Best Kept Secret (The Clifton Chronicles, #3)(13)

‘Yes, I am,’ said Emma. ‘But what will you expect of me?’

‘Once I’ve registered you as an undergraduate at Stanford, I’ll send you a course reading list for your freshman year, along with tape-recordings of every lecture I give. On top of that, I’ll set you an essay to write each week, and return it to you once I’ve marked it. And if you can afford more than ten cents, we could even talk on the phone from time to time.’

‘When do I start?’

‘This fall, but be warned, there are assessment tests every quarter that decide if you should be allowed to continue on the course,’ he was saying as the train pulled into Paddington station. ‘If you’re not up to it, you’ll be dropped.’

‘You’re willing to do all that because of one meeting with my grandfather?’

‘Well, I confess I was rather hoping you might join me for dinner at the Savoy tonight so we can talk about the future of the shipbuilding industry in greater detail.’

‘What a nice idea,’ said Emma, giving him a kiss on his cheek. ‘But I’m afraid I bought a return ticket, and I’ll be going home to my husband tonight.’



Even if Harry still couldn’t work out how to turn on the radio, at least he’d mastered the hot and cold taps in the shower. Once he was dry, he selected a freshly ironed shirt, a silk tie Emma had given him for his birthday, and a suit his mother would have described as Sunday best. A glance in the mirror, and he had to admit he wouldn’t have been considered in vogue on either side of the Atlantic.

Harry stepped out of the Pierre on to 5th Avenue just before eight and began walking towards 64th and Park. It only took him a few minutes before he was standing outside a magnificent brownstone house. He checked his watch, wondering what was fashionably late in New York. He recalled Emma telling him she’d been so nervous at the thought of meeting Great-aunt Phyllis that she’d walked around the block before summoning up enough courage to climb the steps to the front door, and even then she only managed to press the bell marked ‘Tradesmen’.

Harry marched up the steps and banged firmly with the heavy brass knocker. As he waited for the door to be answered, he could hear Emma remonstrating with him – Don’t mock, child.

The door opened and a butler wearing a tailcoat, who was clearly expecting him, said, ‘Good evening, Mr Clifton. Mrs Stuart is waiting for you in the drawing room. Would you care to follow me?’

‘Good evening, Parker,’ Harry replied, although he’d never seen the man before. Harry thought he detected the flicker of a smile as the butler led him down the corridor to an open lift. Once he’d stepped inside, Parker closed the grille, pressed a button and didn’t speak again until they reached the third floor. He pulled open the gate, preceded Harry into the drawing room and announced, ‘Mr Harry Clifton, madam.’

A tall, elegantly dressed woman was standing in the middle of the room, chatting to a man Harry assumed must be her son.

Great-aunt Phyllis immediately broke away, walked across to Harry and, without a word, gave him a bear hug that would have impressed an American linebacker. When she finally released him, she introduced her son Alistair, who shook Harry warmly by the hand.

‘It’s an honour to meet the man who ended Sefton Jelks’s career,’ said Harry.

Alistair offered a slight bow.

‘I also played a small part in that man’s downfall,’ sniffed Phyllis, as Parker handed her guest a glass of sherry. ‘But don’t get me started on Jelks,’ she added, as she ushered Harry towards a comfortable chair by the fire, ‘because I’m far more interested to hear about Emma, and what she’s been up to.’

Harry took some time bringing Great-aunt Phyllis up to date on everything Emma had done since she’d left New York, not least because she and Alistair kept interrupting him with questions. It wasn’t until the butler returned to announce dinner was served that they moved on to a different subject.

‘So how are you enjoying your visit?’ asked Alistair as they took their seats round the dining table.

‘I think I preferred being arrested for murder,’ said Harry. ‘Far easier to deal with.’

‘That bad?’

‘Worse in some ways. You see, I’m not much good at selling myself,’ admitted Harry as a maid placed a bowl of Scotch broth in front of him. ‘I’d rather hoped the book might speak for itself.’

‘Think again,’ said Great-aunt Phyllis. ‘Just remember, New York isn’t an offshoot of Bloomsbury. Forget refinement, understatement and irony. However much it’s against your better nature, you’ll have to learn to sell your wares like an East End barrow boy.’

‘I’m proud to be England’s most successful author,’ said Alistair, raising his voice.

‘But I’m not,’ said Harry, ‘by a long chalk.’

‘I’ve been overwhelmed by the American people’s reaction to Nothing Ventured,’ said Phyllis, joining in the charade.

‘That’s only because no one’s read it,’ protested Harry, between mouthfuls.

‘Like Dickens, Conan Doyle and Wilde, I’m confident the United States will turn out to be my biggest market,’ added Alistair.

‘I sell more books in Market Harborough than I do in New York,’ Harry said as his soup bowl was whisked away. ‘It’s patently obvious that Aunt Phyllis ought to take my place on the book tour, and I should be sent back to England.’