The Sins of the Father (The Clifton Chronicles, #2)(93)

‘But that defies logic,’ said Harry, ‘because if I am a docker’s son, then Giles would inherit the title anyway.’

‘Several people wrote to The Times making exactly that point,’ said Lord Harvey. ‘However, as we’re so close to a general election, the Home Secretary ducked the issue, and told his noble friend that he would refer the matter to the Lord Chancellor’s office. The Lord Chancellor passed it on to the Law Lords, and seven learned men took their time deliberating and came down by four votes to three. In favour of you, Harry.’

‘But this is madness. Why wasn’t I consulted?’

‘You were unconscious,’ Lord Harvey reminded him, ‘and in any case, they were debating a point of law, not your opinion, so the verdict will stand, unless it’s overturned on appeal in the House of Lords.’

Harry was speechless.

‘So as things stand,’ continued Lord Harvey, ‘you are now Sir Harry, and the major shareholder in Barrington Harvey, as well as owner of the Barrington estate and, to quote the original will, all that therein is.’

‘Then I’ll appeal against the Law Lords’ judgment, making it clear that I wish to renounce the title,’ said Harry firmly.

‘That’s the irony,’ said Giles, ‘you can’t. Only I can appeal against the verdict, but I have no intention of doing so unless I have your blessing.’

‘Of course you have my blessing,’ said Harry. ‘But I can think of a far easier solution.’

They all looked at him.

‘I could commit suicide.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Emma, sitting down on the bed beside him. ‘You’ve tried that twice, and look where it got you.’





44

EMMA BURST INTO the library clutching a letter. As she rarely interrupted Harry when he was writing, he knew it had to be important. He put down his pen.

‘Sorry, darling,’ she said as she pulled up a chair, ‘but I’ve just had some important news that I had to come across and share with you.’

Harry smiled at the woman he adored. Her idea of important could range from Seb pouring water over the cat, to ‘it’s the Lord Chancellor’s office on the phone and they need to speak to you urgently’. He leaned back in his chair and waited to see which category this would fall into.

‘I’ve just had a letter from Great-aunt Phyllis,’ she said.

‘Whom we all hold in such awe,’ teased Harry.

‘Don’t mock, child,’ said Emma. ‘She’s raised a point that may help us prove Papa wasn’t your father.’

Harry didn’t mock.

‘We know that your blood group and your mother’s are Rhesus negative,’ continued Emma. ‘If my father is Rhesus positive, he can’t be your father.’

‘We’ve discussed this on numerous occasions,’ Harry reminded her.

‘But if we were able to prove that my father’s blood group wasn’t the same as yours, we could get married. That is assuming you still want to marry me?’

‘Not this morning, my darling,’ said Harry, feigning boredom. ‘You see, I’m in the middle of committing a murder.’ He smiled. ‘In any case, we have no idea which blood type your father was, because despite considerable pressure from your mother and Sir Walter, he always refused to be tested. So perhaps you ought to write back, explaining that it will have to remain a mystery.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Emma, unbowed. ‘Because Great-aunt Phyllis has been following the case closely, and thinks she may have come up with a solution neither of us has considered.’

‘Picks up a copy of the Bristol Evening News from a newsstand on the corner of sixty-fourth street every morning, does she?’

‘No, but she does read The Times,’ said Emma, still unbowed, ‘even if it is a week out of date.’

‘And?’ said Harry, wanting to get on with his murder.

‘She says it’s now possible for scientists to identify blood groups long after the person has died.’

‘Thinking of employing Burke and Hare to exhume the body, are we, darling?’

‘No, I am not,’ said Emma, ‘but she also points out that when my father was killed, an artery was severed, so a great deal of blood would have been spilt on the carpet and the clothes he was wearing at the time.’

Harry stood up, walked across the room and picked up the phone.

‘Who are you calling?’ asked Emma.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Blakemore, who was in charge of the case. It may be a long shot, but I swear I’ll never mock you or your great-aunt Phyllis again.’



‘Do you mind if I smoke, Sir Harry?’

‘Not at all, chief inspector.’

Blakemore lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Dreadful habit,’ he said. ‘I blame Sir Walter.’

‘Sir Walter?’ said Harry.

‘Raleigh, not Barrington, you understand.’

Harry laughed as he sat down in the chair opposite the detective.

‘So how can I help you, Sir Harry?’

‘I prefer Mr Clifton.’

‘As you wish, sir.’

‘I was hoping you might be able to supply me with some information concerning the death of Hugo Barrington.’