Clifton Chronicles 02 - The Sins of the Father (2 page)

Your loving son,

Harry

When Jelks had finished reading the letter, he once again took Harry by surprise. ‘Did you post the letter yourself, Mr Clifton,’ he asked, ‘or did you give that responsibility to someone else?’

For the first time Harry felt suspicious, and decided not to mention that he’d asked Dr Wallace to deliver the letter to his mother when he returned to Bristol in a fortnight’s time. He feared that Jelks might persuade Dr Wallace to hand over the letter and then his mother would have no way of knowing he was still alive.

‘I posted the letter when I came ashore,’ he said.

The elderly lawyer took his time before he responded. ‘Do you have any proof that you are Harry Clifton, and not Thomas Bradshaw?’

‘No, sir, I do not,’ said Harry without hesitation, painfully aware that no one on board the
Kansas Star
had any reason to believe he wasn’t Tom Bradshaw, and the only people who could verify his story were on the other side of the ocean, more than three thousand miles away, and it would not be long before they were all informed that Harry Clifton had been buried at sea.

‘Then I may be able to assist you, Mr Clifton. That’s assuming you still wish Miss Emma Barrington to believe you are dead. If you do,’ said Jelks, an insincere smile on his face, ‘I may be able to offer a solution to your problem.’

‘A solution?’ said Harry, looking hopeful for the first time.

‘But only if you felt able to retain the persona of Thomas Bradshaw.’

Harry remained silent.

‘The district attorney’s office has accepted that the charge against Bradshaw is at best circumstantial, and the only real evidence they are clinging on to is that he left the country the day after the murder had been committed. Aware of the weakness of their case, they have agreed to drop the charge of murder if you felt able to plead guilty to the lesser charge of desertion while serving in the armed forces.’

‘But why would I agree to that?’ asked Harry.

‘I can think of three good reasons,’ replied Jelks. ‘Firstly, if you don’t, you’re likely to end up spending six years in prison for entering the United States on false pretences. Secondly, you would retain your anonymity, so the Barrington family would have no reason to believe you are still alive. And thirdly, the Bradshaws are willing to pay you ten thousand dollars if you take their son’s place.’

Harry realized immediately that this would be an opportunity to repay his mother for all the sacrifices she’d made for him over the years. Such a large sum of money would transform her life, making it possible for her to escape the two-up-two-down in Still House Lane, along with the weekly knock on the door from the rent collector. She might even consider giving up her job as a waitress at the Grand Hotel and start living an easier life, although Harry thought that was unlikely. But before he agreed to fall in with Jelks’s plans, he had some questions of his own.

‘Why would the Bradshaws be willing to go through with such a deception, when they must now know that their son was killed at sea?’

‘Mrs Bradshaw is desperate to have Thomas’s name cleared. She will never accept that one of her sons might have killed the other.’

‘So is that what Tom is accused of – murdering his brother?’

‘Yes, but as I said, the evidence is flimsy and circumstantial, and certainly wouldn’t stand up in court, which is why the DA’s office is willing to drop the charge, but only if we agree to plead guilty to the lesser charge of desertion.’

‘And how long might my sentence be, if I agreed to that?’

‘The DA has agreed to recommend to the judge that you’re sentenced to one year, so with good behaviour you could be free in six months; quite an improvement on the six years you can expect if you go on insisting that you’re Harry Clifton.’

‘But the moment I walk into the courtroom, someone’s bound to realize that I’m not Bradshaw.’

‘Unlikely,’ said Jelks. ‘The Bradshaws hail from Seattle, on the west coast, and although they’re well off, they rarely visit New York. Thomas joined the navy when he was seventeen, and as you know to your cost, he hasn’t set foot in America for the past four years. And if you plead guilty, you’ll only be in the courtroom for twenty minutes.’

‘But when I open my mouth, won’t everyone know I’m not an American?’

‘That’s why you won’t be opening your mouth, Mr Clifton.’ The urbane lawyer seemed to have an answer for everything. Harry tried another ploy.

