Clifton Chronicles 02 - The Sins of the Father (17 page)

‘No less.’

‘I’m not even going to ask why.’

She began to read the book a second time, making pencil notes in the margin, but long before the new deputy librarian had started, she had fallen asleep. She woke around five the next morning, and didn’t stop reading until a prison officer entered the library and said, ‘Lloyd, the warden wants to see you.’

Emma took a long, lazy bath, and considered the fact that all the information she’d been trying so hard to discover had been available for a dollar fifty from any bookstore.

Once she was dressed, she went down to breakfast and picked up a copy of the
New York Times
. She was taken by surprise as she turned the pages to come across a review of
The Diary of a Convict
.

We should be grateful to Mr Lloyd for bringing to our attention what is happening in our prisons today. Lloyd is a gifted writer with real talent, and we must hope that now he’s been released, he will not put down his pen.

He never picked it up in the first place, thought Emma indignantly as she signed her bill.

Before going back up to her room, she asked the receptionist to recommend a good restaurant near Doubleday’s bookstore.

‘The Brasserie, madam. It has a first-class reputation. Would you like me to book a table for you?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Emma. ‘I’d like a table for one at lunch today, and another for two this evening.’

The receptionist was quickly learning not to be surprised by the lady from England.

Emma returned to her room and settled down to read the diary once more. She was puzzled why the narrative opened with Harry’s arrival at Lavenham, despite the fact that there were several references scattered throughout the book which suggested that his previous experiences had also been recorded, even if they hadn’t been seen by the publisher, and certainly not the public. In fact, this convinced Emma that there had to be another notebook in existence, which would not only describe Harry’s arrest and trial, but might explain why he had put himself through such an ordeal, when a lawyer of Mr Jelks’s standing must have known that he was not Tom Bradshaw.

After reading marked pages of the diaries for a third time, Emma decided another long stroll in the park was required. As she walked up Lexington Avenue, she dropped into Bloomingdales and placed an order that she was assured would be ready for collection by three o’clock. In Bristol, the same order would have taken a fortnight.

As she walked through the park, a plan was beginning to form in her mind, but she needed to return to Doubleday’s and take a closer look at the store’s layout before she could apply the finishing touches. When she walked into the bookstore, the staff were already preparing for the author signing. A table was in place and a roped-off area showed clearly where the line should form. The poster in the window now had a bold red banner across it declaring,
TODAY
.

Emma selected a gap between two rows of shelves from which she would have a clear view of Lloyd while he was signing, and would be able to observe her prey while setting him a trap.

She left Doubleday’s just before 1 p.m., and made her way across Fifth Avenue to the Brasserie. A waiter showed her to a table that would never have been considered acceptable by either of her grandfathers. But the meal was, as promised, first class, and when the bill was presented, she took a deep breath, and left a large tip.

‘I’ve booked a table for this evening,’ she said to the waiter. ‘Would it be possible to be seated in an alcove?’ The waiter looked doubtful, until Emma produced a dollar bill, which seemed to remove any doubt. She was getting the hang of how things worked in America.

‘What’s your name?’ Emma asked as she passed him the note.

‘Jimmy,’ the waiter replied.

‘And another thing, Jimmy.’

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘May I keep a copy of the menu?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’

On the way back to the Mayflower, Emma called in at Bloomingdales and picked up her order. She smiled when the clerk showed her an example of the card. ‘I hope it’s satisfactory, madam.’

‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Emma. Once she was back in her room, she went over her prepared questions again and again, and after deciding on the best possible order, she pencilled them neatly on to the back of the menu. Exhausted, she lay down on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

When the persistent ringing of the phone woke her, it was already dark outside. She checked her watch: 5.10 p.m.

‘Damn,’ she said as she picked up the phone.

‘I know the feeling,’ said a voice on the other end of the line, ‘even if that wasn’t the four-letter word I would have chosen.’ Emma laughed. ‘The name you’re looking for is Brett Elders . . . I didn’t tell you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Emma. ‘I’ll try not to bother you again.’

