Best Kept Secret Read online

  When the clock struck eleven, Harry, who might have had one brandy too many, rose unsteadily from his chair. He didn’t need reminding that at six the next morning Natalie would be standing in the hotel lobby, waiting to whisk him off for his first radio interview of the day. He thanked his hostess for a memorable evening, and for his trouble received another bear hug.

  ‘Now, don’t forget,’ she said, ‘whenever you’re interviewed, think British, act Yiddish. And if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, or a half-decent meal, just like the Windmill Theatre we never close.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Harry.

  ‘And when you next speak to Emma,’ said Alistair, ‘do remember to send our love, and be sure to chastise her for not accompanying you on this trip.’

  Harry decided this wasn’t the moment to tell them about Sebastian and what the doctors described as his hyper-active problem.

  The three of them somehow squeezed into the lift, and Harry received one last hug from Phyllis, before Parker opened the front door and he was cast back on to the streets of Manhattan.

  ‘Oh hell,’ he said after he’d walked a short way down Park Avenue. He turned and ran back to Phyllis’s house, up the steps and banged on the front door. The butler didn’t appear quite as quickly this time.

  ‘I need to see Mrs Stuart urgently,’ said Harry. ‘I hope she hasn’t gone to bed.’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, sir,’ said Parker. ‘Please, follow me.’ He led Harry back down the corridor and into the lift where once again he pressed the button for the third floor.

  Phyllis was standing by the mantelpiece puffing away on her cheroot when Harry made his second entrance. It was her turn to look surprised.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘but Emma will never forgive me if I return to England without discovering what’s happened to that lawyer who foolishly underestimated her.’

  ‘Sefton Jelks,’ said Alistair, looking up from his seat by the fire. ‘The damn man finally resigned as senior partner of Jelks, Myers and Abernathy, albeit somewhat reluctantly.’

  ‘Shortly afterwards, he disappeared off to Minnesota,’ added Phyllis.

  ‘And he won’t be returning in the near future,’ said Alistair, ‘as he died some months ago.’

  ‘My son is a typical lawyer,’ said Phyllis, stubbing out her cheroot. ‘He only ever tells you half the story. Jelks’s first heart attack warranted a small mention in the New York Times, and it was only after the third that he received a short and not very flattering paragraph at the bottom of the obituary page.’

  ‘Which was more than he deserved,’ said Alistair.

  ‘I agree,’ said Phyllis. ‘Although it gave me considerable pleasure to discover that only four people attended his funeral.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Alistair.

  ‘Because I was one of them,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘You travelled all the way to Minnesota just to attend Sefton Jelks’s funeral?’ said Harry in disbelief.

  ‘I most certainly did.’

  ‘But why?’ demanded Alistair.

  ‘You could never trust Sefton Jelks,’ she explained. ‘I wouldn’t have been truly convinced he was dead until I’d seen his coffin being lowered into the ground, and even then I waited until the gravediggers had filled in the hole.’

  ‘Please have a seat, Mrs Clifton.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Emma as she sat down on a wooden chair and faced the three governors, who were in comfortable seats behind a long table on a raised dais.

  ‘My name is David Slater,’ said the man in the centre, ‘and I’ll be chairing this afternoon’s meeting. Allow me to introduce my colleagues, Miss Braithwaite and Mr Needham.’

  Emma tried to make a rapid assessment of the three invigilators she was facing. The chairman wore a three-piece suit, an old school tie she recognized, and looked as if this wasn’t the only board he chaired. Miss Braithwaite, who sat on his right, was dressed in a pre-war tweed suit and thick woollen stockings. Her hair was done up in a bun, leaving Emma in no doubt that she was a spinster of this parish, and the set of her lips suggested she didn’t smile that often. The gentleman on the chairman’s left was younger than his two colleagues, and reminded Emma that it was not so long ago that Britain had been at war. His bushy moustache suggested the RAF.

  ‘The board has studied your application with interest, Mrs Clifton,’ began the chairman, ‘and with your permission, we would like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Emma, trying to relax.

  ‘How long have you been considering adoption, Mrs Clifton?’

  ‘Ever since I realized I couldn’t have another child,’ replied Emma, without adding any details. The two men smiled sympathetically, but Miss Braithwaite remained po-faced.

  ‘You state on your application form,’ continued the chairman, looking down at his papers, ‘that you would prefer to adopt a girl aged around five or six. Is there any particular reason for that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘My son Sebastian is an only child, and my husband and I felt it would be good for him to be brought up with someone who hasn’t had all the advantages and privileges he has taken for granted since birth.’ She hoped her reply hadn’t sounded too rehearsed, and could have sworn the chairman placed a tick in a box.

  ‘Can we assume from your answer,’ said the chairman, ‘that there are no financial restrictions that might hinder you bringing up a second child?’

  ‘None whatsoever, Mr Chairman. My husband and I are comfortably off.’ Emma noticed this elicited another tick.

  ‘I only have one more question,’ said the chairman. ‘You stated in your application that you would consider a child from any religious background. May I ask if you are affiliated to any particular church?’

  ‘Like Dr Barnardo,’ said Emma, ‘I am a Christian. My husband was a choral scholar at St Mary Redcliffe.’ Looking directly at the chairman, she added, ‘Before he went on to Bristol Grammar School, where he ended up as the senior chorister. I was educated at Red Maids’ School, before winning a scholarship to Oxford.’

  The chairman touched his tie, and Emma felt things couldn’t be going much better, until Miss Braithwaite tapped her pencil on the table. The chairman nodded in her direction.

  ‘You mentioned your husband, Mrs Clifton. May I enquire why he isn’t with you today?’

  ‘He’s in the United States on a book tour. He’ll be returning in a couple of weeks’ time.’

  ‘Is he often away?’

  ‘No. Very rarely in fact. My husband is a writer by profession, so he’s at home most of the time.’

  ‘But he must need to visit a library occasionally,’ suggested Miss Braithwaite, with what might have passed as a smile.

  ‘No, we have our own library,’ said Emma, regretting the words the moment she’d uttered them.

  ‘And do you work?’ Miss Braithwaite asked, making it sound like a crime.

  ‘No, although I assist my husband in any way I can. However, I consider being a wife and mother a full-time job.’ Although Harry had recommended this line, he knew only too well that Emma didn’t believe it, and she now believed it even less after meeting Cyrus Feldman.

  ‘And how long have you been married, Mrs Clifton?’ persisted Miss Braithwaite.

  ‘Just over three years.’

  ‘But I see from your application form that your son Sebastian is eight years old.’

  ‘Yes, he is. Harry and I were engaged in 1939, but he felt it was his duty to sign up even before war had been declared.’

  Miss Braithwaite was about to ask another question, when the man on the chairman’s left leant forward and said, ‘So you were married soon after the war ended, Mrs Clifton?’

  ‘Sadly not,’ said Emma, looking at a man who only had one arm. ‘My husband was badly wounded by a German landmine only days before the war ended, and it was some time before he was fit enough to be discharged from hospital.’

  Miss Braithwaite still