Emma joined a stampede of office workers as they made their way into the building. They all headed towards the nearest available elevator, but Emma didn’t join them. She placed herself strategically between the reception desk and the bank of twelve lifts, which allowed her an unimpeded view of everyone who entered 49 Wall Street.
She checked her watch: 9.54. No sign of Lloyd. She checked it again at 9.57, 9.58, 9.59, and 10 o’clock. He must have been held up by traffic. 10.02, her eyes rested for a split second on every person who came in. 10.04, had she missed him? 10.06, she glanced towards reception; still no sign of him. 10.08, she tried to stop negative thoughts from entering her mind. 10.11, had he called her bluff? 10.14, would her next appointment have to be with Mr Brett Elders? 10.17, how much longer was she willing to hang about? 10.21, and a voice behind her said, ‘Good morning, Miss Barrington.’
Emma swung round and came face to face with Samuel Anscott, who said politely, ‘Mr Jelks wonders if you’d be kind enough to join him in his office.’
Without another word, Anscott turned and walked towards a waiting elevator. Emma only just managed to jump in before the doors closed.
Conversation was out of the question as the packed elevator made its slow, interrupted journey to the 22nd floor, where Anscott stepped out and led Emma down a long oak-panelled, thickly carpeted corridor, lined with portraits of previous senior partners and their colleagues on the board, giving an impression of honesty, integrity and propriety.
Emma would have liked to question Anscott before she met Jelks for the first time, but he remained several paces ahead of her. When he reached a door at the end of the corridor, Anscott knocked, and opened it without waiting for a response. He stood aside to allow Emma to enter, then closed the door, but didn’t join them.
There, sitting in a comfortable high-backed chair by the window, was Max Lloyd. He was smoking a cigarette, and gave Emma the same smile he’d bestowed on her when they had first met at Doubleday’s.
She turned her attention to a tall, elegantly dressed man, who rose slowly from behind his desk. No hint of a smile, or any suggestion that they should shake hands. Behind him was a wall of glass, beyond which skyscrapers towered into the sky, suggesting unfettered power.
‘It’s kind of you to join us, Miss Barrington,’ he said. ‘Please have a seat.’
Emma sank into a leather chair so deep that she almost disappeared from sight. She noticed a stack of notebooks on the senior partner’s desk.
‘My name is Sefton Jelks,’ he began, ‘and I have the privilege of representing the distinguished and acclaimed author, Mr Max Lloyd. My client visited me earlier this morning, to tell me that he had been approached by someone claiming to be a literary agent from London, who was making an accusation, a slanderous accusation, that he was not the author of The Diary of a Convict, which bears his name. It may interest you to know, Miss Barrington,’ continued Jelks, ‘that I am in possession of the original manuscript, every word of which is written in Mr Lloyd’s hand.’ He placed a fist firmly on top of the notebooks, and allowed himself the suggestion of a smile.
‘May I be allowed to see one?’ asked Emma.
‘Of course,’ replied Jelks. He removed the book on top of the pile and handed it to her.
Emma opened it and began to read. The first thing she saw was that it wasn’t written in Harry’s bold hand. But it was Harry’s voice. She handed the book back to Mr Jelks, who replaced it at the top of the pile. ‘May I have a look at one of the others?’ she asked.
‘No. We’ve proved our point, Miss Barrington,’ said Jelks. ‘And my client will take advantage of every remedy the law provides should you be foolish enough to repeat your slander.’ Emma kept her eyes on the pile of notebooks, while Jelks continued in full flow. ‘I also felt it appropriate to have a word with Mr Elders to warn him you might be in touch, and to let him know that should he agree to see you, he would undoubtedly be called as a witness, were this matter to end up in court. Mr Elders felt, on balance, that his best course of action would be to avoid meeting you. A sensible man.’
Emma continued to look at the pile of notebooks.
‘Miss Barrington, it didn’t take a lot of research to discover that you are the granddaughter of Lord Harvey and Sir Walter Barrington, which would account for your misplaced confidence when dealing with Americans. Allow me to suggest that if you intend to continue trying to pass yourself off as a literary agent, perhaps I can offer you some free advice, which is a matter of public record. Ernest Hemingway left America to live in Cuba in 1939—’