‘I wish,’ said the detective, and the line went dead.

Emma wrote the name ‘Brett Elders’ neatly in pencil at the top right-hand corner of the menu. She would like to have taken a quick shower and changed her clothes, but she was already running late and she couldn’t afford to miss him.

She grabbed the menu and three of the cards. Stuffing them into her bag, she then dashed out of the door and down the staircase, not waiting for the elevator. She hailed a cab and leapt into the back. ‘Doubleday’s on Fifth,’ she said, ‘and make it snappy.’

Oh no, Emma thought, as the taxi sped away. What’s happening to me?

Emma entered the crowded bookstore and took her chosen spot between politics and religion, from where she could observe Max Lloyd at work.

He was signing each book with a flourish, basking in the glow of his adoring fans. Emma knew it should have been Harry sitting there receiving the accolades. Did he even know his work had been published? Would she find out tonight?

As it turned out, she needn’t have rushed, because Lloyd went on signing his runaway bestseller for another hour, until the line began to dwindle. He was taking longer and longer with each message, in the hope that it might entice others to join the queue.

As he was chatting expansively to the last customer in the line, Emma deserted her post and strolled across.

‘And how is your dear mother?’ the customer was asking effusively.

‘Very well, thank you,’ said Lloyd. ‘No longer having to work in a hotel,’ he added, ‘following the success of my book.’

The customer smiled. ‘And Emma, dare I ask?’

‘We’re going to be married in the fall,’ said Lloyd after he’d signed her copy.

Are we indeed? thought Emma.

‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ said the customer. ‘She sacrificed so much for you. Do give her my best wishes.’

Why don’t you turn around and do it in person, Emma wanted to say.

‘I most certainly will,’ said Lloyd, as he handed her the book and gave her his back-cover smile.

Emma stepped forward and handed a card to Lloyd. He studied it for a moment before the same smile reappeared.

‘A fellow agent,’ he said, standing to greet her.

Emma shook his outstretched hand, and somehow managed to return his smile. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and several publishers in London are showing considerable interest in the rights to your book. Of course, if you’ve already signed a contract, or are represented by another agent in England, I wouldn’t want to waste your time.’

‘No, no, dear lady, I’m very happy to consider any proposal you might have.’

‘Then perhaps you would join me for dinner, so we can talk further?’

‘I think they’re expecting me to have dinner with them,’ whispered Lloyd, waving an expansive hand in the direction of some of the members of the Doubleday staff.

‘What a pity,’ said Emma. ‘I’m flying to LA tomorrow to visit Hemingway.’

‘Then I’ll have to disappoint them, won’t I?’ said Lloyd. ‘I’m sure they’ll understand.’

‘Good. Shall we meet at the Brasserie, then, when you’ve finished signing?’

‘You’ll do well to get a table at such short notice.’

‘I don’t think that will be a problem,’ said Emma, before one last customer stepped forward, still hoping to get a signature. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you later, Mr Lloyd.’

‘Max, please.’

Emma made her way out of the bookstore and walked across Fifth Avenue to the Brasserie. This time she wasn’t kept waiting.

‘Jimmy,’ she said as the waiter accompanied her to an alcove table, ‘I have a very important client joining me, and I want it to be an evening he won’t forget.’

‘You can rely on me, madam,’ the waiter said as Emma sat down. After he’d gone she opened her bag, took out the menu and went over her list of questions once more. When she saw Jimmy heading towards her with Max Lloyd in his wake, she turned the menu over.

‘You’re obviously well known here,’ said Lloyd as he slipped into the seat opposite her.

‘It’s my favourite New York restaurant,’ said Emma, returning his smile.

‘Can I get you a drink, sir?’

‘Manhattan, on the rocks.’

‘And you, madam?’

‘My usual, Jimmy.’

