* * *
When Harry walked into the offices of the Viking Press, a young woman he recognized was waiting in reception.
“Good morning, Mr. Clifton,” said Harold Guinzburg’s secretary, stepping forward to greet him. He couldn’t help wondering how many authors received this sort of treatment. “Mr. Guinzburg is looking forward to seeing you.”
“Thank you, Kirsty,” said Harry. She led him through to the publisher’s oak-panelled office, adorned with photographs of past and present authors: Hemingway, Shaw, Fitzgerald, and Faulkner. He wondered if you had to die before your picture could be added to the Guinzburg collection.
Despite being nearly seventy, Guinzburg leapt up from behind his desk the moment Harry entered the room. Harry had to smile. Dressed in a three-piece suit and wearing a half-hunter pocket watch with a gold chain, Guinzburg looked more English than the English.
“So how’s my favorite author?”
Harry laughed as they shook hands. “And how many times a week do you greet authors with those words?” he asked as he sank down in the high, buttoned-back leather chair facing his publisher.
“A week?” said Guinzburg. “At least three times a day, sometimes more—especially when I can’t remember their names.” Harry smiled. “However, I can prove it’s true in your case, because after reading William Warwick and the Defrocked Vicar, I’ve decided the first print run will be eighty thousand copies.”
Harry opened his mouth, but didn’t speak. His last William Warwick novel had sold 72,000 copies so he was well aware of the commitment his publisher was making.
“Let’s hope there won’t be too many returns.”
“The advance orders rather suggest that eighty thousand won’t be enough. But forgive me,” Guinzburg said, “first tell me, how is Emma? And was the maiden voyage a triumph? I couldn’t find a mention of it, despite scouring the New York Times this morning.”
“Emma couldn’t be better, and sends her love. At this moment, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s buffing up the brass-work on the bridge. As for the maiden voyage, I have a feeling she’ll be quite relieved there’s no mention of it in the New York Times—although the whole experience may have given me an idea for my next novel.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Not a hope,” replied Harry. “You’ll just have to be patient, which I’m well aware is not your strongest suit.”
“Then let’s hope your new responsibilities won’t cut into your writing schedule. Many congratulations.”
“Thank you. Though I only allowed my name to go forward as president of English PEN for one reason.”
Guinzburg raised an eyebrow.
“I want a Russian called Anatoly Babakov to be released from prison immediately.”
“Why do you feel so strongly about Babakov?” asked Guinzburg.
“If you’d been locked up in prison for a crime you hadn’t committed, Harold, believe me, you’d feel strongly. And don’t forget, I was in an American jail, which frankly is a Holiday Inn compared to a gulag in Siberia.”
“I can’t even remember what Babakov was meant to have done.”
“He wrote a book.”
“That’s a crime in Russia?”
“It is if you decide to tell the truth about your employer, especially if your employer was Josef Stalin.”
“Uncle Joe, I remember,” said Guinzburg, “but the book was never published.”
“It was published but Babakov was arrested long before a copy reached the bookshelves, and after a show trial he was sentenced to twenty years in prison, with no right of appeal.”
“Which only makes one wonder what can be in that book to make the Soviets so determined that no one should ever get to read it.”
“I’ve no idea,” said Harry. “But I do know that every copy of Uncle Joe was removed from the bookshelves within hours of publication. The publisher was shut down, Babakov was arrested, and he hasn’t been seen since his trial. If there’s a copy out there I intend to find it when I go to the international book conference in Moscow in May.”
“If you do lay your hands on a copy, I’d love to have it translated and publish it over here, because I can guarantee that not only would it be a runaway best seller but also it would finally expose Stalin as a man every bit as evil as Hitler. Mind you, Russia’s a pretty big haystack in which to be searching for that particular needle.”
“True, but I’m determined to find out what Babakov has to say. Don’t forget, he was Stalin’s personal interpreter for thirteen years, so few people would have had a better insight into the regime—although even he didn’t anticipate how the KGB would react when he decided to publish his version of what he witnessed firsthand.”
