The Sins of the Father (The Clifton Chronicles 2)

The private detective joined him at 11.34 a.m., only minutes after the Paddington express had pulled into Temple Meads station. Mitchell slipped into the chair opposite his only client, although he hadn't received any remuneration for several months.

'What is so urgent that it couldn't wait?' demanded Hugo, once a half pint of beer had been placed in front of the private detective.

'I'm sorry to report, sir,' Mitchell began after taking a sip, 'that the police have arrested your friend Toby Dunstable.' Hugo felt a shiver shoot through his body. 'They've charged him with the theft of the Piotrovska diamonds along with several paintings, including a Picasso and a Monet, that he tried to offload on Agnew's, the Mayfair art dealer.'

'Toby will keep his mouth shut,' said Hugo.

'I fear not, sir. I am reliably informed that he has turned King's evidence in exchange for a lighter sentence. It seems Scotland Yard are more interested in arresting the man behind the crime.'

Hugo's beer went flat while he tried to take in the significance of Mitchell's words. After a long silence, the private detective continued. 'I thought you'd also want to know that Miss Piotrovska has hired Sir Francis Mayhew KC to represent her.'

'Why doesn't she just leave the police to deal with the case?'

'She did not seek Sir Francis's advice on the burglary, but on two other matters.'

'Two other matters?' repeated Hugo.

'Yes. I understand a writ is about to be served on you for breach of promise, and Miss Piotrovska is also lodging a paternity suit, naming you as the father of her daughter.'

'She'll never be able to prove it.'

'Among the evidence that will be presented to the court is the receipt for an engagement ring purchased from a Burlington Arcade jeweller, and both her resident housekeeper and her lady's maid have signed affidavits confirming that you resided at forty-two Lowndes Square for over a year.'

For the first time in ten years, Hugo asked Mitchell for his advice. 'What do you think I should do?' he almost whispered.

'If I found myself in your position, sir, I'd leave the country as soon as possible.'

'How long do you think I've got?'

'A week, ten days at the most.'

A waiter appeared by their side. 'That will be one shilling and nine pence, sir.'

As Hugo didn't move, Mitchell handed the waiter a florin and said, 'Keep the change.'

Once the private detective had left to return to London, Hugo sat alone for some time, considering his options. The waiter came over again and asked if he'd like another drink, but Hugo didn't even bother to reply. Eventually he heaved himself up from his chair and made his way out of the bar.

Hugo headed towards the city centre, slower and slower with each pace, until he'd finally worked out what he had to do next. He marched into the bank a few minutes later.

'Can I help you, sir?' asked the young man on reception. But Hugo was halfway across the hall before he'd had time to call the manager and warn him that Sir Hugo Barrington was heading towards his office.

Prendergast was no longer surprised that Sir Hugo always assumed he would be available at a moment's notice, but he was shocked to see that the chairman of Barrington's hadn't bothered to shave that morning.

'I have a problem that needs to be dealt with urgently,' Hugo said as he sank into the chair opposite the manager.

'Yes of course, Sir Hugo. How can I be of assistance?'

'What's the most you could hope to raise for my properties on Broad Street?'

'But only last week I sent a letter advising you that Mrs Clifton has rejected your latest offer.'

'I'm well aware of that,' said Hugo. 'I meant without her site.'

'There is still an offer on the table of three thousand five hundred, but I have reason to believe that were you to offer Mrs Clifton a little more, she would release her site and the thirty-thousand-pound bid would still be valid.'

'I don't have any more time,' said Hugo without explanation.

'If that is the case, I'm confident that I could press my client to raise his bid to four thousand, which would still show you a handsome profit.'

'If I were to accept that offer, I would need your assurance on one thing.' Mr Prendergast allowed himself a raised eyebrow. 'That your client does not have, and never has had, any connection with Mrs Clifton.'

'I am able to give you that assurance, Sir Hugo.'

'If your client was to pay me four thousand, how much would that leave in my current account?'

Mr Prendergast opened Sir Hugo's file and checked the balance sheet. 'Eight hundred and twenty-two pounds and ten shillings,' he said.

Hugo no longer joked about the ten shillings. 'In which case, I require eight hundred pounds in cash immediately. And I'll instruct you later where to send the proceeds of the sale.'

'The proceeds of the sale?' repeated Prendergast.

'Yes,' replied Hugo. 'I've decided to place Barrington Hall on the market.'

36

NO ONE SAW HIM leave the house.

He was carrying a suitcase and was dressed in a warm tweed suit, a pair of stout brown shoes that had been made to last, a heavy topcoat and a brown felt hat. A casual glance, and you would have taken him for a commercial traveller.

He walked to the nearest bus stop, which was just over a mile away, most of it his own land. Forty minutes later he boarded a green single-decker bus  -  a mode of transport he'd never used before. He sat in the back seat, not letting the suitcase out of his sight. He handed the clippie a ten-shilling note, despite the fact that he was only asked for thruppence; his first mistake if he hoped to avoid drawing attention to himself.

The bus continued on its way into Bristol, a journey he would normally cover in about twelve minutes in the Lagonda, but today it took over an hour before they finally pulled into the bus station. Hugo was neither the first nor the last passenger to get off. He checked his watch: 2.38 p.m. He'd left himself enough time.

He walked up the slope to Temple Meads station  -  he'd never noticed the slope, but then he'd never had to carry his own suitcase before  -  where he joined a long queue and purchased a third-class single to Fishguard. He asked which platform the train would be leaving from, and once he'd found it, stood at the far end, under an unlit gas light.

When the train eventually pulled in, he climbed aboard and found a seat in the middle of a third-class compartment, which quickly filled up. He placed his suitcase on the rack opposite him, and rarely took his eyes off it. A woman pulled open the carriage door and glanced into the crowded compartment, but he didn't offer her his seat.

As the train pulled out of the station, he let out a sigh of relief, delighted to see Bristol disappearing into the distance. He sat back and thought about the decision he'd made. By this time tomorrow, he'd be in Cork. He wouldn't feel safe until his feet were treading on Irish soil. But they had to arrive in Swansea on schedule if he hoped to link up with the train for Fishguard.

The train pulled into Swansea with half an hour to spare; time for a cup of tea and a Chelsea bun in the station buffet. It wasn't Earl Grey or Carwardine's, but he was too tired to care. As soon as he'd finished, he exchanged the buffet for another dimly lit platform and waited for the Fishguard train to appear.