The waiter hurried off. Emma was curious to discover what he would come back with. ‘Why don’t we order,’ said Emma, ‘and then we can get down to business.’

‘Good idea,’ replied Lloyd. ‘Although I know exactly what I want,’ he added as the waiter reappeared and placed a Manhattan in front of him and a glass of white wine by Emma’s side; the drink she’d ordered at lunch. Emma was impressed.

‘Jimmy, I think we’re ready to order.’ The waiter nodded and turned to Emma’s guest.

‘I’ll have one of your juicy sirloin steaks. Make it medium, and don’t spare on the trimmings.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ Turning to Emma, he asked, ‘What can I tempt you with this evening, madam?’

‘A Caesar salad please, Jimmy, but light on the dressing.’

Once the waiter was out of earshot, she turned her menu back over, although she didn’t need to be reminded of the first question. ‘The diary only covered eighteen months of your incarceration,’ she said. ‘But you served more than two years, so I hope we can look forward to another volume.’

‘I still have a notebook full of material,’ said Lloyd, relaxing for the first time. ‘I’ve been thinking about incorporating some of the more extraordinary events I experienced in a novel that I have planned.’

Because if you ever wrote them as a diary, any publisher would realize you weren’t the author, Emma wanted to say.

The sommelier appeared by Lloyd’s side, summoned by the demand of an empty glass.

‘Would you care to see the wine list, sir? Something to complement the steak, perhaps?’

‘Good idea,’ said Lloyd, opening the thick, leather-bound book as if he were the host. He ran his finger down a long list of burgundies, and paused near the bottom. ‘A bottle of the thirty-seven, I think.’

‘An excellent choice, sir.’

Emma presumed that meant it wasn’t cheap. But this was not an occasion to quibble over price.

‘And what a nasty piece of work Hessler turned out to be,’ she said, glancing at her second question. ‘I thought that sort of person only existed in trashy novels, or B-movies.’

‘No, he was real enough,’ said Lloyd. ‘But I did get him transferred to another prison, if you remember.’

‘I do,’ said Emma, as a large steak was placed in front of her guest and a Caesar salad on her side of the table. Lloyd picked up his knife and fork, clearly ready for the challenge.

‘So tell me, what sort of proposal do you have in mind?’ he asked as he dug into the steak.

‘One where you get exactly what you’re worth,’ said Emma, the tone of her voice changing, ‘and not a penny more.’ A puzzled look appeared on Lloyd’s face, and he put down his knife and fork as he waited for Emma to continue. ‘I am well aware, Mr Lloyd, that you didn’t write one word of
The Diary of a Convict
, other than to replace the real author’s name with your own.’ Lloyd opened his mouth, but before he had time to protest, Emma continued, ‘If you’re foolish enough to keep up the pretence that you wrote the book, my first visit in the morning will be to Mr Brett Elders, your parole officer, and it won’t be to discuss how well your rehabilitation is going.’

The sommelier reappeared, uncorked a bottle, and waited to be told who would be tasting the wine. Lloyd was staring at Emma like a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights, so she gave a slight nod. She took her time swirling the wine around in her glass before taking a sip.

‘Excellent,’ she eventually said. ‘I particularly like the thirty-seven.’ The sommelier bowed slightly, poured two glasses and went off in search of another victim.

‘You can’t prove I didn’t write it,’ said Lloyd defiantly.

‘Yes I can,’ said Emma, ‘because I represent the man who did.’ She took a sip of wine before adding, ‘Tom Bradshaw, your deputy librarian.’ Lloyd sank back into his seat and lapsed into a sullen silence. ‘So let me outline the deal I’m proposing, Mr Lloyd, while at the same time making it clear that there is no room for negotiation, unless, of course, you want to go back to prison on a charge of fraud, as well as theft. Should you end up in Pierpoint, I have a feeling Mr Hessler will be only too happy to escort you to your cell, as he doesn’t come out of the book very well.’