Only Time Will Tell (The Clifton Chronicles, #1)(73)

‘I think you’ll find that’s blackmail,’ said Barrington, spitting out the words, ‘for which you can go to prison for a very long time.’

‘Some might consider it nothing more than a matter of civic duty for such a document to enter the public domain.’

‘And who do you imagine would be interested in the ravings of an old man? Certainly not the press, once my lawyers have explained the libel laws to them. And as the police closed the file some years ago, I can’t see the chief constable going to the trouble and expense of reopening it on the word of an old man who might be considered at best eccentric and at worst mad. So I’m bound to ask, who else do you have in mind to share your preposterous allegations with?’

‘Your father,’ said Old Jack, bluffing, but then Barrington didn’t know about his promise to Maisie.

Barrington slumped back in his chair, only too aware of the influence Old Jack had with his father, even if he had never understood why. ‘How much do you expect me to pay for this document?’

‘Three hundred pounds.’

‘That’s daylight robbery!’

‘It’s no more and no less than the amount required to cover the fees and any little extras that will allow Harry Clifton to remain at Bristol Grammar School for the next two years.’

‘Why don’t I just pay his fees at the beginning of each term, as I do for my own son?’

‘Because you would stop paying one of your sons’ fees the moment you got your hands on my statement.’

‘You’ll have to take cash,’ said Barrington, taking a key from his pocket.

‘No, thank you,’ said Old Jack. ‘I remember only too well what happened to Stan Tancock after you’d handed him your thirty pieces of silver. And I have no desire to spend the next three years in prison for a crime I didn’t commit.’

‘Then I’ll have to call the bank if I’m to write out a cheque for such a large amount.’

‘Be my guest,’ said Old Jack, gesturing towards the phone on Barrington’s desk.

Barrington hesitated for a moment before picking up the handset. He waited for a voice to come on the line. ‘TEM 3731,’ he said.

Another wait, before another voice said, ‘Yes?’

‘Is that you, Prendergast?’

‘No, sir,’ said the voice.

‘Good, you’re just the man I need to speak to,’ Barrington replied. ‘I’ll be sending a Mr Tar around to see you in the next hour, with a cheque for three hundred pounds made payable to Bristol Municipal Charities. Would you see that it’s processed immediately, and make sure you phone me straight back.’

‘If you want me to ring you back, just say “Yes, that’s right,” and I’ll call in a couple of minutes,’ the voice said.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Barrington, and put the phone down.

He opened the drawer of his desk, took out a cheque book and wrote the words Pay Bristol Municipal Charities and, on a separate line, Three hundred pounds. He then signed the cheque and passed it to Old Jack, who studied it carefully and nodded.

‘I’ll just put it in an envelope,’ said Barrington. He pressed the buzzer under his desk. Old Jack glanced at Miss Potts as she entered the room.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Mr Tar is leaving to go to the bank,’ said Barrington, placing the cheque in the envelope. He sealed it and addressed it to Mr Prendergast, adding the word PRIVATE in bold letters, then handed it to Old Jack.

‘Thank you,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll deliver the document to you personally as soon as I get back.’

Barrington nodded, just as the phone on his desk began to ring. He waited for Old Jack to leave the room before he picked it up.

Old Jack decided to take the tram into Bristol, feeling that the expense was justified on such a special occasion. When he walked into the bank twenty minutes later, he told the young man on the reception that he had a letter for Mr Prendergast. The receptionist didn’t seem particularly impressed, until Old Jack added, ‘It’s from Mr Hugo Barrington.’

The young man immediately deserted his post, led Old Jack across the banking hall and down a long corridor to the manager’s office. He knocked on the door, opened it and announced, ‘This gentleman has a letter from Mr Barrington, sir.’

Mr Prendergast leapt up from behind his desk, shook hands with the old man and ushered him to a seat on the other side of the desk. Old Jack handed the envelope to Prendergast, with the words, ‘Mr Barrington asked me to give this to you personally.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Prendergast, who immediately recognized the familiar hand of one of his most valued customers. He slit open the envelope and extracted a cheque. He looked at it for a moment, before saying, ‘There must be some mistake.’

‘There’s no mistake,’ said Old Jack. ‘Mr Barrington would like the full amount to be paid to Bristol Municipal Charities at your earliest convenience, as he instructed you over the phone only half an hour ago.’

‘But I haven’t spoken to Mr Barrington this morning,’ said Prendergast, passing the cheque back to Old Jack.

Old Jack stared in disbelief at a blank cheque. It only took him a few moments to realize that Barrington must have switched the cheques when Miss Potts entered the room. The true genius of his action was to address the envelope to Mr Prendergast and mark it private, thus ensuring it wouldn’t be opened until it had been handed to the manager. But the one mystery Jack couldn’t fathom was: who had been on the other end of the phone?