Best Kept Secret

2





HARRY AND EMMA left for Scotland to spend their honeymoon in Mulgelrie Castle, the ancestral home of Lord and Lady Harvey, Emma’s late grandparents, but not before they had left Sebastian in Elizabeth’s safe keeping.

The castle brought back many happy memories of the time they’d spent a holiday there just before Harry went up to Oxford. They roamed the hills together during the day, rarely returning to the castle before the sun had disappeared behind the highest mountain. After supper, the cook having recalled how Master Clifton liked three portions of broth, they sat by a roaring log fire reading Evelyn Waugh, Graham Greene and, Harry’s favourite, P. G. Wodehouse.

After a fortnight, during which time they encountered more Highland cattle than human beings, they reluctantly set out on the long journey back to Bristol. They arrived at the Manor House looking forward to a life of domestic tranquillity, but it was not to be.

Elizabeth confessed that she couldn’t wait to get Sebastian off her hands; tears before bedtime had occurred once too often, she told them as her Siamese cat, Cleopatra, leapt up on to her mistress’s lap and promptly fell asleep. ‘Frankly, you haven’t arrived a moment too soon,’ she added. ‘I haven’t managed to complete The Times crossword once in the past fortnight.’

Harry thanked his mother-in-law for her understanding, and he and Emma took their hyperactive five-year-old back to Barrington Hall.



Before Harry and Emma were married, Giles had insisted that as he spent the majority of his time in London carrying out his duties as a Labour Member of Parliament, they were to consider Barrington Hall as their home. With its ten-thousand-book library, expansive park and ample stables, it was ideal for them. Harry could write his William Warwick detective novels in peace, while Emma rode every day, and Sebastian played in the spacious grounds, regularly bringing strange animals home to join him for tea.

Giles would often drive down to Bristol on Friday evenings in time to join them for dinner. On Saturday morning he would conduct a constituency surgery, before dropping into the dock workers’ club for a couple of pints with his agent, Griff Haskins. In the afternoon, he and Griff would join 10,000 of his constituents at Eastville Stadium to watch Bristol Rovers lose more times than they won. Giles never admitted, even to his agent, that he would rather have spent his Saturday afternoons watching Bristol play rugby, but had he done so Griff would have reminded him that the crowd at the Memorial Ground was rarely more than two thousand, and most of them voted Conservative.

On Sunday mornings, Giles could be found on his knees at St Mary Redcliffe, with Harry and Emma by his side. Harry assumed that for Giles this was just another constituency duty, as he’d always looked for any excuse to avoid chapel at school. But no one could deny that Giles was quickly gaining a reputation as a conscientious, hard-working Member of Parliament.

And then suddenly, without explanation, Giles’s weekend visits became less and less frequent. Whenever Emma raised the subject with her brother, he mumbled something about parliamentary duties. Harry remained unconvinced, and hoped that his brother-in-law’s long absences from the constituency would not eat into his slim majority at the next election.

One Friday evening, they discovered the real reason Giles had been otherwise engaged for the past few months.

He had rung Emma earlier in the week to warn her that he was coming down to Bristol for the weekend, and would arrive in time for dinner on Friday. What he hadn’t told her was that he would be accompanied by a guest.

Emma usually liked Giles’s girlfriends, who were always attractive, often a little scatty and without exception adored him, even if most of them didn’t last long enough for her to get to know them. But that was not to be the case this time.

When Giles introduced Virginia to her on Friday evening, Emma was puzzled by what her brother could possibly see in the woman. Emma accepted that she was beautiful and well connected. In fact Virginia reminded them more than once that she’d been Deb of the Year (in 1934), and three times that she was the daughter of the Earl of Fenwick, before they’d even sat down for dinner.

Emma might have dismissed this as simply being nerves, if Virginia hadn’t picked at her food and whispered to Giles during dinner, in tones she must have known they could overhear, how difficult it must be to find decent domestic staff in Gloucestershire. To Emma’s surprise, Giles just smiled at these observations, never once disagreeing with her. Emma was just about to say something she knew she would regret, when Virginia announced that she was exhausted after such a long day and wished to retire.

Once she had upped and departed, with Giles following a pace behind, Emma walked through to the drawing room, poured herself a large whisky and sank into the nearest chair.

‘God knows what my mother will make of the Lady Virginia.’

Harry smiled. ‘It won’t matter much what Elizabeth thinks, because I have a feeling Virginia will last about as long as most of Giles’s other girlfriends.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Emma. ‘But what puzzles me is why she’s interested in Giles, because she’s clearly not in love with him.’



