Clifton Chronicles 01 - Only Time Will Tell (26 page)

Hugo drove back to his office thinking that something had to be done before the situation got out of control. He decided to have another word with Colonel Danvers.

Once he was back behind his desk, he told Miss Potts he didn’t want to be disturbed. He waited until she’d closed the door before he picked up the telephone. A few moments later the chief constable was on the line.

‘It’s Hugo Barrington, Colonel.’

‘How are you, my boy?’ asked the chief constable.

‘I’m well, sir. I was wondering if you could advise me on a private matter.’

‘Fire away, old fellow.’

‘I’m looking for a new head of security, and I wondered if you might be able to point me in the right direction.’

‘As a matter of fact I do know a man who might fit the bill, but I’m not sure if he’s still available. I’ll find out and give you a call back.’

The chief constable was as good as his word, and phoned back the following morning. ‘The man I had in mind has a part-time job at the moment, but he’s looking for something more permanent.’

‘What can you tell me about him?’ asked Hugo.

‘He was being groomed for higher things in the force, but he had to leave when he was badly injured trying to apprehend a robber during a raid on the Midland Bank. You probably remember the story. It even hit the national press. In my opinion, he’d be the ideal candidate to head your security team, and frankly you’d be lucky to get him. If you’re still interested, I could drop you a line with his details.’

Barrington rang Derek Mitchell from his home, as he didn’t want Miss Potts to find out what he was up to. He agreed to meet the former policeman at the Royal Hotel at six o’clock on Monday evening, after Mrs Clifton would have left for the day and the Palm Court would be empty.

Hugo arrived a few minutes early and headed straight for a table at the far end of the room that he wouldn’t normally have considered. He took a seat behind the pillar, where he knew his meeting with Mitchell would not be seen or overheard. While he waited, he went over a list of questions in his mind that needed answering if he was going to put his trust in a complete stranger.

At three minutes to six, a tall, well-built man of military bearing pushed his way through the revolving doors. His dark navy blazer, grey flannels, short hair and highly polished shoes all suggested a life of discipline.

Hugo stood and raised a hand as if he was summoning a waiter. Mitchell walked slowly across the room, making no attempt to disguise a slight limp, an injury which, according to Danvers, was the reason Mitchell had been invalided out of the police service.

Hugo recalled the last occasion he’d come face to face with a police officer, but this time he would be asking the questions.

‘Good evening, sir.’

‘Good evening, Mitchell,’ said Hugo as they shook hands. Once Mitchell had sat down, Hugo took a closer look at his broken nose and cauliflower ears, and also recalled from Colonel Danvers’s notes that he used to play in the second row for Bristol.

‘Let me say from the outset, Mitchell,’ said Hugo, not wasting any time, ‘that what I want to discuss with you is of a highly confidential nature, and must be kept strictly between the two of us.’ Mitchell nodded. ‘It is so confidential, in fact, that even Colonel Danvers has no idea of the real reason I needed to see you, as I am certainly not looking for someone to head up my security operation.’

Mitchell’s face remained inscrutable as he waited to hear what Hugo had in mind.

‘I am looking for someone to act as a private detective. His sole purpose will be to report to me each month on the activities of a woman who lives in this city, and in fact works in this hotel.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘I want to know everything she gets up to, whether professional or personal, however insignificant it might seem. She must never, I repeat, never, become aware of your interest in her. So before I reveal her name, do you consider yourself capable of carrying out such an assignment?’

‘These things are never easy,’ said Mitchell, ‘but they’re not impossible. As a young detective sergeant, I worked on an undercover operation which resulted in a particularly loathsome individual ending up behind bars for sixteen years. If he were to walk into this hotel now, I’m confident he wouldn’t recognize me.’

Hugo smiled for the first time. ‘Before I go any further,’ he continued, ‘I need to know if you would be willing to take on such an assignment?’

‘That would depend on several things, sir.’

‘Such as?’

‘Would it be a full-time position, because I currently have a night security job, working for a bank.’

‘Hand in your notice tomorrow,’ said Hugo. ‘I don’t want you to be working for anyone else.’

‘And what are the hours?’

‘At your discretion.’

‘And my salary?’

‘I will pay you eight pounds a week, a month in advance, and will also cover any legitimate expenses.’

Mitchell nodded. ‘May I suggest you make any payments in cash, sir, so that nothing can be traced back to you?’

‘That seems sensible,’ said Hugo, who’d already made that decision.

‘And would you want the monthly reports to be in writing, or in person?’

‘In person. I want as little committed to paper as possible.’

‘Then we should always meet at a different location and never on the same day of the week. That way it would be unlikely that anyone would come across us more than once.’

‘I have no problem with that,’ said Hugo.

‘When would you want me to start, sir?’

‘You started half an hour ago,’ said Barrington. He removed a slip of paper and an envelope containing £32 from an inside pocket and handed them to Mitchell.

Mitchell studied the name and address written on the piece of paper for a few moments before handing it back to his new boss. ‘I’ll also need your private number, sir, and details of when and where you can be contacted.’

‘At my office any evening between five and six,’ said Hugo. ‘You must never contact me at home unless it’s an emergency,’ he added as he took out a pen.

‘Just tell me the numbers, sir, don’t write them down.’

23

‘W
ERE YOU THINKING OF
attending Master Giles’s birthday party?’ asked Miss Potts.

Hugo looked at his diary.
Giles, 12th birthday
,
3 p.m., Manor House
was written in bold letters at the top of the page.

‘Do I have time to pick up a present on the way home?’

