Best Kept Secret (The Clifton Chronicles 3)

'I also played a small part in that man's downfall,' sniffed Phyllis, as Parker handed her guest a glass of sherry. 'But don't get me started on Jelks,' she added, as she ushered Harry towards a comfortable chair by the fire, 'because I'm far more interested to hear about Emma, and what she's been up to.'

Harry took some time bringing Great-aunt Phyllis up to date on everything Emma had done since she'd left New York, not least because she and Alistair kept interrupting him with questions. It wasn't until the butler returned to announce dinner was served that they moved on to a different subject.

'So how are you enjoying your visit?' asked Alistair as they took their seats round the dining table.

'I think I preferred being arrested for murder,' said Harry. 'Far easier to deal with.'

'That bad?'

'Worse in some ways. You see, I'm not much good at selling myself,' admitted Harry as a maid placed a bowl of Scotch broth in front of him. 'I'd rather hoped the book might speak for itself.'

'Think again,' said Great-aunt Phyllis. 'Just remember, New York isn't an offshoot of Bloomsbury. Forget refinement, understatement and irony. However much it's against your better nature, you'll have to learn to sell your wares like an East End barrow boy.'

'I'm proud to be England's most successful author,' said Alistair, raising his voice.

'But I'm not,' said Harry, 'by a long chalk.'

'I've been overwhelmed by the American people's reaction to Nothing Ventured,' said Phyllis, joining in the charade.

'That's only because no one's read it,' protested Harry, between mouthfuls.

'Like Dickens, Conan Doyle and Wilde, I'm confident the United States will turn out to be my biggest market,' added Alistair.

'I sell more books in Market Harborough than I do in New York,' Harry said as his soup bowl was whisked away. 'It's patently obvious that Aunt Phyllis ought to take my place on the book tour, and I should be sent back to England.'

'I would be only too delighted to do so,' said Phyllis. 'It's just a pity I don't have your talent,' she added wistfully.

Harry helped himself to a slice of roast beef and far too many potatoes, and it wasn't long before he began to relax as Phyllis and Alistair regaled him with tales of Emma's exploits when she'd turned up in New York in search of him. It amused him to hear their version of what had taken place, and only served to remind him just how lucky he'd been to end up sleeping in the next bed to Giles Barrington when he first went to St Bede's. And if he hadn't been invited to tea at the Manor House to celebrate Giles's birthday, he might never have met Emma. Not that he'd even glanced at her at the time.

'You do realize you'll never be good enough for her,' said Phyllis as she lit a cheroot.

Harry nodded, appreciating for the first time why this indomitable lady had turned out to be Emma's Old Jack. If they had sent her off to war, he thought, Great-aunt Phyllis would surely have come home with the Silver Star.

When the clock struck eleven, Harry, who might have had one brandy too many, rose unsteadily from his chair. He didn't need reminding that at six the next morning Natalie would be standing in the hotel lobby, waiting to whisk him off for his first radio interview of the day. He thanked his hostess for a memorable evening, and for his trouble received another bear hug.

'Now, don't forget,' she said, 'whenever you're interviewed, think British, act Yiddish. And if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, or a half-decent meal, just like the Windmill Theatre we never close.'

'Thank you,' said Harry.

'And when you next speak to Emma,' said Alistair, 'do remember to send our love, and be sure to chastise her for not accompanying you on this trip.'

Harry decided this wasn't the moment to tell them about Sebastian and what the doctors described as his hyper-active problem.

The three of them somehow squeezed into the lift, and Harry received one last hug from Phyllis, before Parker opened the front door and he was cast back on to the streets of Manhattan.

'Oh hell,' he said after he'd walked a short way down Park Avenue. He turned and ran back to Phyllis's house, up the steps and banged on the front door. The butler didn't appear quite as quickly this time.

'I need to see Mrs Stuart urgently,' said Harry. 'I hope she hasn't gone to bed.'

'Not that I'm aware of, sir,' said Parker. 'Please, follow me.' He led Harry back down the corridor and into the lift where once again he pressed the button for the third floor.

Phyllis was standing by the mantelpiece puffing away on her cheroot when Harry made his second entrance. It was her turn to look surprised.

'I'm so sorry,' he said, 'but Emma will never forgive me if I return to England without discovering what's happened to that lawyer who foolishly underestimated her.'

'Sefton Jelks,' said Alistair, looking up from his seat by the fire. 'The damn man finally resigned as senior partner of Jelks, Myers and Abernathy, albeit somewhat reluctantly.'

'Shortly afterwards, he disappeared off to Minnesota,' added Phyllis.

'And he won't be returning in the near future,' said Alistair, 'as he died some months ago.'

'My son is a typical lawyer,' said Phyllis, stubbing out her cheroot. 'He only ever tells you half the story. Jelks's first heart attack warranted a small mention in the New York Times, and it was only after the third that he received a short and not very flattering paragraph at the bottom of the obituary page.'

'Which was more than he deserved,' said Alistair.

'I agree,' said Phyllis. 'Although it gave me considerable pleasure to discover that only four people attended his funeral.'

'How do you know that?' asked Alistair.

'Because I was one of them,' said Phyllis.

'You travelled all the way to Minnesota just to attend Sefton Jelks's funeral?' said Harry in disbelief.

'I most certainly did.'

'But why?' demanded Alistair.

'You could never trust Sefton Jelks,' she explained. 'I wouldn't have been truly convinced he was dead until I'd seen his coffin being lowered into the ground, and even then I waited until the gravediggers had filled in the hole.'

'Please have a seat, Mrs Clifton.'

'Thank you,' said Emma as she sat down on a wooden chair and faced the three governors, who were in comfortable seats behind a long table on a raised dais.

'My name is David Slater,' said the man in the centre, 'and I'll be chairing this afternoon's meeting. Allow me to introduce my colleagues, Miss Braithwaite and Mr Needham.'

Emma tried to make a rapid assessment of the three invigilators she was facing. The chairman wore a three-piece suit, an old school tie she recognized, and looked as if this wasn't the only board he chaired. Miss Braithwaite, who sat on his right, was dressed in a pre-war tweed suit and thick woollen stockings. Her hair was done up in a bun, leaving Emma in no doubt that she was a spinster of this parish, and the set of her lips suggested she didn't smile that often. The gentleman on the chairman's left was younger than his two colleagues, and reminded Emma that it was not so long ago that Britain had been at war. His bushy moustache suggested the RAF.