The Sins of the Father Read online

  ‘It’s kind of you to join us, Miss Barrington,’ he said. ‘Please have a seat.’

  Emma sank into a leather chair so deep that she almost disappeared from sight. She noticed a stack of notebooks on the senior partner’s desk.

  ‘My name is Sefton Jelks,’ he began, ‘and I have the privilege of representing the distinguished and acclaimed author, Mr Max Lloyd. My client visited me earlier this morning, to tell me that he had been approached by someone claiming to be a literary agent from London, who was making an accusation, a slanderous accusation, that he was not the author of The Diary of a Convict, which bears his name. It may interest you to know, Miss Barrington,’ continued Jelks, ‘that I am in possession of the original manuscript, every word of which is written in Mr Lloyd’s hand.’ He placed a fist firmly on top of the notebooks, and allowed himself the suggestion of a smile.

  ‘May I be allowed to see one?’ asked Emma.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Jelks. He removed the book on top of the pile and handed it to her.

  Emma opened it and began to read. The first thing she saw was that it wasn’t written in Harry’s bold hand. But it was Harry’s voice. She handed the book back to Mr Jelks, who replaced it at the top of the pile. ‘May I have a look at one of the others?’ she asked.

  ‘No. We’ve proved our point, Miss Barrington,’ said Jelks. ‘And my client will take advantage of every remedy the law provides should you be foolish enough to repeat your slander.’ Emma kept her eyes on the pile of notebooks, while Jelks continued in full flow. ‘I also felt it appropriate to have a word with Mr Elders to warn him you might be in touch, and to let him know that should he agree to see you, he would undoubtedly be called as a witness, were this matter to end up in court. Mr Elders felt, on balance, that his best course of action would be to avoid meeting you. A sensible man.’

  Emma continued to look at the pile of notebooks.

  ‘Miss Barrington, it didn’t take a lot of research to discover that you are the granddaughter of Lord Harvey and Sir Walter Barrington, which would account for your misplaced confidence when dealing with Americans. Allow me to suggest that if you intend to continue trying to pass yourself off as a literary agent, perhaps I can offer you some free advice, which is a matter of public record. Ernest Hemingway left America to live in Cuba in 1939—’

  ‘How very generous of you, Mr Jelks,’ interrupted Emma, before he could continue. ‘Allow me to offer you some free advice in return. I know perfectly well that it was Harry Clifton’ – Jelks’s eyes narrowed – ‘and not your client, who wrote The Diary of a Convict. If you were foolish enough, Mr Jelks, to issue a writ for slander against me, you might well find yourself in court having to explain why you defended a man on a charge of murder who you knew wasn’t Lieutenant Tom Bradshaw.’

  Jelks began frantically pressing a button underneath his desk. Emma rose from her chair, smiled sweetly at both of them, and left the room without another word. She marched quickly down the corridor towards the elevator, as Mr Anscott and a security guard hurried past her on their way to Mr Jelks’s office. At least she’d avoided the humiliation of being escorted off the premises.

  When she stepped into the lift, the attendant enquired, ‘Which floor, miss?’

  ‘Ground, please.’

  The attendant chuckled. ‘You must be English.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘In America, we call it the first floor.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ said Emma, giving him a smile as she stepped out of the elevator. She walked across the lobby, pushed through the revolving doors and ran down the steps and out on to the pavement, quite clear what she had to do next. There was only one person left she could turn to. After all, any sister of Lord Harvey had to be a formidable ally. Or would Great-aunt Phyllis turn out to be a close friend of Sefton Jelks, in which case Emma would be taking the next boat back to England.

  She hailed a cab, but when she jumped in, she almost had to shout to make herself heard above the blare of the radio.

  ‘Sixty-fourth and Park,’ she said, working out how she might explain to her great-aunt why she hadn’t visited her earlier. She leant forward and would have asked the driver to turn the volume down, if she hadn’t heard the words, ‘President Roosevelt will address the nation from the Oval Office at twelve thirty this afternoon, Eastern Time’.

  GILES BARRINGTON

  1941–1942

  20

  THE FIRST THING Giles saw was his right leg hitched to a pulley and encased in plaster.

  He could dimly remember a long journey, during which the pain had become almost unbearable, and he had assumed he would die long before they got him to a hospital. And he would never forget the operation, but then how could he, when they’d run out of anaesthetic moments before the doctor made the first incision?

  He turned his head very slowly to the left and saw a window with three bars across it, then to the right; that’s when he saw him.

  ‘No, not you,’ Giles said. ‘For a moment I thought I’d escaped and gone to heaven.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Bates. ‘First you have to do a spell in purgatory.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘At least until your leg’s mended, possibly longer.’

  ‘Are we back in England?’ Giles asked hopefully.

  ‘I wish,’ said Bates. ‘No, we’re in Germany, Weinsberg PoW camp, which is where we all ended up after being taken prisoner.’

  Giles tried to sit up, but could only just raise his head off the pillow; enough to see a framed picture on the wall of Adolf Hitler giving him a Nazi salute.

  ‘How many of our boys survived?’

  ‘Only a handful. The lads took the colonel’s words to heart. “We will all sacrifice our lives before Rommel books a suite at the Majestic Hotel”.’

  ‘Did anyone else from our platoon make it?’

  ‘You, me and—’

  ‘Don’t tell me, Fisher?’

  ‘No. Because if they’d sent him to Weinsberg, I’d have asked for a transfer to Colditz.’

  Giles lay still, staring up at the ceiling. ‘So how do we escape?’

  ‘I wondered how long it would be before you asked that.’

  ‘And what’s the answer?’

  ‘Not a chance while your leg’s still in plaster, and even after that it won’t be easy, but I’ve got a plan.’

  ‘Of course you have.’

  ‘The plan’s not the problem,’ said Bates. ‘The problem is the escape committee. They control the waiting list, and you’re at the back of the queue.’

  ‘How do I get to the front?’

  ‘It’s like any queue in England, you just have to wait your turn . . . unless—’

  ‘Unless?’

  ‘Unless Brigadier Turnbull, the senior ranking officer, thinks there’s a good reason why you should be moved up the queue.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘If you can speak fluent German, it’s a bonus.’

  ‘I picked up a bit when I was at OTS – just wish I’d concentrated more.’

  ‘Well, there are lessons twice a day, so someone of your intelligence shouldn’t find that too difficult. Unfortunately even that list is still fairly long.’

  ‘So what else can I do to get bumped up the escape-list faster?’

  ‘Find yourself the right job. That’s what got me moved up three places in the past month.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘As soon as the Krauts found out I was a butcher, they offered me a job in the officers’ mess. I told them to fuck off, excuse my French, but the brigadier insisted I took the job.’

  ‘Why would he want you to work for the Germans?’

  ‘Because occasionally I can manage to steal some food from the kitchen, but more important, I pick up the odd piece of information that’s useful to the escape committee. That’s why I’m near the front of the queue, and you’re still at the back. You’re going to have to get both feet on the ground if you