Miss Potts left the room, and returned a moment later carrying a large parcel wrapped in shiny red paper and tied with a ribbon.

‘What’s inside?’ asked Hugo.

‘The latest Roberts radio; the one he asked for when you visited him in the san last month.’

‘Thank you, Miss Potts,’ said Hugo. He checked his watch. ‘I’d better leave now if I’m going to be in time to see him cut the cake.’

Miss Potts placed a thick file in his briefcase and before he could ask, she said, ‘Your background notes for tomorrow morning’s board meeting. You can go over them after Master Giles has returned to St Bede’s. That way there will be no need for you to come back this evening.’

‘Thank you, Miss Potts,’ said Hugo. ‘You think of everything.’

As he drove through the city on his way home, Hugo couldn’t help noticing how many more cars there seemed to be on the highway than there had been a year ago. Pedestrians were becoming more wary of casually crossing the road since the government had increased the speed limit to 30 miles per hour. A horse reared up as Hugo shot past a hansom cab. He wondered how much longer they could hope to survive now that the city council had authorized its first taxi cab.

Once he had driven out of the city, Hugo sped up, not wanting to be late for his son’s party. How quickly the boy was growing. He was already taller than his mother. Would he end up taller than his father?

When Giles left St Bede’s and took up his place at Eton in a year’s time, Hugo felt confident that his friendship with the Clifton boy would soon be forgotten, although he realized there were other difficulties that needed to be addressed before then.

He slowed down as he passed through the gates of his estate. He always enjoyed the long drive through the avenue of oaks up to the Manor House. Jenkins was standing on the top step as Hugo got out of the car. He held open the front door and said, ‘Mrs Barrington is in the drawing room sir, with Master Giles and two of his school friends.’

As he walked into the hall, Emma came running down the stairs and threw her arms around her father.

‘What’s in the parcel?’ she demanded.

‘A birthday present for your brother.’

‘Yes, but what is it?’

‘You’ll have to wait and see, young lady,’ said her father with a smile before he handed his briefcase to the butler. ‘Would you put that in my study, Jenkins,’ he said as Emma grabbed him by the hand and began to tug him towards the drawing room.

Hugo’s smile evaporated the moment he opened the door and saw who was sitting on the sofa.

Giles leapt up and ran towards his father, who handed him the parcel and said, ‘Happy birthday, my boy.’

‘Thank you, Papa,’ he said, before introducing his friends.

Hugo shook Deakins’s hand, but when Harry offered his, he just said, ‘Good afternoon, Clifton,’ and sat down in his favourite chair.

Hugo watched with interest as Giles undid the ribbon on his parcel and they both saw the present for the first time. Even his son’s unbridled delight with his new radio didn’t bring a smile to Hugo’s lips. He had a question that he needed to ask Clifton, but it mustn’t appear as if the boy’s reply was of any significance.

He remained silent while the three boys took turns tuning into the two stations and listening intently to the strange voices and music that came out of the speaker. This was regularly followed by laughter or applause.

Mrs Barrington chatted to Harry about a recent concert of the
Messiah
she’d attended, adding how much she’d enjoyed his rendition of
I Know That My Redeemer Liveth
.

‘Thank you, Mrs Barrington,’ said Harry.

‘Are you hoping to go on to Bristol Grammar School after you leave St Bede’s, Clifton?’ asked Hugo, spotting an opening.

‘Only if I win a scholarship, sir,’ he replied.

‘But why is that important?’ asked Mrs Barrington. ‘Surely you will be offered a place, like any other boy?’

‘Because my mother wouldn’t be able to afford the fees, Mrs Barrington. She’s a waitress at the Royal Hotel.’

‘But wouldn’t your father—’

‘He’s dead,’ said Harry. ‘He was killed in the war.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Barrington. ‘I didn’t realize.’

At that moment the door opened and the under-butler entered the room carrying a large cake on a silver tray. After Giles had succeeded in blowing out all twelve candles with one puff, everyone applauded.

‘And when’s your birthday, Clifton?’ asked Hugo.

‘It was last month, sir,’ Harry replied.

After Giles had cut the cake, Hugo stood up and left the room without another word.

He went straight to his study, but found he couldn’t concentrate on his papers for the next day’s board meeting. Clifton’s reply meant he would have to seek advice from a lawyer who specialized in the law of heredity.

After an hour or so he heard voices in the hall, then the front door closing and the sound of a car driving away. A few minutes later there was a knock on his study door, and Elizabeth walked in.

‘What made you leave us so abruptly?’ she asked. ‘And why didn’t you come and say goodbye, when you must have known Giles and his guests were leaving?’

‘I have a very tricky board meeting tomorrow morning,’ he said without looking up.

‘That’s no reason not to say goodbye to your son, especially on his birthday.’

‘I’ve got a lot on my mind,’ he said, still looking down at his notes.

‘Surely nothing is so important that you need to be rude to guests. You were more offhand with Harry Clifton than you would be with one of the servants.’

Hugo looked up for the first time. ‘That’s possibly because I consider Clifton inferior to our servants.’ Elizabeth looked shocked. ‘Did you know that his father was a dock labourer and his mother is a waitress? I’m not sure that’s the sort of boy Giles should be mixing with.’

‘Giles clearly thinks otherwise, and whatever his background, Harry’s a charming boy. I can’t understand why you’re so against him. You didn’t treat Deakins that way, and his father’s a newsagent.’

‘He’s also an open scholar.’

And Harry is the school’s prize choral scholar, as every church-going citizen in Bristol knows. Next time you come across him, I hope you’ll be a little more civil.’ Without another word, Elizabeth left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.