‘In England, murder trials are always packed with journalists, and the public queue up outside the courtroom from the early hours in the hope of getting a glimpse of the defendant.’

‘Mr Clifton, there are fourteen murder trials currently taking place in New York, including the notorious “scissors stabber”. I doubt if even a cub reporter will be assigned to this case.’

‘I need some time to think about it.’

Jelks glanced at his watch. ‘We’re due in front of Judge Atkins at noon, so you have just over an hour to make up your mind, Mr Clifton.’ He called for a guard to open the cell door. ‘Should you decide not to avail yourself of my services I wish you luck, because we will not be meeting again,’ he added before he left the cell.

Harry sat on the end of the bunk, considering Sefton Jelks’s offer. Although he didn’t doubt that the silver-haired counsel had his own agenda, six months sounded a lot more palatable than six years, and who else could he turn to, other than this seasoned lawyer? Harry wished he could drop into Sir Walter Barrington’s office for a few moments and seek his advice.

An hour later, Harry, dressed in a dark blue suit, cream shirt, starched collar and a striped tie, was handcuffed, marched from his cell to a prison vehicle and driven to the courthouse under armed guard.

‘No one must believe you’re capable of murder,’ Jelks had pronounced after a tailor had visited Harry’s cell with half a dozen suits, shirts and a selection of ties for him to consider.

‘I’m not,’ Harry reminded him.

Harry was reunited with Jelks in the corridor. The lawyer gave him that same smile before pushing his way through the swing doors and walking down the centre aisle, not stopping until he reached the two vacant seats at counsel’s table.

Once Harry had settled into his place and his handcuffs had been removed, he looked around the almost empty courtroom. Jelks had been right about that. Few members of the public, and certainly no press, seemed interested in the case. For them, it must have been just another domestic murder, where the defendant was likely to be acquitted; no ‘Cain and Abel’ headlines while there was no possibility of the electric chair in court number four.

As the first chime rang out to announce midday, a door opened on the far side of the room and Judge Atkins appeared. He walked slowly across the court, climbed the steps and took his place behind a desk on the raised dais. He then nodded in the direction of the DA, as if he knew exactly what he was about to say.

A young lawyer rose from behind the prosecutor’s desk and explained that the state would be dropping the murder charge, but would be pursuing Thomas Bradshaw on a charge of desertion from the US Navy. The judge nodded, and turned his attention to Mr Jelks, who rose on cue.

‘And on the second charge, of desertion, how does your client plead?’

‘Guilty,’ said Jelks. ‘I hope your honour will be lenient with my client on this occasion, as I don’t need to remind you, sir, that this is his first offence, and before this uncharacteristic lapse he had an unblemished record.’

Judge Atkins scowled. ‘Mr Jelks,’ he said, ‘some may consider that for an officer to desert his post while serving his country is a crime every bit as heinous as murder. I’m sure I don’t have to remind
you
that until recently such an offence would have resulted in your client facing a firing squad.’

Harry felt sick as he looked up at Jelks, who didn’t take his eyes off the judge.

‘With that in mind,’ continued Atkins, ‘I sentence Lieutenant Thomas Bradshaw to six years in jail.’ He banged his gavel and said, ‘Next case,’ before Harry had a chance to protest.

‘You told me—’ began Harry, but Jelks had already turned his back on his former client and was walking away. Harry was about to chase after him, when the two guards grabbed him by the arms, thrust them behind his back and quickly handcuffed the convicted criminal, before marching him across the courtroom towards a door Harry hadn’t noticed before.

He looked back to see Sefton Jelks shaking hands with a middle-aged man who was clearly congratulating him on a job well done. Where had Harry seen that face before? And then he realized – it had to be Tom Bradshaw’s father.

2

H
ARRY WAS MARCHED
unceremoniously down a long, dimly lit corridor and out of an unmarked door into a barren courtyard.

