‘Good morning, Sir Hugo. My name is Foster. I’m the senior partner of Savills. I thought perhaps we ought to get together to discuss your instructions to sell Barrington Hall. Perhaps a spot of lunch at my club?’
‘No need to bother, Foster. I’ve changed my mind. Barrington Hall is no longer on the market,’ Hugo said, and put the phone down.
He spent the rest of the afternoon signing a stack of letters and cheques his secretary put in front of him, and it was just after six o’clock when he finally screwed the cap back on his pen.
When Miss Potts returned to collect all the correspondence, Hugo said, ‘I’ll see Tancock now.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Miss Potts with a hint of disapproval.
While Hugo waited for Tancock to appear, he fell on his knees and opened the suitcase. He stared at the ￡800 that would have made it possible for him to survive in America while he waited for the funds raised by the sale of Barrington Hall. Now, that same ￡800 would be used to make him a fortune on Broad Street.
When he heard a knock on the door, he snapped the lid of the suitcase closed and quickly returned to his desk.
‘Tancock to see you,’ said Miss Potts before closing the door behind her.
The docker marched confidently into the room and approached the chairman’s desk.
‘So what’s this news that can’t wait?’ asked Hugo.
‘I’ve come to collect the other five quid what you owe me,’ Tancock said, with a look of triumph in his eyes.
‘I owe you nothing,’ said Hugo.
‘But I talked my sister into selling that land you wanted, didn’t I?’
‘We agreed on two hundred pounds, and I ended up having to pay five times that amount, so as I said, I owe you nothing. Get out of my office, and go back to work.’
Stan didn’t budge. ‘And I’ve got that letter you said you wanted.’
‘What letter?’
‘The letter what our Maisie got from that doctor off the American ship.’
Hugo had completely forgotten about the letter of condolence from Harry Clifton’s shipmate, and couldn’t imagine that it would be of any significance now Maisie had agreed to the sale. ‘I’ll give you a pound for it.’
‘You said you’d give me a fiver.’
‘I suggest you leave my office while you’ve still got a job, Tancock.’
‘OK, OK,’ said Stan, backing down, ‘you can have it for a quid. What’s it to me?’ He took a crumpled envelope out of his back pocket and handed it over to the chairman. Hugo extracted a ten-shilling note from his wallet and placed it on the desk in front of him.
Stan stood his ground as Hugo put his wallet back in an inside pocket and stared defiantly at him.
‘You can have the letter or the ten-bob note. Take your choice.’
Stan grabbed the ten-bob note and left the room grumbling under his breath.
Hugo put the envelope to one side, leant back in his chair and thought about how he would spend some of the profit he’d made on the Broad Street deal. Once he’d been to the bank and signed all the necessary documents, he would walk across the road to the car saleroom. He had his eye on a 1937 2-litre 4-seater Aston Martin. He would then drive it across town and visit his tailor – he hadn’t had a suit made for longer than he cared to remember – and after the fitting, lunch at the club, where he would settle his outstanding bar bill. During the afternoon, he would set about replenishing the wine cellar at Barrington Hall, and might even consider redeeming from the pawnbroker some of the jewellery his mother seemed to miss so much. In the evening— there was a tap at the door.
‘I’m just leaving,’ said Miss Potts. ‘I want to get to the post office before seven to catch the last delivery. Do you need anything else, sir?’
‘No, Miss Potts. But I may be in a little late tomorrow, as I have an appointment with Mr Prendergast at nine o’clock.’
‘Of course, chairman,’ said Miss Potts.
As the door closed behind her, his eyes settled on the crumpled envelope. He picked up a silver letter opener, slit the envelope open and pulled out a single sheet of paper. His eyes impatiently scanned the page, searching for relevant phrases.
New York,
September 8th, 1939
My dearest mother,
. . . I did not die when the Devonian was sunk . . . I was plucked out of the sea . . . the vain hope that at some time in the future I might be able to prove that Arthur Clifton and not Hugo Barrington was my father . . . I must beg you to keep my secret as steadfastly as you kept your own for so many years.
Your loving son,
Harry
Hugo’s blood ran cold. All the triumphs of the day evaporated in an instant. This was not a letter he wanted to read a second time or, more important, that he wished anyone else to become aware of.