Clifton Chronicles 02 - The Sins of the Father (33 page)

Hugo knew that if he were to put Barrington Hall and its 72 acres of parkland on the market, it would announce to the world that a company that had declared a profit for over a hundred years was insolvent.

His mother continued to accept Hugo’s assurances that the problem was only temporary, and that given time everything would sort itself out. After a time, he started to believe his own propaganda. When the cheques started to bounce again, Mr Prendergast reminded him that there was an offer of £3,500 on the table for his properties in Broad Street, which, Prendergast pointed out, would still show him a profit of £600.

‘What about the thirty thousand I was promised?’ Hugo shouted down the phone.

‘That offer is also still on the table, Sir Hugo, but it remains subject to your purchasing Mrs Clifton’s freehold.’

‘Offer her a thousand,’ he barked.

‘As you wish, Sir Hugo.’

Hugo slammed the phone down and wondered what else could go wrong. The phone rang again.

Hugo was hidden away in a corner alcove of the Railway Arms, a hotel he’d never frequented before, and never would again. He nervously checked his watch every few minutes, while he waited for Mitchell to arrive.

The private detective joined him at 11.34 a.m., only minutes after the Paddington express had pulled into Temple Meads station. Mitchell slipped into the chair opposite his only client, although he hadn’t received any remuneration for several months.

‘What is so urgent that it couldn’t wait?’ demanded Hugo, once a half pint of beer had been placed in front of the private detective.

‘I’m sorry to report, sir,’ Mitchell began after taking a sip, ‘that the police have arrested your friend Toby Dunstable.’ Hugo felt a shiver shoot through his body. ‘They’ve charged him with the theft of the Piotrovska diamonds along with several paintings, including a Picasso and a Monet, that he tried to offload on Agnew’s, the Mayfair art dealer.’

‘Toby will keep his mouth shut,’ said Hugo.

‘I fear not, sir. I am reliably informed that he has turned King’s evidence in exchange for a lighter sentence. It seems Scotland Yard are more interested in arresting the man behind the crime.’

Hugo’s beer went flat while he tried to take in the significance of Mitchell’s words. After a long silence, the private detective continued. ‘I thought you’d also want to know that Miss Piotrovska has hired Sir Francis Mayhew KC to represent her.’

‘Why doesn’t she just leave the police to deal with the case?’

‘She did not seek Sir Francis’s advice on the burglary, but on two other matters.’

‘Two other matters?’ repeated Hugo.

‘Yes. I understand a writ is about to be served on you for breach of promise, and Miss Piotrovska is also lodging a paternity suit, naming you as the father of her daughter.’

‘She’ll never be able to prove it.’

‘Among the evidence that will be presented to the court is the receipt for an engagement ring purchased from a Burlington Arcade jeweller, and both her resident housekeeper and her lady’s maid have signed affidavits confirming that you resided at forty-two Lowndes Square for over a year.’

For the first time in ten years, Hugo asked Mitchell for his advice. ‘What do you think I should do?’ he almost whispered.

‘If I found myself in your position, sir, I’d leave the country as soon as possible.’

‘How long do you think I’ve got?’

‘A week, ten days at the most.’

A waiter appeared by their side. ‘That will be one shilling and nine pence, sir.’

As Hugo didn’t move, Mitchell handed the waiter a florin and said, ‘Keep the change.’

Once the private detective had left to return to London, Hugo sat alone for some time, considering his options. The waiter came over again and asked if he’d like another drink, but Hugo didn’t even bother to reply. Eventually he heaved himself up from his chair and made his way out of the bar.

Hugo headed towards the city centre, slower and slower with each pace, until he’d finally worked out what he had to do next. He marched into the bank a few minutes later.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked the young man on reception. But Hugo was halfway across the hall before he’d had time to call the manager and warn him that Sir Hugo Barrington was heading towards his office.

Prendergast was no longer surprised that Sir Hugo always assumed he would be available at a moment’s notice, but he was shocked to see that the chairman of Barrington’s hadn’t bothered to shave that morning.

‘I have a problem that needs to be dealt with urgently,’ Hugo said as he sank into the chair opposite the manager.

‘Yes of course, Sir Hugo. How can I be of assistance?’

‘What’s the most you could hope to raise for my properties on Broad Street?’

‘But only last week I sent a letter advising you that Mrs Clifton has rejected your latest offer.’

‘I’m well aware of that,’ said Hugo. ‘I meant without her site.’

‘There is still an offer on the table of three thousand five hundred, but I have reason to believe that were you to offer Mrs Clifton a little more, she would release her site and the thirty-thousand-pound bid would still be valid.’

‘I don’t have any more time,’ said Hugo without explanation.

‘If that is the case, I’m confident that I could press my client to raise his bid to four thousand, which would still show you a handsome profit.’

‘If I were to accept that offer, I would need your assurance on one thing.’ Mr Prendergast allowed himself a raised eyebrow. ‘That your client does not have, and never has had, any connection with Mrs Clifton.’

‘I am able to give you that assurance, Sir Hugo.’

‘If your client was to pay me four thousand, how much would that leave in my current account?’

Mr Prendergast opened Sir Hugo’s file and checked the balance sheet. ‘Eight hundred and twenty-two pounds and ten shillings,’ he said.

Hugo no longer joked about the ten shillings. ‘In which case, I require eight hundred pounds in cash immediately. And I’ll instruct you later where to send the proceeds of the sale.’

