Best Kept Secret (The Clifton Chronicles, #3)(23)

Chief Inspector Blakemore tried to keep a straight face when the manager added, ‘Had the gall to tell me the books belonged to his father.’

‘He wasn’t lying,’ said Blakemore. ‘That’s Harry Clifton’s boy.’ Looking sternly at Sebastian, he added, ‘But that’s no excuse for what you did, young man.’

‘Even if his father is Harry Clifton, I’m still short one pound and eighteen shillings,’ said the manager. ‘So what do you intend to do about that?’ he added, pointing an accusing finger at Sebastian.

‘I’ve already contacted Mr Clifton,’ said Blakemore, ‘so I don’t think it will be long before that question is answered. While we wait for him, I suggest you explain the economics of bookselling to his son.’

The manager, looking a little chastened, sat down on the corner of his desk.

‘When your father writes a book,’ he said, ‘his publishers pay him an advance, and then a percentage of the cover price for each copy sold. In your dad’s case, I would guess that would be around ten per cent. The publisher also has to pay his salesmen, the editorial and publicity staff, and the printer, as well as any advertising and distribution costs.’

‘And how much do you have to pay for each book?’ asked Sebastian.

Blakemore couldn’t wait to hear the bookseller’s reply. The manager hesitated before saying, ‘Around two-thirds of the cover price.’

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. ‘So my father only gets ten per cent on each book, while you pocket thirty-three per cent?’

‘Yes, but I have to pay rent and rates for these premises, as well as my staff’s wages,’ said the manager defensively.

‘So it would be cheaper for my father to replace the books rather than pay you the full amount of the cover price?’

The chief inspector wished Sir Walter Barrington was still alive. He would have enjoyed this exchange.

‘Perhaps you could tell me, sir,’ continued Sebastian, ‘how many books need to be replaced.’

‘Eight hardbacks and eleven paperbacks,’ said the manager, as Harry walked into the office.

Chief Inspector Blakemore explained to him what had happened, before adding, ‘I won’t be charging the boy for shoplifting on this occasion, Mr Clifton, just issuing him with a caution. I’ll leave it to you to make sure, sir, that he doesn’t do anything as irresponsible again.’

‘Of course, chief inspector,’ said Harry. ‘I’m most grateful, and I’ll ask my publishers to replace the books immediately. And there will be no more pocket money for you, my boy, until every penny has been paid back,’ he added, turning to face Sebastian.

Sebastian bit his lip.

‘Thank you, Mr Clifton,’ said the manager, and added a little sheepishly, ‘I was wondering, sir, as you’re here, if you’d be kind enough to sign the rest of the stock?’



When Emma’s mother Elizabeth went into hospital for a checkup, she tried to reassure her daughter that there was nothing to worry about, and told her she wasn’t to tell Harry or the children because it would only make them anxious.

It certainly made Emma anxious and, as soon as she returned to Barrington Hall, she phoned Giles at the House of Commons, and then her sister in Cambridge. They both dropped everything and caught the next train to Bristol.

‘Let’s hope I’m not wasting your time,’ said Emma after she’d picked them up from Temple Meads.

‘Let’s hope you are wasting our time,’ Grace replied.

Giles appeared preoccupied and stared out of the window as they continued their journey to the hospital in silence.

Even before Mr Langbourne had closed the door to his office, Emma sensed the news wasn’t going to be good.

‘I wish there was an easy way to tell you this,’ the specialist said once they’d sat down, ‘but I’m afraid there isn’t. Dr Raeburn, who’s been your mother’s GP for several years, carried out a routine check-up, and when he got the results of his tests, he referred her to me in order that I could carry out a more detailed examination.’

Emma clenched her fists, something she used to do as a schoolgirl whenever she was nervous or in trouble.

‘Yesterday,’ continued Mr Langbourne, ‘I received the results from the clinical lab. They confirmed Dr Raeburn’s fears: your mother has breast cancer.’

‘Can she be cured?’ was Emma’s immediate response.

‘There is no cure at present for someone of her age,’ said Langbourne. ‘Scientists are hoping for a breakthrough at some time in the future, but I fear that won’t be soon enough for your mother.’

‘Is there anything we can do?’ asked Grace.

Emma leant across and took her sister’s hand.

‘During this time, she will need all the love and support you and the family can give her. Elizabeth is a remarkable woman, and after all she has been through, she deserves better. But she’s never once complained – not her style. She’s a typical Harvey.’

‘How long will she be with us?’ asked Emma.

‘I fear,’ said Langbourne, ‘that it will be a matter of weeks, rather than months.’

‘Then there’s something I have to tell her,’ said Giles, who hadn’t spoken until then.