Clifton Chronicles 01 - Only Time Will Tell (27 page)

Sir Walter Barrington remained in his place at the head of the boardroom table as his son entered the room.

‘I’m becoming increasingly concerned about the government’s proposed legislation on import tariffs,’ said Hugo as he took a seat on the right of his father, ‘and the effect it might have on our balance sheet.’

‘That’s why we have a lawyer on the board,’ said Sir Walter, ‘so that he can advise us on such matters.’

‘But I’ve calculated that it could cost us twenty thousand pounds a year if it becomes law. Don’t you think we ought to seek a second opinion?’

‘I suppose I could have a word with Sir James Amhurst when I’m next in London.’

‘I’m travelling up to London on Tuesday for the Association of British Ship Owners’ annual dinner,’ said Hugo. ‘As he’s the industry’s legal adviser, perhaps I should have a word with him.’

‘Only if you’re convinced it’s necessary,’ said Sir Walter. ‘And don’t forget that Amhurst charges by the hour, even at dinner.’

The Association of British Ship Owners’ dinner was held at the Grosvenor House, and was attended by over a thousand members and their guests.

Hugo had earlier phoned the association’s secretary and asked if he could be seated next to Sir James Amhurst. The secretary raised an eyebrow, but agreed to rearrange the guests on the top table. After all, old Joshua Barrington had been a founder member of the association.

After the Bishop of Newcastle had said grace, Hugo made no attempt to interrupt the eminent silk while he was deep in conversation with the man on his right. However, when the lawyer finally turned his attention to the stranger they’d put on his left, Hugo didn’t waste any time in getting to the point.

‘My father, Sir Walter Barrington,’ he began, capturing his quarry’s attention, ‘is rather concerned about the import tariff bill that is going through the House of Commons, and the effects it might have on the industry. He wonders if he could consult you on the subject when he’s next in London.’

‘By all means, dear boy,’ said Sir James. ‘Just ask his secretary to give my clerk a call and I’ll make sure I’m free when he’s next in town.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Hugo. ‘On a lighter note, I wondered if you’d ever read anything by Agatha Christie?’

‘Can’t say I have,’ said Sir James. ‘Is she any good?’

‘I’m much enjoying her latest book,
Where There’s a Will
,’ said Hugo, ‘but I’m not sure if the plot would stand up in a court of law.’

‘What’s the lady suggesting?’ asked Amhurst as a sliver of over-cooked beef served on a cold plate was placed in front of him.

‘According to Miss Christie, the eldest son of an hereditary knight automatically inherits his father’s title, even if the child is illegitimate.’

‘Ah, now that is indeed an interesting legal conundrum,’ said Sir James. ‘In fact, the Law Lords have quite recently reviewed such a case. Benson
v
. Carstairs, if I remember correctly. It’s often referred to by the press as “the bastard’s amendment”.’

‘And what conclusion did their lordships come to?’ asked Hugo, trying not to sound too interested.

‘If no loophole could be found in the original will, they came out in favour of the first born, even if the young man in question was illegitimate.’ Another answer Hugo hadn’t wanted to hear. ‘However,’ Sir James continued, ‘their lordships decided to cover their backsides, and added a codicil that each case should be treated on its own merits, and then only after it had been reviewed by the Garter King of Arms. Typical of the Law Lords,’ he added before picking up his knife and fork and attacking the beef. ‘Too frightened to set a precedent, but quite happy to pass the buck.’

When Sir James returned his attention to the man on his right, Hugo thought about the implications of Harry Clifton discovering that he might have the right to inherit not only the Barrington shipping line, but also the family estate. Having to admit he had sired an illegitimate son would be bad enough, but the idea of Harry Clifton inheriting the family title after his death and becoming Sir Harry did not bear thinking about. He would be willing to do anything in his power to make sure that wouldn’t be the outcome.

24

H
UGO
B
ARRINGTON
was having breakfast when he read the letter from the headmaster of St Bede’s, outlining the details of an appeal the school was launching to raise a thousand pounds to build a new cricket pavilion for the First XI. He opened his cheque book and had written the figures ‘100’ when he was distracted by the sound of a car coming to a halt on the gravel outside.

Hugo walked across to the window to see who could possibly be visiting him so early on a Saturday morning. He was puzzled when he saw his son step out of the back of a taxi carrying a suitcase, as he’d been looking forward to watching him open the batting for the school that afternoon in the final match of the season against Avonhurst.

Jenkins appeared just in time to open the front door as Giles reached the top step. ‘Good morning, Master Giles,’ he said, as if he’d been expecting him.

Hugo walked quickly out of the breakfast room to find his son standing in the hall, head bowed, suitcase by his side. ‘What are you doing at home?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t there another week to go before the end of term?’

‘I’ve been rusticated,’ said Giles simply.

‘Rusticated?’ repeated his father. ‘And what have you done to merit that, may I ask?’

Giles looked up at Jenkins, who stood silently by the front door. ‘I’ll take Master Giles’s suitcase up to his bedroom,’ the butler said, before picking up the bag and proceeding slowly up the stairs.

‘Follow me,’ said Hugo once the butler was out of sight.

Neither of them spoke again until Hugo had closed the study door behind him. ‘What have you done to cause the school to take such a drastic measure?’ demanded his father as he sank back into his chair.

‘I was caught stealing from the tuck shop,’ said Giles, who had been left standing in the middle of the room.

‘Is there some simple explanation? A misunderstanding, perhaps?’