“And now that Stalin’s old allies have removed Khrushchev and are back in power, no doubt some of them have things they’d prefer to keep hidden.”
“Like the truth about Stalin’s death,” said Harry.
“I’ve never seen you so worked up about anything,” said Guinzburg. “But it might not be wise for you to poke a stick at the big bear. The new hard-line regime there seems to have little regard for human rights, whichever country you come from.”
“What’s the point of being president of PEN if I can’t express my views?”
The carriage clock on the bookshelf behind Guinzburg’s desk struck twelve.
“Why don’t we go and have lunch at my club, and we can discuss less contentious matters, like what Sebastian’s been up to.”
“I think he’s about to propose to an American girl.”
“I always knew that boy was smart,” said Guinzburg.
* * *
While Samantha and Seb were admiring the shopwindows on Fifth Avenue, and Harry was enjoying a rib-eye steak at the Harvard Club with his publisher, a yellow cab came to a halt outside a smart brownstone on 64th and Park.
Emma stepped out, carrying a shoebox with “Crockett & Jones” emblazoned on the lid. Inside was a pair of size nine, made-to-measure black brogues, which she knew would fit her cousin Alistair perfectly, because he always had his shoes made in Jermyn Street.
As Emma looked up at the shiny brass knocker on the front door, she recalled the first time she had climbed those steps. A young woman, barely out of her teens, she’d been shaking like a leaf and had wanted to run away. But she’d spent all her money to get to America, and didn’t know who else to turn to in New York if she was to find Harry, who was locked up in an American prison for a murder he hadn’t committed. Once she’d met Great-aunt Phyllis, Emma didn’t return to England for over a year—until she found out Harry was no longer in America.
This time she climbed the steps more confidently, rapped firmly with the brass knocker, stood back, and waited. She hadn’t made an appointment to see her cousin because she had no doubt he’d be in residence. Although he’d recently retired as the senior partner of Simpson, Albion & Stuart, he was not a country animal, even at weekends. Alistair was quintessentially a New Yorker. He’d been born on 64th and Park, and that, undoubtedly, was where he would die.
When the door opened a few moments later, Emma was surprised to see a man she immediately recognized, although it must have been more than twenty years since she had last seen him. He was dressed in a black morning coat, striped trousers, white shirt, and gray tie. Some things never change.
“How nice to see you, Mrs. Clifton,” he said as if she dropped by every day.
Emma felt embarrassed as she wrestled to recall his name, knowing that Harry would never have forgotten it. “And it’s so nice to see you,” she ventured. “I was rather hoping to catch up with my cousin Alistair, if he’s at home.”
“I fear not, madam,” said the butler. “Mr. Stuart is attending the funeral of Mr. Benjamin Rutledge, a former partner of the firm, and isn’t expected back from Connecticut until tomorrow evening.”
Emma couldn’t hide her disappointment.
“Perhaps you’d care to come inside and I could make you a cup of tea—Earl Grey, if I remember correctly?”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Emma, “but I ought to be getting back to the ship.”
“Of course. I do hope the Buckingham’s maiden voyage was a success?”
“Better than I might have hoped for,” she admitted. “Would you be kind enough to pass on my best wishes to Alistair, and say how sorry I was to miss him?”
“I’d be delighted to do so, Mrs. Clifton.” The butler gave a slight bow before closing the door.
Emma made her way back down the steps and began searching for a cab, when she suddenly realized she was still clutching the shoebox. Feeling embarrassed, she climbed the steps a second time and rapped the door with the brass knocker a little more tentatively.
Moments later the door opened a second time and the butler reappeared. “Madam?” he said, giving her the same warm smile.
“I’m so sorry, but I quite forgot to give you this gift for Alistair.”
“How thoughtful of you to remember Mr. Stuart’s favorite shoe shop,” he said as Emma handed over the box. “I know he’ll appreciate your kindness.”
Emma stood there, still helplessly trying to recall his name.
“I do hope, Mrs. Clifton, that the return voyage to Avonmouth will be equally successful.”
Once again he bowed and closed the door quietly behind him.
“Thank you, Parker,” she said.