In the middle of the yard stood a yellow bus that displayed neither number nor any hint of its destination. A muscle-bound conductor clutching a rifle stood by the door, and nodded to indicate that Harry should climb on board. His guards gave him a helping hand, just in case he was having second thoughts.

Harry took a seat and stared sullenly out of the window as a trickle of convicted prisoners were led up to the bus, some with their heads bowed, while others, who had clearly trodden this path before, adopted a jaunty swagger. He assumed it wouldn’t be long before the bus set off for its destination, wherever that might be, but he was about to learn his first painful lesson as a prisoner: once you’ve been convicted, no one is in any hurry.

Harry thought about asking one of the guards where they were going, but neither of them looked like helpful tour guides. He turned anxiously when a body slumped into the seat next to him. He didn’t want to stare at his new companion, but as the man introduced himself immediately, Harry took a closer look at him.

‘My name’s Pat Quinn,’ he announced with a slight Irish accent.

‘Tom Bradshaw,’ said Harry, who would have shaken hands with his new companion if they hadn’t both been handcuffed.

Quinn didn’t look like a criminal. His feet barely touched the ground, so he couldn’t have been an inch over five feet, and whereas most of the other prisoners on the bus were either muscle-bound or simply overweight, Quinn looked as if a gust of wind would blow him away. His thinning red hair was beginning to grey, although he couldn’t have been a day over forty.

‘You’re a first-timer?’ said Quinn confidently.

‘Is it that obvious?’ asked Harry.

‘It’s written all over your face.’

‘What’s written all over my face?’

‘You haven’t got a clue what’s going to happen next.’

‘So
you’re
obviously not a first-timer?’

‘This is the eleventh time I’ve been on this bus, or it could be the twelfth.’

Harry laughed for the first time in days.

‘What are you in for?’ Quinn asked him.

‘Desertion,’ Harry replied, without elaboration.

‘Never heard of that one before,’ said Quinn. ‘I’ve deserted three wives, but they never put me in the slammer for it.’

‘I didn’t desert a wife,’ said Harry, thinking about Emma. ‘I deserted the Royal Navy— I mean the navy.’

‘How long did you get for that?’

‘Six years.’

Quinn whistled through his two remaining teeth. ‘Sounds a bit rough. Who was the judge?’

‘Atkins,’ said Harry with feeling.

‘Arnie Atkins? You got the wrong judge. If you’re ever on trial again, make sure you pick the right judge.’

‘I didn’t know you could pick your judge.’

‘You can’t,’ said Quinn, ‘but there are ways of avoiding the worst ones.’ Harry looked more closely at his companion, but didn’t interrupt. ‘There are seven judges who work the circuit, and you need to avoid two of them at all costs. One is Arnie Atkins. He’s short on humour and long on sentencing.’

‘But how could I have avoided him?’ asked Harry.

‘Atkins has presided over court four for the past eleven years, so if I’m heading in that direction, I have an epileptic fit and the guards take me off to see the court doctor.’

‘You’re an epileptic?’

‘No,’ said Quinn, ‘you’re not paying attention.’ He sounded exasperated, and Harry fell silent. ‘By the time I’ve staged a recovery, they will have allocated my case to another court.’

Harry laughed for the second time. ‘And you get away with it?’

‘No, not always, but if I end up with a couple of rookie guards, I’m in with a chance, though it’s getting more difficult to pull the same stunt again and again. I didn’t need to bother this time because I was taken straight to court two, which is Judge Regan’s territory. He’s Irish – like me, just in case you hadn’t noticed – so he’s more likely to give a fellow countryman a minimum sentence.’

‘What was your offence?’ asked Harry.

‘I’m a pickpocket,’ Quinn announced, as if he were an architect or a doctor. ‘I specialize in race meetings in the summer and boxing halls in the winter. It’s always easier if the marks are standing up,’ he explained. ‘But my luck’s been running short recently because too many stewards recognize me, so I’ve had to work the subway and the bus depots, where the pickings are slim and you’re more likely to be caught.’