‘Be warned,’ said Giles, ‘the journalists won’t ask you any questions about the book, only your views on who should inherit the title.’
‘How often do I have to tell them that my sole interest is Emma, and I’ll sacrifice anything to be allowed to spend the rest of my life with her?’ asked Harry, trying not to sound exasperated. ‘You can have the title, you can have the estate, you can have all that therein is, if I can have Emma.’
William Warwick and the Case of the Blind Witness was well received by the critics, but Giles turned out to be right. The press didn’t seem to be particularly interested in the ambitious young detective constable from Bristol, only the writer’s alter ego, Giles Barrington, and his chances of regaining the family title. Whenever Harry told the press that he had no interest in the title, it only made them more convinced he did.
In what the journalists regarded as the battle for the Barrington inheritance, all the newspapers, with the exception of the Daily Telegraph, supported the handsome, brave, self-made, popular, smart grammar-school boy, who, they repeatedly reminded their readers, had been raised in the back streets of Bristol.
Harry took every opportunity to remind the same journalists that Giles had been a contemporary at Bristol Grammar School, was now the Labour MP for Bristol Docklands, just happened to have won the MC at Tobruk, a cricket blue in his first year at Oxford, and certainly wasn’t responsible for which cot he was born in. Harry’s loyal support of his friend only made him even more popular, with both the press and the public.
Despite the fact that Giles had been elected to the House of Commons by over three thousand votes and had already taken his place on the green benches, he knew it would be a debate that was due to take place on the red benches at the other end of the corridor in just over a month’s time that would decide both his and Harry’s future.
46
HARRY WAS USED TO being woken by birds chirping happily in the trees that surrounded Barrington Hall, and Sebastian charging into the library uninvited and unannounced or the sound of Emma arriving for breakfast after her early morning gallop.
But today it was different.
He was woken by street lights, the noise of traffic and Big Ben chiming relentlessly every fifteen minutes, to remind him how many hours were left before Lord Harvey would rise to open a debate after which men he’d never met would cast a vote that would decide his and Giles’s futures, for a thousand years.
He had a long bath, as it was too early to go down for breakfast. Once he was dressed, he phoned Barrington Hall, only to be told by the butler that Miss Barrington had already left for the station. Harry was puzzled. Why would Emma catch the early train when they hadn’t planned to meet up until lunch? When Harry walked into the morning room just after seven, he wasn’t surprised to find Giles already up and reading the morning papers.
‘Is your grandfather up?’ asked Harry.
‘Long before either of us, I suspect. When I came down, just after six, the light was on in his study. Once this dreadful business is behind us, whatever the result, we must get him to spend a few days in Mulgelrie Castle, and take a well-earned rest.’
‘Good idea,’ said Harry as he slumped into the nearest armchair, only to shoot back up again a moment later when Lord Harvey entered the room.
‘Time for breakfast, chaps. Never wise to go to the gallows on an empty stomach.’
Despite Lord Harvey’s advice, the three of them didn’t eat a great deal as they considered the day ahead. Lord Harvey tried out a few key phrases, while Harry and Giles made some last-minute suggestions to be added or taken away from his script.
‘I wish I could tell their lordships how much of a contribution both of you have made,’ said the old man, once he’d added a couple of sentences to his peroration. ‘Right, chaps, time to fix bayonets and go over the top.’
Both of them were nervous.
‘I was hoping you might be able to help me,’ said Emma, unable to look him in the eye.
‘I will if I can, miss,’ he said.
Emma looked up at a man who, although he was cleanshaven and his shoes must have been polished that morning, wore a shirt with a frayed collar, and the trousers of his well-worn suit were baggy.
‘When my father died –’ Emma could never bring herself to say ‘was killed’ – ‘the police found a baby girl in his office. Do you have any idea what happened to her?’
‘No,’ said the man, ‘but as the police weren’t able to contact her next of kin, she would have been placed in a church mission and put up for adoption.’
‘Do you have any idea which orphanage she ended up in?’ asked Emma.
‘No, but I could always make some enquiries if. . .’
‘How much did my father owe you?’
‘Thirty-seven pounds and eleven shillings,’ said the private detective, who took out a wad of bills from an inside pocket.