Best Kept Secret (The Clifton Chronicles 3)

'Not a hope. This will become my second home, you'll see.' Sebastian planted a kiss on Janice's cheek, before giving Tibby a long hug. 'You're not going to get rid of me quite that easily,' he added as he climbed back into the waiting taxi.

Mrs Tibbet and Janice waved as the cab began its journey back to Eaton Square. Tibby had wanted to tell him one more time, for heaven's sake ring your mother the minute she gets back from America, but she knew it would be pointless.

'Janice, go and change the sheets in number seven,' she said as the taxi turned right at the end of the road and disappeared out of sight. Mrs Tibbet quickly returned to the house. If Seb wouldn't get in touch with his mother, she would.

That evening, Bruno's father took the boys to the Ritz for dinner; more champagne, and Sebastian's first experience of oysters. Don Pedro, as he insisted Sebastian call him, thanked him again and again for shouldering the blame and making it possible for Bruno still to go to Cambridge. 'So British,' he kept repeating.

Bruno sat silently picking at his food, rarely joining in the conversation. All his confidence of the afternoon seemed to have evaporated in the presence of his father. But the biggest surprise of the evening came when Don Pedro revealed that Bruno had two older brothers, Diego and Luis, something he'd never mentioned before, and they'd certainly never visited him at Beechcroft Abbey. Sebastian wanted to ask why, but as his friend kept his head bowed, he decided he'd wait until they were alone.

'They work alongside me in the family business,' said Don Pedro.

'And what is the family business?' asked Sebastian innocently.

'Import and export,' said Don Pedro without going into detail.

Don Pedro offered his young guest his first Cuban cigar, and asked what he planned to do now he wouldn't be going to Cambridge. Sebastian admitted between coughs, 'I suppose I'll have to look for a job.'

'Would you like to earn yourself a hundred pounds cash? There's something you could do for me in Buenos Aires, and you'd be back in England by the end of the month.'

'Thank you, sir, that's most generous. But what would I be expected to do for such a large sum of money?'

'Come to Buenos Aires with me next Monday, stay for a few days as my guest, then take a package back to Southampton on the Queen Mary.'

'But why me? Surely one of your staff could carry out such a simple task?'

'Because the package contains a family heirloom,' said Don Pedro without missing a beat, 'and I need someone who speaks both Spanish and English, and can be trusted. The way you conducted yourself when Bruno was in trouble convinces me that you're the right man  - ' and looking at Bruno, he added, 'and perhaps this is my way of saying thank you.'

'That's kind of you, sir,' said Sebastian, not able to believe his luck.

'Let me give you ten pounds in advance,' Don Pedro said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. 'You'll get the other ninety on the day you sail back to England.' He removed two five-pound notes from his wallet and pushed them across the table. It was more money than Sebastian had been given in his life. 'Why don't you and Bruno enjoy yourselves this weekend? After all, you've earned it.'

Bruno said nothing.

As soon as the last guest had been served, Mrs Tibbet instructed Janice to hoover the dining room and lay up for tomorrow's breakfast, but not until she'd finished the washing-up, as if she'd never given the order before. Then Mrs Tibbet disappeared upstairs. Janice assumed she was going to her office to prepare the morning shopping list, but instead she just sat at her desk staring at the phone. She poured herself a glass of whisky, something she rarely did before her last guest had gone to bed, took a gulp and picked up the receiver.

'Directory enquiries,' she said, and waited until another voice came on the line.

'What name?' asked the voice.

'Mr Harry Clifton,' she replied.

'And which city?'

'Bristol.'

'And the address?'

'I don't have it, but he's a famous author,' said Mrs Tibbet, trying to sound as if she knew him. She waited for some time and began to wonder if she'd been cut off, until the voice said, 'That subscriber's number is ex-directory, madam, so I'm afraid I'm unable to put you through.'

'But this is an emergency.'

'I'm sorry, madam, but I couldn't put you through if you were the Queen of England.'

Mrs Tibbet put down the phone. She sat for some time wondering if there was any other way of getting in touch with Mrs Clifton. Then she thought of Janice, and returned to the kitchen.

'Where do you buy those paperbacks you've always got your head in?' she asked Janice.

'At the station, on my way in to work,' Janice replied as she continued with the washing-up. Mrs Tibbet cleaned the Aga while she thought about Janice's reply. Once she'd completed the job to her satisfaction, she took off her apron, folded it neatly, picked up her shopping basket and announced, 'I'm off to the shops.'

After leaving the guest house, she didn't turn right as she did every other morning, when she would head for the butcher in search of the finest slices of Danish bacon, the greengrocer for the freshest fruit, and the baker for the warmest loaves as they were taken from the oven, and even then she would only buy them if the price was sensible. But not today. Today she turned left and walked towards Paddington Station.

She kept a firm grip on her purse, as she'd been told once too often by disillusioned guests that they'd been robbed within moments of setting foot in London  -  Sebastian being the latest example. The boy was so mature for his age, and yet still so naive.

Mrs Tibbet felt unusually nervous as she crossed the road and joined the bustling crowd of commuters making their way into the station. Perhaps it was because she'd never been inside a bookshop before. She hadn't had much time to read since her husband and baby son had been killed fifteen years ago in a bombing raid on the East End. If the child had lived, he would have been about the same age as Sebastian.

Without a roof to cover her head, Tibby had migrated west, like a bird that needs to find new feeding grounds. She took a job at the Safe Haven guest house as a general dogsbody. Three years later she became the waitress, and when the owner died, she didn't so much inherit the guest house as take it on, since the bank was looking for someone, anyone, to pay the mortgage.

She nearly went under, but in 1951 she was rescued by the Festival of Britain, which attracted a million extra visitors to London, making it possible for the guest house to show a profit for the first time. That profit had increased every year, if only by a small margin, and now the mortgage had been paid off and the business was hers. She relied on her regulars to get her through the winter, as she had learned early on that those who rely solely on passing trade soon have to close their doors.

Mrs Tibbet snapped out of her daydream and looked around the station until her eyes settled on a W.H. Smith sign. She watched as seasoned travellers dashed in and out. Most only bought a morning paper for a halfpenny, but others at the back of the shop were browsing among the bookshelves.

She ventured in but then stood helplessly in the middle of the shop, getting in the customers' way. When she spotted a woman at the back stacking books on to the shelves from a wooden trolley, she walked over to her, but didn't interrupt her work.