When Giles and Virginia drove back to London after lunch on Sunday afternoon, Emma quickly forgot about the Earl of Fenwick’s daughter as she had to deal with a far more pressing problem. Yet another nanny had handed in her notice, declaring that it had been the last straw when she’d found a hedgehog in her bed. Harry felt some sympathy for the poor woman.

‘It doesn’t help that he’s an only child,’ said Emma after she’d finally got her son to sleep that night. ‘It can’t be fun having no one to play with.’

‘It never worried me,’ said Harry, not looking up from his book.

‘Your mother told me you were quite a handful before you went to St Bede’s school, and in any case, when you were his age, you spent more time down at the docks than you did at home.’

‘Well, it won’t be long before he starts at St Bede’s.’

‘And what do you expect me to do in the meantime? Drop him off at the docks every morning?’

‘Not a bad idea.’

‘Be serious, my darling. If it hadn’t been for Old Jack, you’d still be there now.’

‘True,’ said Harry, as he raised his glass to the great man. ‘But what can we do about it?’

Emma took so long to reply that Harry wondered if she’d fallen asleep. ‘Perhaps the time has come for us to have another child.’

Harry was so taken by surprise that he closed his book and looked closely at his wife, unsure if he’d heard her correctly. ‘But I thought we’d agreed . . .’

‘We did. And I haven’t changed my mind, but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t consider adoption.’

‘What’s brought this on, my darling?’

‘I can’t stop thinking about the little girl who was found in my father’s office the night he died’ – Emma could never bring herself to say the word killed – ‘and the possibility that she might be his child.’

‘But there’s no proof of that. And in any case, I’m not sure how you’d find out where she is after all this time.’

‘I was thinking of consulting a well-known detective writer, and seeking his advice.’

Harry thought carefully before he spoke. ‘William Warwick would probably recommend that you try and track down Derek Mitchell.’

‘But surely you can’t have forgotten that Mitchell worked for my father, and didn’t exactly have our best interests at heart.’

‘True,’ said Harry, ‘and that’s exactly why I would seek his advice. After all, he’s the one person who knows where all the bodies are buried.’



They agreed to meet at the Grand Hotel. Emma arrived a few minutes early and selected a seat in the corner of the lounge where they could not be overheard. While she waited, she went over the questions she planned to ask him.

Mr Mitchell walked into the lounge as the clock struck four. Although he’d put on a little weight since she’d last seen him, and his hair was greyer, the unmistakable limp was still his calling card. Her first thought was that he looked more like a bank manager than a private detective. He clearly recognized Emma, because he headed straight for her.

‘It’s nice to see you again, Mrs Clifton,’ he ventured.

‘Please have a seat,’ Emma said, wondering if he was as nervous as she was. She decided to get straight to the point. ‘I wanted to see you, Mr Mitchell, because I need the help of a private detective.’

Mitchell shifted uneasily in his chair.

‘When we last met, I promised I would settle the rest of my father’s debt to you.’ This had been Harry’s suggestion. He said it would make Mitchell realize she was serious about employing him. She opened her handbag, extracted an envelope and handed it to Mitchell.

‘Thank you,’ said Mitchell, clearly surprised.

Emma continued, ‘You will recall when I last saw you we discussed the baby who was found in the wicker basket in my father’s office. Detective Chief Inspector Blakemore, who was in charge of the case, as I’m sure you remember, told my husband the little girl had been taken into care by the local authority.’

‘That would be standard practice, assuming no one came forward to claim her.’

‘Yes, I’ve already discovered that much, and only yesterday I spoke to the person in charge of that department at City Hall, but he refused to supply me with any details as to where the little girl might be now.’

‘That will have been at the instruction of the coroner following the inquest, to protect the child from inquisitive journalists. It doesn’t mean there aren’t ways of finding out where she is.’

‘I’m glad to hear that.’ Emma hesitated. ‘But before we go down that path, I need to be convinced that the little girl was my father’s child.’

‘I can assure you, Mrs Clifton, there isn’t any doubt about that.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I could supply you with all the details, but it might cause you some discomfort.’

‘Mr Mitchell, I cannot believe that anything you could tell me about my father would surprise me.’

Mitchell remained silent for a few moments. Eventually he said, ‘During the time I worked for Sir Hugo, you’ll be aware that he moved to London.’

‘Ran away on the day of my wedding, would be more accurate.’

