The Sins of the Father (The Clifton Chronicles, #2)(79)

‘No, Miss Potts. But I may be in a little late tomorrow, as I have an appointment with Mr Prendergast at nine o’clock.’

‘Of course, chairman,’ said Miss Potts.

As the door closed behind her, his eyes settled on the crumpled envelope. He picked up a silver letter opener, slit the envelope open and pulled out a single sheet of paper. His eyes impatiently scanned the page, searching for relevant phrases.

New York,

September 8th, 1939

My dearest mother,

. . . I did not die when the Devonian was sunk . . . I was plucked out of the sea . . . the vain hope that at some time in the future I might be able to prove that Arthur Clifton and not Hugo Barrington was my father . . . I must beg you to keep my secret as steadfastly as you kept your own for so many years.

Your loving son,

Harry





Hugo’s blood ran cold. All the triumphs of the day evaporated in an instant. This was not a letter he wanted to read a second time or, more important, that he wished anyone else to become aware of.

He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and took out a box of Swan Vestas. He lit a match, held the letter over the wastepaper basket and didn’t let it go until the frail black cinders had evaporated into dust. The best ten shillings he’d ever spent.

Hugo was confident that he was the only person who knew Clifton was still alive, and he intended it to remain that way. After all, if Clifton kept his word and continued to go by the name of Tom Bradshaw, how could anyone else find out the truth?

He suddenly felt sick when he remembered that Emma was still in America. Had she somehow discovered that Clifton was alive? But surely that wasn’t possible if she hadn’t read the letter. He needed to find out why she’d gone to America.

He had picked up the phone and begun to dial Mitchell’s number when he thought he heard footsteps in the corridor. He replaced the receiver, assuming it must be the night watchman checking to see why his light was still on.

The door opened, and he stared at a woman he had hoped never to see again.

‘How did you get past the guard on the gate?’ he demanded.

‘I told him we had an appointment to see the chairman; a long overdue appointment.’

‘We?’ said Hugo.

‘Yes, I’ve brought you a little present. Not that you can give something to someone when it’s already theirs.’ She placed a wicker basket on Hugo’s desk, and removed a thin muslin cloth to reveal a sleeping baby. ‘I felt it was about time you were introduced to your daughter,’ Olga said, standing aside to allow Hugo to admire her.

‘What makes you think I would have the slightest interest in your bastard?’

‘Because she’s also your bastard,’ said Olga calmly, ‘so I will assume you want to give her the same start in life you gave Emma and Grace.’

‘Why would I even consider making such a ridiculous gesture?’

‘Because Hugo,’ she said, ‘you bled me dry, and now it’s your turn to face up to your responsibility. You can’t assume you will always get away with it.’

‘The only thing I got away from was you,’ said Hugo with a smirk. ‘So you can bugger off and take that basket with you, because I won’t be lifting a finger to help her.’

‘Then perhaps I’ll have to turn to someone who just might be willing to lift a finger to help her.’

‘Like who?’ snapped Hugo.

‘Your mother might be a good place to start, although she’s probably the last person on earth who still believes a word you say.’

Hugo leapt up from his seat, but Olga didn’t flinch. ‘And if I can’t convince her,’ she continued, ‘my next stop would be the Manor House, where I would take afternoon tea with your ex-wife, and we could talk about the fact that she’d already divorced you long before we even met.’

Hugo stepped out from behind his desk, but it didn’t stop Olga continuing. ‘And if Elizabeth is not at home, I can always pay a visit to Mulgelrie Castle and introduce Lord and Lady Harvey to yet another of your offspring.’

‘What makes you think they’d believe you?’

‘What makes you think they wouldn’t?’

Hugo moved towards her, only stopping when they were a few inches apart, but Olga still hadn’t finished.

‘And then finally, I’d feel I owe it to myself to visit Maisie Clifton, a woman I greatly admire, because if all I’ve heard about her—’

Hugo grabbed Olga by the shoulders and began to shake her. He was only surprised that she made no attempt to defend herself.

‘Now you listen to me, you Yid,’ he shouted. ‘If you so much as hint to anyone that I’m the father of that child, I’ll make your life so miserable that you’ll wish you’d been dragged off by the Gestapo with your parents.’

‘You don’t frighten me any longer, Hugo,’ said Olga, with an air of resignation. ‘I only have one interest left in life, and that’s to make sure you don’t get away with it a second time.’

‘A second time?’ repeated Hugo.

‘You think I don’t know about Harry Clifton, and his claim to the family title?’

Hugo let go of her and took a step back, clearly shaken. ‘Clifton is dead. Buried at sea. Everyone knows that.’