‘The proceeds of the sale?’ repeated Prendergast.

‘Yes,’ replied Hugo. ‘I’ve decided to place Barrington Hall on the market.’

36

N
O ONE SAW HIM
leave the house.

He was carrying a suitcase and was dressed in a warm tweed suit, a pair of stout brown shoes that had been made to last, a heavy topcoat and a brown felt hat. A casual glance, and you would have taken him for a commercial traveller.

He walked to the nearest bus stop, which was just over a mile away, most of it his own land. Forty minutes later he boarded a green single-decker bus – a mode of transport he’d never used before. He sat in the back seat, not letting the suitcase out of his sight. He handed the clippie a ten-shilling note, despite the fact that he was only asked for thruppence; his first mistake if he hoped to avoid drawing attention to himself.

The bus continued on its way into Bristol, a journey he would normally cover in about twelve minutes in the Lagonda, but today it took over an hour before they finally pulled into the bus station. Hugo was neither the first nor the last passenger to get off. He checked his watch: 2.38 p.m. He’d left himself enough time.

He walked up the slope to Temple Meads station – he’d never noticed the slope, but then he’d never had to carry his own suitcase before – where he joined a long queue and purchased a third-class single to Fishguard. He asked which platform the train would be leaving from, and once he’d found it, stood at the far end, under an unlit gas light.

When the train eventually pulled in, he climbed aboard and found a seat in the middle of a third-class compartment, which quickly filled up. He placed his suitcase on the rack opposite him, and rarely took his eyes off it. A woman pulled open the carriage door and glanced into the crowded compartment, but he didn’t offer her his seat.

As the train pulled out of the station, he let out a sigh of relief, delighted to see Bristol disappearing into the distance. He sat back and thought about the decision he’d made. By this time tomorrow, he’d be in Cork. He wouldn’t feel safe until his feet were treading on Irish soil. But they had to arrive in Swansea on schedule if he hoped to link up with the train for Fishguard.

The train pulled into Swansea with half an hour to spare; time for a cup of tea and a Chelsea bun in the station buffet. It wasn’t Earl Grey or Carwardine’s, but he was too tired to care. As soon as he’d finished, he exchanged the buffet for another dimly lit platform and waited for the Fishguard train to appear.

The train was late, but he was confident that the ferry wouldn’t leave the harbour before all the passengers were on board. After an overnight stay in Cork, he would book a passage on a ship, any ship, that was sailing to America. There he would begin a new life, with the money he made from the sale of Barrington Hall.

The idea of his ancestral home going under the hammer made him think about his mother for the first time. Where would she live, once the house had been sold? She could always join Elizabeth at the Manor House. After all, it had more than enough room. Failing that, she could move in with the Harveys, who had three houses, not to mention numerous cottages on their estates.

His thoughts then turned to the Barrington Shipping Line – a business that had been built up by two generations of the family, while the third had managed to bring it to its knees quicker than a bishop’s blessing.

For a moment, he thought about Olga Piotrovska, thankful that he would never see her again. He even spared a passing thought for Toby Dunstable, who had been the cause of all his trouble.

Emma and Grace crossed his mind, but not for very long: he’d never seen the point of daughters. And then he thought about Giles, who had avoided him after escaping from Weinsberg PoW camp and returning to Bristol. People regularly asked after his war hero son, and Hugo had to make up some new story every time. That would no longer be necessary, because once he was in America the umbilical cord would finally be severed, although in time – and Hugo was still determined it would be some considerable time – Giles would inherit the family title, even if
all that therein is
was no longer worth the paper it was written on.

But most of the time he thought about himself, an indulgence that was only interrupted when the train arrived at Fishguard. He waited for everyone else to leave the carriage before he took his suitcase down from the rack and stepped out on to the platform.

He followed the megaphone directions, ‘Buses to the harbour. Buses to the harbour!’ There were four. He chose the third. This time it was only a short journey, and he couldn’t miss the terminal, despite the blackout; another long third-class queue, this time for the Cork ferry.

After buying a one-way ticket, he walked up the gangway, stepped on board and found a nook that no self-respecting cat would have curled up in. He didn’t feel safe until he heard two blasts on the foghorn and, in the gentle swell, felt the ship drifting away from the quayside.

Once the ferry had passed the harbour wall, he relaxed for the first time, and was so exhausted he rested his head on the suitcase and fell into a deep sleep.

Hugo couldn’t be sure how long he’d been asleep when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up to see two men towering over him.

‘Sir Hugo Barrington?’ one of them asked.

There didn’t seem much point in denying it. They yanked him up by the shoulders and told him he was under arrest. They took their time reading out a long list of the charges.

‘But I’m on my way to Cork,’ he protested. ‘Surely we must be beyond the twelve-mile limit?’

‘No, sir,’ said the second officer, ‘you’re on your way back to Fishguard.’

Several passengers leaned over the ship’s railings to get a closer view of the handcuffed man being escorted down the gangway, who had been the cause of them being delayed.

Hugo was bundled into the back of a black Wolseley car, and moments later he began the long journey back to Bristol.

When the cell door opened a uniformed man brought in some breakfast on a tray – not the kind of breakfast, not the kind of tray and certainly not the kind of uniformed man Sir Hugo was accustomed to seeing first thing in the morning. One look at the fried bread and tomatoes bathed in oil, and he pushed the tray to one side. He wondered how long it would be before this became part of his staple diet. The constable returned a few minutes later, took away the tray and slammed the cell door closed.