Mitchell didn’t comment. ‘About a year later, he began living with a Miss Olga Piotrovska in Lowndes Square.’

‘How could he afford that, when my grandfather had cut him off without a penny?’

‘He couldn’t. To put it bluntly, he was not only living with Miss Piotrovska, but living off her.’

‘Can you tell me anything about this lady?’

‘A great deal. She was Polish by birth, and escaped from Warsaw in 1941, soon after her parents were arrested.’

‘What was their crime?’

‘Being Jewish,’ said Mitchell without feeling. ‘She managed to get across the border with some of the family’s possessions, and made her way to London, where she rented a flat in Lowndes Square. It wasn’t long after that that she met your father at a cocktail party given by a mutual friend. He courted the lady for a few weeks and then moved into her apartment, giving his word that they would be married as soon as his divorce came through.’

‘I said nothing would surprise me. I was wrong.’

‘It gets worse,’ said Mitchell. ‘When your grandfather died, Sir Hugo immediately dumped Miss Piotrovska, and returned to Bristol to claim his inheritance and take over as chairman of the board of Barrington’s shipping line. But not before he’d stolen all of Miss Piotrovska’s jewellery as well as several valuable paintings.’

‘If that’s true, why wasn’t he arrested?’

‘He was,’ said Mitchell, ‘and was about to be charged when his associate, Toby Dunstable, who had turned King’s evidence, committed suicide in his cell the night before the trial.’

Emma bowed her head.

‘Would you rather I didn’t continue, Mrs Clifton?’

‘No,’ said Emma looking directly at him. ‘I need to know everything.’

‘Although your father wasn’t aware of it when he returned to Bristol, Miss Piotrovska was pregnant. She gave birth to a little girl, who is named on the birth certificate as Jessica Piotrovska.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because Miss Piotrovska employed me when your father could no longer pay my bills. Ironically, she ran out of money just as your father inherited a fortune. That was the reason she travelled down to Bristol with Jessica. She wanted Sir Hugo to know he had another daughter, as she felt it was his responsibility to bring the girl up.’

‘And now it’s my responsibility,’ said Emma quietly. She paused. ‘But I’ve no idea how to go about finding her, and I was hoping you could help.’

‘I’ll do whatever I can, Mrs Clifton. But after all this time, it won’t be easy. If I come up with anything, you’ll be the first to hear,’ the detective added as he rose from his seat.

As Mitchell limped away, Emma felt a little guilty. She hadn’t even offered him a cup of tea.



Emma couldn’t wait to get home and tell Harry about her meeting with Mitchell. When she burst into the library at Barrington Hall, he was putting down the phone. He had such a huge grin on his face that all she said was, ‘You first.’

‘My American publishers want me to do a tour of the States when they launch the new book next month.’

‘That’s wonderful news, darling. At last you’ll get to meet Great-aunt Phyllis, not to mention Cousin Alistair.’

‘I can’t wait.’

‘Don’t mock, child!’

‘I’m not, because my publishers have suggested you join me on the trip, so you’ll be able to see them too.’

‘I’d love to go with you, darling, but the timing couldn’t be worse. Nanny Ryan has packed her bags, and I’m embarrassed to say that the agency’s taken us off their books.’

‘Perhaps I could get my publishers to agree to Seb coming along as well.’

‘Which would probably result in all of us being deported,’ said Emma. ‘No, I’ll stay at home with Seb, while you go off and conquer the colonies.’

Harry took his wife in his arms. ‘Pity. I was looking forward to a second honeymoon. By the way, how did your meeting with Mitchell go?’



Harry was in Edinburgh addressing a literary lunch when Derek Mitchell phoned Emma.

‘I may have a lead,’ he said, not giving his name. ‘When can we meet?’

‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning, same place?’

No sooner had she put the phone down than it rang again. She picked it up, to find her sister on the other end of the line.

‘What a pleasant surprise, Grace, but knowing you, you’ll have a good reason for calling.’

‘Some of us have full-time jobs,’ Grace reminded her. ‘But you’re right. I rang because last night I attended a lecture given by Professor Cyrus Feldman.’

‘The double Pulitzer Prize-winner?’ said Emma, hoping to impress her sister. ‘Stanford University, if I remember correctly.’

‘I’m impressed,’ said Grace. ‘More to the point, you’d have been fascinated by the talk he gave.’

‘He’s an economist, if I recall?’ said Emma, trying to keep her head above water. ‘Hardly my field.’

‘Or mine, but when he spoke about transport. . .’

‘Sounds riveting.’

