Only Time Will Tell (The Clifton Chronicles, #1)(66)

‘I’m afraid I do, Walter. You see, I witnessed the whole episode.’

‘Then why didn’t you say something about it at the time?’

‘I did. When I was interviewed by Detective Inspector Blakemore the following day, I told him everything I’d seen, and at his request I made a written statement.’

‘Then why wasn’t your statement produced in evidence at Tancock’s trial?’ asked Sir Walter.

‘Because I never saw Blakemore again. And when I turned up at the police station, I was told he was no longer in charge of the case and his replacement refused to see me.’

‘I had Blakemore taken off the case,’ said Sir Walter. ‘The damn man was as good as accusing Hugo of giving the money to Tancock, so there wouldn’t be an investigation into the Clifton affair.’ Old Jack remained silent. ‘Let’s not talk of this any more,’ said Sir Walter. ‘I know my son is far from perfect, but I refuse to believe—’

‘Or perhaps you don’t want to believe,’ said Old Jack.

‘Jack, whose side are you on?’

‘On the side of justice. As you used to be when we first met.’

‘And I still am,’ said Sir Walter. But he fell silent for some time before adding, ‘I want you to make me a promise, Jack. If you ever find out anything about Hugo that you believe would harm the family’s reputation, you won’t hesitate to tell me.’

‘You have my word on it.’

‘And you have my word, old friend, that I would not hesitate to hand Hugo over to the police if I thought for one moment that he had broken the law.’

‘Let’s hope nothing else arises that would make that necessary,’ said Old Jack.

‘I agree, old friend. Let’s talk of more palatable things. Is there anything you are in need of at the moment? I could still. . .’

‘Do you have any old clothes that are surplus to requirements?’

Sir Walter raised an eyebrow. ‘Dare I ask?’

‘No, you daren’t,’ said Old Jack. ‘But I have to visit a particular gentleman, and I’ll need to be appropriately dressed.’





Old Jack had grown so thin over the years that Sir Walter’s clothes hung off him like flax on a distaff, and, like Sir Andrew Aguecheek, he was several inches taller than his old friend, so he had to let down the turn-ups on the trousers and even then they barely reached his ankles. But he felt that the tweed suit, checked shirt and striped tie would serve its purpose for this particular meeting.

As Jack walked out of the dockyard for the first time in years, a few familiar faces turned to give the smartly dressed stranger a second look.

When the school bell rang at four o’clock, Old Jack stepped back into the shadows while the noisy, boisterous nippers poured out through the gates of Merrywood Elementary as if they were escaping from prison.

Mrs Clifton had been waiting there for the past ten minutes, and when Harry saw his mum, he reluctantly allowed her to take him by the hand. A damn fine-looking woman, Old Jack thought as he watched the two of them walking away, Harry, as always, jumping up and down, endlessly chattering, displaying as much energy as Stephenson’s Rocket.

Old Jack waited until they were out of sight before he crossed the road and walked into the school yard. If he’d been dressed in his old clothes, he would have been stopped by someone in authority long before he reached the front door. He looked up and down the corridor, and spotted a master coming towards him.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ said Old Jack, ‘but I’m looking for Mr Holcombe.’

‘Third door on the left, old fellow,’ the man said, pointing down the corridor.

When Old Jack came to a halt outside Mr Holcombe’s classroom he gave a gentle tap on the door.

‘Come in.’

Old Jack opened the door to find a young man, his long black gown covered in chalk dust, seated at a table in front of rows of empty desks, marking exercise books. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ said Old Jack, ‘I’m looking for Mr Holcombe.’

‘Then you need look no further,’ said the schoolmaster, putting down his pen.

‘My name is Tar,’ he said as he stepped forward, ‘but my friends call me Jack.’

Holcombe’s face lit up. ‘I do believe you’re the man Harry Clifton goes off to visit most mornings.’

‘I fear I am,’ admitted Old Jack. ‘I apologize.’

‘No need,’ said Holcombe. ‘I only wish I had the same influence over him that you do.’

‘That’s why I came to see you, Mr Holcombe. I’m convinced that Harry’s an exceptional child and should be given every chance to make the best of his talents.’

‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Holcombe. ‘And I suspect he has one talent even you don’t know about.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘He has the voice of an angel.’

‘Harry’s no angel,’ said Old Jack with a grin.

‘I quite agree, but it may turn out to be our best chance of breaking down his defences.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Old Jack.

‘There’s a possibility he might just be tempted to join the choir at Holy Nativity. So if you were able to convince him to come to school more often, I know I can teach him to read and write.’