The Sins of the Father Read online

Hugo glanced at his watch. ‘As it’s already gone four, I’ll drop in to the bank first thing tomorrow morning.’

  The Prendergast cough. ‘First thing, Sir Hugo, is nine o’clock. And may I ask if you still have the eight hundred pounds I advanced to you in cash yesterday?’

  ‘Yes I do. But how can that still be of any significance?’

  ‘I do consider it would be prudent, Sir Hugo, to pay Mrs Clifton her thousand pounds before we bank United Dominion’s cheque for forty thousand. We wouldn’t want any embarrassing questions from head office at a later date.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Hugo as he looked at his suitcase, relieved that he hadn’t spent one penny of the £800.

  ‘There’s nothing more for me to say,’ said Prendergast, ‘other than to congratulate you on closing a most successful contract.’

  ‘How do you know about the contract?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Sir Hugo?’ said Prendergast sounding a little puzzled.

  ‘Oh, I thought you were referring to something else,’ said Hugo. ‘It’s of no importance, Prendergast. Forget I mentioned it,’ he added as he put the phone down.

  Miss Potts came back into the room. ‘The managing director is waiting to see you, chairman.’

  ‘Send him straight in.’

  ‘You’ve heard the good news, Ray?’ said Hugo as Compton entered the room.

  ‘I have indeed, chairman, and it couldn’t have come at a better time.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Hugo.

  ‘You’re due to present the company’s annual results at next month’s board meeting, and although we’ll still have to declare a heavy loss this year, the new contract will guarantee that we go into profit next year.’

  ‘And for five years after that,’ Hugo reminded him, waving the minister’s letter triumphantly. ‘Why don’t you prepare the agenda for the board meeting, but don’t include the news about the government contract. I’d rather like to make that announcement myself.’

  ‘As you wish, chairman. I’ll see that all the relevant papers are on your desk by noon tomorrow,’ Compton added before leaving the room.

  Hugo read the minister’s letter a fourth time. ‘Thirty thousand a year,’ he said out loud, just as the phone on his desk rang again.

  ‘A Mr Foster from Savills, the estate agency, is on the line,’ said Miss Potts.

  ‘Put him through.’

  ‘Good morning, Sir Hugo. My name is Foster. I’m the senior partner of Savills. I thought perhaps we ought to get together to discuss your instructions to sell Barrington Hall. Perhaps a spot of lunch at my club?’

  ‘No need to bother, Foster. I’ve changed my mind. Barrington Hall is no longer on the market,’ Hugo said, and put the phone down.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon signing a stack of letters and cheques his secretary put in front of him, and it was just after six o’clock when he finally screwed the cap back on his pen.

  When Miss Potts returned to collect all the correspondence, Hugo said, ‘I’ll see Tancock now.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Miss Potts with a hint of disapproval.

  While Hugo waited for Tancock to appear, he fell on his knees and opened the suitcase. He stared at the £800 that would have made it possible for him to survive in America while he waited for the funds raised by the sale of Barrington Hall. Now, that same £800 would be used to make him a fortune on Broad Street.

  When he heard a knock on the door, he snapped the lid of the suitcase closed and quickly returned to his desk.

  ‘Tancock to see you,’ said Miss Potts before closing the door behind her.

  The docker marched confidently into the room and approached the chairman’s desk.

  ‘So what’s this news that can’t wait?’ asked Hugo.

  ‘I’ve come to collect the other five quid what you owe me,’ Tancock said, with a look of triumph in his eyes.

  ‘I owe you nothing,’ said Hugo.

  ‘But I talked my sister into selling that land you wanted, didn’t I?’

  ‘We agreed on two hundred pounds, and I ended up having to pay five times that amount, so as I said, I owe you nothing. Get out of my office, and go back to work.’

  Stan didn’t budge. ‘And I’ve got that letter you said you wanted.’

  ‘What letter?’

  ‘The letter what our Maisie got from that doctor off the American ship.’

  Hugo had completely forgotten about the letter of condolence from Harry Clifton’s shipmate, and couldn’t imagine that it would be of any significance now Maisie had agreed to the sale. ‘I’ll give you a pound for it.’

  ‘You said you’d give me a fiver.’

  ‘I suggest you leave my office while you’ve still got a job, Tancock.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Stan, backing down, ‘you can have it for a quid. What’s it to me?’ He took a crumpled envelope out of his back pocket and handed it over to the chairman. Hugo extracted a ten-shilling note from his wallet and placed it on the desk in front of him.

  Stan stood his ground as Hugo put his wallet back in an inside pocket and stared defiantly at him.

  ‘You can have the letter or the ten-bob note. Take your choice.’

  Stan grabbed the ten-bob note and left the room grumbling under his breath.

  Hugo put the envelope to one side, leant back in his chair and thought about how he would spend some of the profit he’d made on the Broad Street deal. Once he’d been to the bank and signed all the necessary documents, he would walk across the road to the car saleroom. He had his eye on a 1937 2-litre 4-seater Aston Martin. He would then drive it across town and visit his tailor – he hadn’t had a suit made for longer than he cared to remember – and after the fitting, lunch at the club, where he would settle his outstanding bar bill. During the afternoon, he would set about replenishing the wine cellar at Barrington Hall, and might even consider redeeming from the pawnbroker some of the jewellery his mother seemed to miss so much. In the evening— there was a tap at the door.

  ‘I’m just leaving,’ said Miss Potts. ‘I want to get to the post office before seven to catch the last delivery. Do you need anything else, sir?’

  ‘No, Miss Potts. But I may be in a little late tomorrow, as I have an appointment with Mr Prendergast at nine o’clock.’

  ‘Of course, chairman,’ said Miss Potts.

  As the door closed behind her, his eyes settled on the crumpled envelope. He picked up a silver letter opener, slit the envelope open and pulled out a single sheet of paper. His eyes impatiently scanned the page, searching for relevant phrases.

  New York,

  September 8th, 1939

  My dearest mother,

  . . . I did not die when the Devonian was sunk . . . I was plucked out of the sea . . . the vain hope that at some time in the future I might be able to prove that Arthur Clifton and not Hugo Barrington was my father . . . I must beg you to keep my secret as steadfastly as you kept your own for so many years.

  Your loving son,

  Harry

  Hugo’s blood ran cold. All the triumphs of the day evaporated in an instant. This was not a letter he wanted to read a second time or, more important, that he wished anyone else to become aware of.

  He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and took out a box of Swan Vestas. He lit a match, held the letter over the wastepaper basket and didn’t let it go until the frail black cinders had evaporated into dust. The best ten shillings he’d ever spent.

  Hugo was confident that he was the only person who knew Clifton was still alive, and he intended it to remain that way. After all, if Clifton kept his word and continued to go by the name of Tom Bradshaw, how could anyone else find out the truth?

  He suddenly felt sick when he remembered that Emma was still in America. Had she somehow discovered that Clifton was alive? But surely that wasn’t possible if she hadn’t read the letter. He needed to find out why she’d gone to America.

  He had picked up the phone and begun to dial Mitchell’s