‘It was,’ said Grace, ignoring her sarcasm, ‘especially when he touched on the future of shipping, now that the British Overseas Airways Corporation is planning to start a regular air service from London to New York.’

Emma was suddenly aware of why her sister had rung. ‘Any hope of getting a transcript of the lecture?’

‘You can do better than that. His next port of call is Bristol, so you can go along and hear him in person.’

‘Perhaps I could have a word with him after the lecture. There’s so much I’d like to ask him,’ said Emma.

‘Good idea, but if you do, be warned. Although he’s one of those rare men whose brain is bigger than his balls, he’s on his fourth wife, and there was no sign of her last night.’

Emma laughed. ‘You’re so crude, sis, but thanks for the advice.’



Harry took the train from Edinburgh to Manchester the following morning and, after addressing a small gathering in the city’s municipal library, agreed to take questions.

The first was inevitably from a member of the press. They rarely announced themselves, and seemed to have little or no interest in his latest book. Today it was the turn of the Manchester Guardian.

‘How is Mrs Clifton?’

‘Well, thank you,’ Harry replied cautiously.

‘Is it true you’re both living in the same house as Sir Giles Barrington?’

‘It’s quite a big house.’

‘Do you feel any resentment about the fact that Sir Giles got everything in his father’s will, and you got nothing?’

‘Certainly not. I got Emma, which is all I ever wanted.’

That seemed to silence the journalist for a moment, allowing a member of the public the chance to jump in.

‘When will William Warwick get Chief Inspector Davenport’s job?’

‘Not in the next book,’ said Harry with a smile. ‘I can assure you of that.’

‘Is it true, Mr Clifton, that you’ve lost seven nannies in less than three years?’

Manchester clearly had more than one newspaper.

In the car on the way back to the station, Harry began to grumble about the press, although the Manchester rep pointed out that all the publicity didn’t seem to be harming his sales. But Harry knew that Emma was becoming concerned about the endless press attention, and the effect it might have on Sebastian once he started school.

‘Little boys can be so brutal,’ she’d reminded him.

‘Well, at least he won’t be thrashed for licking his porridge bowl,’ said Harry.



Although Emma was a few minutes early, Mitchell was already seated in the alcove when she walked into the hotel lounge. He stood up the moment she joined him. The first thing she said, even before she sat down, was, ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Mitchell?’

‘No, thank you, Mrs Clifton.’ Mitchell, not a man for small talk, sat back down and opened his note book. ‘It seems the local authority has placed Jessica Smith—’

‘Smith?’ said Emma. ‘Why not Piotrovska, or even Barrington?’

‘Too easy to trace, would be my bet, and I suspect the coroner insisted on anonymity following the inquest. The local authority,’ he continued, ‘sent a Miss J. Smith to a Dr Barnardo’s home in Bridgwater.’

‘Why Bridgwater?’

‘Probably the nearest home that had a vacancy at the time.’

‘Is she still there?’

‘As far as I can make out, yes. But I’ve recently discovered that Barnardo’s is planning to send several of their girls to homes in Australia.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘It’s part of Australia’s immigration policy to pay ten pounds to assist young people’s passage to their country, and they’re particularly keen on girls.’

‘I would have thought they’d be more interested in boys.’

‘It seems they’ve already got enough of them,’ said Mitchell, displaying a rare grin.

‘Then we’d better visit Bridgwater as soon as possible.’

‘Hold on, Mrs Clifton. If you appear too enthusiastic, they might put two and two together and work out why you’re so interested in Miss J. Smith, and decide you and Mr Clifton aren’t suitable foster parents.’

‘But what reason could they possibly have to deny us?’

‘Your name for a start. Not to mention that you and Mr Clifton weren’t married when your son was born.’

‘So what do you recommend?’ asked Emma quietly.

‘Make an application through the usual channels. Don’t appear to be in a rush, and make it look as if they are taking the decisions.’

‘But how do we know they won’t turn us down anyway?’

‘You’ll have to nudge them in the right direction, won’t you, Mrs Clifton.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘When you fill in the application form, you’re asked to put down any preferences you might have. It saves everyone a lot of time and trouble. So if you make it clear that you’re looking for a girl of around five or six, as you already have a son who’s a little older, it should help narrow the field.’

‘Any other suggestions?’

‘Yes,’ replied Mitchell. ‘Under religion, tick the box marked no preference.’

‘Why will that help?’

‘Because Miss Jessica Smith’s registration form states mother Jewish, father unknown.’