Old Jack by surprise.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He treats me differently from the other boys at St Bede’s. It’s as if I’m not good enough to be a friend of his son.’

  ‘You’re going to have to face that problem all your life, Harry,’ said Old Jack. ‘The English are the biggest snobs on earth, and most of the time without reason. The lesser the talent, the bigger the snob, in my experience. It’s the only way the so-called upper classes can hope to survive. Be warned, my boy, they don’t care for upstarts like you who barge into their club without an invitation.’

  ‘But you don’t treat me like that,’ said Harry.

  ‘That’s because I’m not upper class,’ said Old J
ack, laughing.

  ‘Perhaps not, but my mum says you’re first class,’ said Harry, ‘so that’s what I want to be.’

  It didn’t help that Old Jack couldn’t tell Harry the real reason Mr Hugo was always so off-hand. He sometimes wished he hadn’t been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and witnessed what had really happened the day the boy’s father died.

  ‘Have you fallen asleep again, old man?’ said Harry. ‘Because I can’t hang around chatting to you all day. I promised my mum I’d meet her at Clarks in the Broad because she wants to buy me a new pair of shoes. Not that I can see what’s wrong with the pair I’ve got.’

  ‘Special lady, your mum,’ said Old Jack.

  ‘That’s why I’m buying her a watch,’ said Harry.

  The bell above the door rang as he entered the shop. Old Jack hoped that enough time had passed to ensure that Private Deakins wouldn’t remember him.

  ‘Good morning, sir. How can I help you?’

  Old Jack couldn’t fail to recognize Mr Deakins immediately. He smiled and walked across to the display cabinet and studied the two watches on the top shelf. ‘I just need to know the price of this Ingersoll.’

  ‘The lady’s or the gentleman’s model, sir?’ asked Mr Deakins, coming out from behind the counter.

  ‘The lady’s,’ said Old Jack.

  Deakins unlocked the cabinet with his one hand, deftly removed the watch from its stand, checked the label and said, ‘Sixteen shillings, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ said Old Jack, and placed a ten-bob note on the counter. Mr Deakins looked even more puzzled. ‘When Harry Clifton asks you how much the watch is, Mr Deakins, please tell him it’s six shillings, because that’s how much he will have saved by the time he stops working for you, and I know he’s hoping to buy it as a present for his mother.’

  ‘You must be Old Jack,’ said Deakins. ‘He’ll be so touched that you …’

  ‘But you won’t ever tell him,’ said Old Jack, looking Mr Deakins in the eye. ‘I want him to believe that the price of the watch is six shillings.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Mr Deakins, placing the watch back on the stand.

  ‘And how much is the man’s watch?’

  ‘One pound.’

  ‘Would you allow me to put down another ten bob as a deposit, and then give you half a crown a week for the next month until I’ve paid off the full amount?’

  ‘That is quite acceptable, sir. But wouldn’t you like to try it on first?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Old Jack. ‘It’s not for me. I’m going to give it to Harry when he wins a scholarship to Bristol Grammar School.’

  ‘I had the same thought,’ said Mr Deakins, ‘should my son Algy be fortunate enough to win one.’

  ‘Then you’d better order another one pretty quickly,’ said Old Jack, ‘because Harry tells me your son’s a racing certainty.’

  Mr Deakins laughed, and took a closer look at Old Jack. ‘Have we met before, sir?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Old Jack, and left the shop without another word.

  31

  IF MUHAMMAD WON’T COME to the mountain … Old Jack smiled to himself as he rose to greet Mr Holcombe and offered him a seat.

  ‘Would you care to join me in the buffet car for a cup of tea?’ Old Jack asked. ‘Mrs Clifton was kind enough to supply me with a quite excellent packet of Earl Grey.’

  ‘No, thank you sir,’ said Holcombe, ‘I’ve only just had breakfast.’

  ‘So, the boy just missed out on a scholarship,’ said Old Jack, assuming that was what the schoolmaster had come to see him about.

  ‘Failed is how Harry looks upon it,’ said Holcombe, ‘despite coming seventeenth out of three hundred, and being offered a place in the school’s A stream this September.’

  ‘But will he be able to accept the offer? It will place an extra financial burden on his mother.’

  ‘As long as there are no unexpected bombshells, she should be able to get Harry through the next five years.’

  ‘Even so, Harry won’t be able to afford the little extras most of the other boys will take for granted.’

  ‘Possibly, but I have managed to cover some of his sundry expenses from the school’s list, so he’ll be able to consider at least two of the three extra-curricular activities he’s keen to sign up for.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Old Jack. ‘The choir, the theatre club and … ?’

  ‘Art appreciation,’ said Holcombe. ‘Miss Monday and Miss Tilly are taking responsibility for any trips the choir might make, I’m covering the theatre club and …’

  ‘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, l
ooked 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.’