Be Careful What You Wish For (The Clifton Chronicles) Read online

  “Doesn’t sound like a bestseller to me,” said Harold. “So tell me, how’s Sebastian coming along?”

  “He’s in a wheelchair. But his surgeon assures me not for much longer, and they’re allowing him out for the first time next week.”

  “Bravo. Does that mean he’ll be going home?”

  “No, Matron won’t allow him to travel that far yet; perhaps a trip to Cambridge to visit his tutor, and have tea with his aunt.”

  “Sounds worse than school to me. Still, it can’t be too long before he finally escapes.”

  “Or is thrown out. I’m not sure which will come first.”

  “Why would they want to throw him out?”

  “One or two of the nurses have begun taking a greater interest in Seb as each bandage comes off, and I’m afraid he isn’t discouraging them.”

  “The dance of the seven veils,” said Harold. Harry laughed. “Is he still hoping to go up to Cambridge in September?”

  “As far as I can tell, yes. But he’s changed so much since the accident, nothing would surprise me.”

  “How has he changed?”

  “Nothing I can put a finger on. It’s just that he’s matured in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible a year ago. And I think I’ve discovered why.”

  “Sounds intriguing.”

  “It certainly is. I’ll fill you in on the details when I next come to New York.”

  “Do I have to wait that long?”

  “Yes, because it’s like my writing, I have no idea what will happen when I turn the page.”

  “So tell me about our one girl in a million.”

  “Not you as well,” said Harry.

  “Please tell Jessica that I’ve hung her drawing of the Manor House in autumn in my study, next to a Roy Lichtenstein.”

  “Who’s Roy Lichtenstein?”

  “He’s the latest fad in New York, but I can’t see him lasting too long. In my opinion Jessica’s a far better draftsman. Please tell her that if she’ll paint me a picture of New York in the fall, I’ll give her a Lichtenstein for Christmas.”

  “I wonder if she’s heard of him.”

  “Before I ring off, dare I ask how the latest William Warwick novel is progressing?”

  “It would be progressing a damn sight faster if I wasn’t continually interrupted.”

  “Sorry,” said Harold. “They didn’t tell me you were writing.”

  “Truth is, Warwick has come up against an insurmountable problem. Or to be more accurate, I have.”

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  “No. That’s why you’re the publisher and I’m the author.”

  “What sort of problem?” persisted Harold.

  “Warwick’s found the ex-wife’s body at the bottom of a lake, but he’s fairly sure that she was killed before being dumped in the water.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Mine, or William Warwick’s?”

  “Warwick’s first.”

  “He’s being made to wait for at least twenty-four hours before he can get his hands on the pathologist’s report.”

  “And your problem?”

  “I’ve got twenty-four hours before I have to decide what needs to be in that report.”

  “Does Warwick know who killed the ex-wife?”

  “He can’t be sure. There are five suspects at the moment, and every one of them has a motive … and an alibi.”

  “But I presume you know who did it?”

  “No, I don’t,” Harry admitted. “Because if I don’t know, then neither can the reader.”

  “Isn’t that a bit of a risk?”

  “Sure is. But it also makes it a damn sight more challenging, both for me and the reader.”

  “I can’t wait to read the first draft.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “Sorry. I’ll let you get back to your ex-wife’s body in the lake. I’ll call again in a week’s time to see if you’ve worked out who dumped her there.”

  When Guinzburg hung up, Harry replaced the receiver and looked down at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. He tried to concentrate.

  So what’s your opinion, Percy?

  Too early to make an accurate assessment. I’ll need to get her back to the lab and carry out some more tests before I can give you a considered judgment.

  When can I expect to get your preliminary report? asked Warwick.

  You’re always so impatient, William …

  Harry looked up. He suddenly realized who’d committed the murder.

  * * *

  Although Emma hadn’t been willing to accept Sebastian’s suggestion that she should co-opt Giles and Grace on to the board to ensure she couldn’t lose the crucial vote, she still considered it her duty to keep her brother and sister up to date on what was going on. Emma was proud to represent the family on the board, although she knew only too well that neither of her siblings was particularly interested in what went on behind closed doors at Barrington’s, as long as they received their quarterly dividends.

  Giles was preoccupied with his responsibilities at the House of Commons, which had become even more demanding after Hugh Gaitskell had invited him to join the Shadow Cabinet, to cover the European portfolio. This meant that he was rarely seen in his constituency, despite being expected to nurse a marginal seat while at the same time regularly visiting those countries that had a vote on whether Britain should be allowed to join the EEC. However, Labor had been ahead in the opinion polls for several months, and it was looking increasingly likely that Giles would become a Cabinet minister after the next election. So the last thing he needed was to be distracted by “trouble at t’mill.”

  Harry and Emma were delighted when Giles had finally announced his engagement to Gwyneth Hughes, not in The Times’ social column, but at the Ostrich public house in the heart of his constituency.

  “I want to see you married before the next election,” declared Griff Haskins, his constituency agent. “And if Gwyneth could be pregnant by the first week of the campaign, that would be even better.”

  “How romantic,” Giles sighed.

  “I’m not interested in romance,” said Griff. “I’m here to make sure you’re still sitting in the House of Commons after the next election, because if you’re not, you sure as hell won’t be in the Cabinet.”

  Giles wanted to laugh, but he knew Griff was right.

  “Has a date been fixed?” asked Emma, who had strolled across to join them.

  “For the wedding, or the general election?”

  “For the wedding, idiot.”

  “May the seventeenth at Chelsea Register Office,” said Giles.

  “Bit of a contrast from St. Margaret’s, Westminster, but at least this time Harry and I can hope to receive an invitation.”

  “I’ve asked Harry to be my best man,” said Giles. “But I’m not so sure about you,” he added with a grin.

  * * *

  The timing could have been better, but the only chance Emma had to see her sister was on the evening before the crucial board meeting. She had already been in touch with those directors who she was confident supported her position, as well as one or two she felt might be wavering. But she wanted to let Grace know that she still couldn’t predict which way the vote would fall.

  Grace took even less interest in the company’s fortunes than Giles, and on one or two occasions had even forgotten to cash her quarterly dividend check. She had recently been appointed Senior Tutor at Newnham, so she rarely ventured beyond the outskirts of Cambridge. Emma was occasionally able to tempt her sister up to London for a visit to the Royal Opera House, but only for a matinee, with just enough time for supper before catching the train back to Cambridge. As Grace explained, she didn’t care to sleep in a strange bed. So sophisticated at one level, so parochial at another, their dear mother had once remarked.

  Luchino Visconti’s production of Verdi’s Don Carlo had proved irresistible, and Grace even lingered over supper, listening intently