Only Time Will Tell (The Clifton Chronicles, #1)(71)

The reporter had been careful not to refer to Maisie by name, but Old Jack wasn’t in any doubt why her photograph was so prominently displayed on the front page. He continued to read the article. When he discovered that Detective Inspector Blakemore was in charge of the case, he felt a little more hopeful. It wouldn’t take that particular gentleman long to work out that Mrs Clifton built things up; she didn’t burn them down.

As Old Jack placed the newspaper back on Mr Hugo’s desk, he noticed a letter for the first time. He would have ignored it, none of his business, if he hadn’t seen the name ‘Mrs Clifton’ in the first paragraph.

He began to read the letter, and found it hard to believe it was Hugo Barrington who had put up the five hundred pounds that had made it possible for Mrs Clifton to purchase Tilly’s. Why would he want to help Maisie, he wondered. Was it possible he felt some remorse about the death of her husband? Or did he feel ashamed that he had sent an innocent man to prison for a crime he had not committed? Certainly he had given Tancock his old job back the moment he was released. Old Jack began to wonder if he should perhaps give Hugo the benefit of the doubt. He recalled Sir Walter’s words: ‘He’s not all bad, you know.’

He read the letter once again. It was from Mr Prendergast, the manager of the National Provincial Bank, who wrote that he had been pressing the insurance company to fulfil its contractual obligations and recompense Mrs Clifton for the full value of the policy, which was ￡600. Mrs Clifton, Prendergast pointed out, was the innocent party, and Detective Inspector Blakemore had recently informed the bank that she no longer played any part in his enquiries.

In the final paragraph of his letter, Prendergast suggested that he and Barrington should meet in the near future to resolve the matter, so that Mrs Clifton could receive the full amount she was entitled to. Old Jack looked up when the little clock on the desk chimed seven times.

He switched off the light, ran into the corridor and down the stairs. He didn’t want to be late for Harry’s performance.





32


WHEN OLD JACK got home later that night, he picked up a copy of The Times Harry had left for him earlier in the week. He never bothered with the personal ads on the front page as he didn’t need a new bowler hat, a pair of suspenders or a first edition of Wuthering Heights.

He turned the page to find a photo of King Edward VIII, enjoying a yachting holiday in the Mediterranean. Standing by his side was an American woman called Mrs Simpson. The report was couched in ambiguous terms, but even the Thunderer was finding it hard to support the young King in his desire to marry a divorced woman. It made Old Jack sad, because he admired Edward, especially after his visit to the Welsh miners when he had so clearly been affected by their plight. But as his old nanny used to say, there’ll be tears before bedtime.

Old Jack then spent some considerable time reading a report on the Tariff Reform Bill, which had just passed its second reading in the House, despite the firebrand Winston Churchill declaring that it was neither ‘fish nor fowl’, and no one would benefit from it, including the government, when it came to an election. He couldn’t wait to hear Sir Walter’s unexpurgated views on that particular subject.

He turned a page to learn that the British Broadcasting Corporation had made its first television broadcast from Alexandra Palace. This was a concept he couldn’t begin to comprehend. How could a picture be beamed into your home? He didn’t even have a radio, and had absolutely no desire to own a television.

He moved on to the sports pages, to find a photograph of an elegantly dressed Fred Perry under the headline, Three times Wimbledon champion tipped to win the American Open. The tennis correspondent went on to suggest that some of the foreign competitors might be wearing shorts at Forest Hills, something else Jack couldn’t come to terms with.

As he did whenever he read The Times, Old Jack saved the obituaries till last. He’d reached that age when men younger than himself were dying, and not just in wars.

When he turned the page, the colour drained from his face, and he experienced an overwhelming sadness. He took his time reading the obituary of the Reverend Thomas Alexander Tarrant, Resident Canon of Wells Cathedral, described in the headline as a godly man. When Old Jack had finished reading his father’s obituary, he felt ashamed.





‘Seven pounds four shillings?’ repeated Old Jack. ‘But I thought you got a cheque for six hundred pounds from the Bristol and West of England Insurance Company, “in full and final settlement”, if I recall the exact words.’

‘I did,’ said Maisie, ‘but by the time I’d paid back the original loan, the compound interest on that loan, as well as bank charges, I ended up with seven pounds and four shillings.’

‘I’m so naive,’ said Old Jack. ‘And to think that for a moment, just a moment, I actually thought Barrington was trying to be helpful.’

‘You’re not half as naive as me,’ said Maisie. ‘Because if I had thought, even for one moment, that man was involved, I would never have taken a penny of his money, and because I did, I’ve lost everything. Even my job at the hotel.’

‘But why?’ asked Old Jack. ‘Mr Frampton always said you were irreplaceable.’

‘Well, it seems I’m not any more. When I asked him why he’d sacked me, he refused to give a reason, other than to say he’d received a complaint about me from an “unimpeachable source”. It can’t be a coincidence that I was sacked the day after that “unimpeachable source” dropped into the Royal Hotel for a chat with the manager.’