Best Kept Secret (The Clifton Chronicles, #3)(77)

‘Then pick up a fresh packet from the pantry, you dozy numskull.’

Sebastian didn’t finish the washing-up until just after ten. ‘What next?’ he asked.

‘Janice hoovers the dining room and then lays up for tomorrow’s breakfast, while I clean the kitchen. Check out is at twelve, and once the guests have left, we change the sheets, make up the beds and water the window boxes.’

‘So what would you like me to do?’ said Sebastian, rolling his sleeves back down.

‘Take a bus to Eaton Square and find out if your friend is expected back on Friday.’ Sebastian put on his jacket. ‘But not before you’ve made your bed and checked that your room is tidy.’

He laughed. ‘You’re beginning to sound like my mother.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Be sure you’re back before one o’clock, because I’m expecting some Germans, and you just might be useful.’ Sebastian headed for the door. ‘You’ll need these,’ she added, handing back the two sixpenny pieces. ‘That is, unless you intend to walk to Eaton Square and back.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Tibbet.’

‘Tibby. As you’re clearly going to be a regular.’

Sebastian pocketed the money and kissed her on both cheeks, which silenced Mrs Tibbet for the first time.

He left the kitchen before she could recover, bounded up the stairs, made his bed and tidied his room before returning to the hall, where he checked the map. He was surprised to find that Eaton Square was spelt differently from the school that had turned down his uncle Giles for some misdemeanour none of the family ever talked about.

Before he left, Janice told him to catch a No. 36 bus, get off at Sloane Square and walk from there.

The first thing Sebastian noticed when he closed the guest house door behind him was how many people were rushing about in every direction, at quite a different pace from Bristolians. He joined a queue at the bus stop and watched several red double-deckers arrive and depart before one displaying No. 36 turned up. He climbed on board, walked up to the top deck and took a seat at the front as he wanted to have a good view of everything that was going on below.

‘Where to, young man?’ asked the bus conductor.

‘Sloane Square,’ said Sebastian. ‘And please could you let me know when we get there?’

‘That’ll be tuppence.’

Sebastian became engrossed by all the sights as he travelled past Marble Arch, down Park Lane and around Hyde Park Corner, but tried to concentrate on what he would do once he arrived. All he knew was that Bruno lived in Eaton Square, but he didn’t know the number. He just hoped it was a small square.

‘Sloane Square!’ shouted the conductor as the bus came to a halt outside W.H. Smith.

Sebastian quickly made his way down the steps. Once he was on the pavement, he looked around for a landmark. His eyes settled on the Royal Court theatre, where Joan Plowright was performing in The Chairs. He checked his map, walked past the theatre and took a right, estimating that Eaton Square was only a couple of hundred yards away.

Once he’d reached it, he slowed down in the hope of spotting Don Pedro’s red Rolls-Royce, but there was no sign of the car. He realized that unless he got lucky it could take hours for him to find out where Bruno lived.

As he walked along the pavement, he noticed that about half the houses had been converted into flats, and displayed a list of the occupants’ names by their doorbells. The other half were houses and gave no indication of who lived there, having only a brass knocker or a bell marked ‘Tradesmen’. Sebastian felt sure Bruno’s father wasn’t the kind of man who would share a front door with someone else.

He stood on the top step of No. 1 and pressed the tradesmen’s bell. Moments later a butler appeared, wearing a long black coat and white tie, which reminded him of Marsden at Barrington Hall.

‘I’m looking for a Mr Martinez,’ Sebastian said politely.

‘No gentleman of that name resides here,’ said the butler, and he closed the door before Sebastian had a chance to ask if he had any idea where Mr Martinez did live.

During the next hour, Sebastian experienced everything from ‘He doesn’t live here’ to the door being slammed in his face. It was towards the end of the second hour, by which time he’d reached the far side of the square, that in response to his oft-repeated question, a maid asked, ‘Is he a foreign gentleman who drives a red Rolls-Royce?’

‘Yes, that’s him,’ said Sebastian with a feeling of relief.

‘I think you’ll find he lives at number forty-four, two doors down,’ said the maid, pointing to her right.

‘Thank you very much,’ said Sebastian. He walked briskly on to No. 44, climbed the steps, took a deep breath and banged twice with the brass knocker.

It was some time before the door was opened and Sebastian was greeted by a heavily built man, who must have been well over six feet tall and looked more like a boxer than a butler.

‘What do you want?’ he asked in an accent Sebastian didn’t recognize.

‘I wondered if this is where Bruno Martinez lives?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘My name is Sebastian Clifton.’

The man’s tone suddenly changed. ‘Yes, I’ve heard him talk about you, but he’s not here.’