‘No, there isn’t, sir,’ said Giles, fighting back tears.

‘Do you have anything to say in your defence?’

‘No, sir.’ Giles hesitated. ‘Except . . .’

‘Except what?’

‘I always gave the sweets away, Papa. I never kept them for myself.’

‘To Clifton, no doubt.’

‘And to Deakins as well,’ said Giles.

‘Was it Clifton who put you up to it in the first place?’

‘No, it was not,’ responded Giles firmly. ‘In fact, once he found out what I’d been up to, Harry always took the sweets I gave him and Deakins back to the tuck shop. He even took the blame when Mr Frobisher accused him of stealing them.’

A long silence followed before his father said, ‘So you’ve been rusticated, not actually expelled?’

Giles nodded.

‘Do you think they will allow you to go back next term?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Giles.

‘What makes you so sure of that?’

‘Because I’ve never seen the headmaster so angry.’

‘Not half as angry as your mother will be when she finds out.’

‘Please don’t tell her, Papa,’ pleaded Giles, bursting into tears.

‘And how do you expect me to explain to her why you’re home a week early and might not even be returning to St Bede’s next term?’

Giles made no attempt to respond, but continued to sob quietly.

‘And Heaven knows what your grandparents will say,’ his father added, ‘when I have to tell them why you won’t be going to Eton after all.’

Another long silence followed.

‘Go to your room, and don’t even think about coming back down until I say so.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Giles. He turned to leave.

‘And whatever you do, don’t discuss this with anyone, especially not in front of the servants.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ said Giles, who ran out of the room, nearly colliding with Jenkins as he shot past him on the stairs.

Hugo leant forward in his chair, trying to think if there might be some way to turn the situation around before he had to face an inevitable call from the headmaster. He placed his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands, but it was some time before his eyes focused on the cheque.

A smile crossed his lips as he added an extra nought before signing it.

25

M
ITCHELL WAS SEATED
in the far corner of the waiting room, reading the
Bristol Evening Post
when Hugo walked across and sat down beside him. It was so draughty that Hugo kept his hands in his pockets.

‘The subject,’ said Mitchell, still looking at his newspaper, ‘is trying to raise five hundred pounds for a business venture.’

‘What sort of business venture could she possibly be interested in?’

‘Tilly’s tea shop,’ replied Mitchell. ‘It seems the subject worked there before she moved to the Palm Court room at the Royal. Miss Tilly has recently had an offer of five hundred pounds for the business from a Mr Edward Atkins. Miss Tilly doesn’t care for Atkins and has made it clear to the subject that if she were able to raise the same amount, she would prefer her to take over the business.’

‘Where could she possibly hope to get hold of that much money?’

‘Perhaps from someone who wished to have financial control over her, which might at a later date prove advantageous?’

Hugo remained silent. Mitchell’s eyes never left his paper.

‘Has she approached anyone to try and raise the money?’ Hugo eventually asked.

‘She’s currently taking advice from a Mr Patrick Casey, who represents Dillon and Co., a finance company based in Dublin. They specialize in raising loans for private clients.’

‘How do I get in touch with Casey?’

‘I wouldn’t advise that,’ said Mitchell.

‘Why not?’

‘He visits Bristol about once a month, and always stays at the Royal.’

‘We wouldn’t have to meet at the Royal.’

‘He has struck up a close personal relationship with the subject. Whenever he’s in town he takes her to dinner or the theatre, and recently she’s been seen returning with him to the hotel, where they spend the night together in room 371.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Hugo. ‘Anything else?’

‘It may also interest you to know that the subject banks with the National Provincial, 49 Corn Street. The manager is a Mr Prendergast. Her current account is showing a balance of twelve pounds and nine shillings.’

Hugo would like to have asked how Mitchell had come across that particular piece of information, but satisfied himself with saying, ‘Excellent. The moment you come up with anything else, however insignificant, ring me.’ He took a bulky envelope from his overcoat pocket and slipped it across to Mitchell.

‘The train now arriving at platform nine is the seven twenty-two from Taunton.’

Mitchell pocketed the envelope, folded his newspaper and walked out of the waiting room. He’d never once looked at his employer.

Hugo had been unable to hide his anger when he discovered the real reason Giles had failed to be offered a place at Eton. He’d phoned the headmaster, who refused to take his calls, his prospective housemaster, who sympathized but offered no hope of redemption, and even the provost, who said he’d call back, but didn’t. Although Elizabeth and the girls had no idea what had caused Hugo to so regularly lose his temper of late, and for no apparent reason, they continued to bear the brunt of Giles’s misdemeanours with equanimity.

Hugo reluctantly accompanied Giles to Bristol Grammar School on his first day of term, although he wouldn’t allow either Emma or Grace to join them, despite Emma bursting into tears and sulking.

When Hugo brought the car to a halt in College Street, the first person he saw standing outside the school gates was Harry Clifton. Even before he pulled on the brake, Giles had leapt out and run across to greet his friend.

Hugo avoided mingling with the other parents, whom Elizabeth seemed quite happy to chat to, and when he inadvertently came across Clifton, he made a point of not shaking hands with him.

On the journey back to the Manor House, Elizabeth asked her husband why he treated Giles’s best friend with such disdain. Hugo reminded his wife that their son should have gone to Eton, where he would have mixed with other gentlemen and not with the sons of local tradesmen and, in Clifton’s case, far worse. Elizabeth retreated into the comparative safety of silence, as she had so often done recently.