Clifton Chronicles 01 - Only Time Will Tell (30 page)

‘You say that you saw Stanley Tancock leaving Barrington House between seven and seven thirty yesterday evening?’

‘Yes, I did,’ I told him.

‘Did he appear to be in a hurry, or anxious, or attempting to slip away unnoticed?’

‘On the contrary,’ I said. ‘I remember thinking at the time he looked remarkably carefree given the circumstances.’

‘Given the circumstances?’ repeated Blakemore.

‘Only an hour or so earlier, he’d been protesting that his mate Arthur Clifton was trapped in the double bottom of the
Maple Leaf
, and they were doing nothing to help him.’

Blakemore wrote down my words in his notebook.

‘Do you have any idea where Tancock went after that?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘When I last saw him he was walking out of the gates with an arm around one of his mates.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the detective inspector. ‘That’s been most helpful.’ It had been a long time since anyone had called me sir. ‘Would you be willing, at your own convenience, to come down to the station and make a written statement?’

‘I’d prefer not to, inspector,’ I told him, ‘for personal reasons. But I’d be quite happy to write out a statement that you could collect at any time that suits you.’

‘That’s good of you, sir.’

The detective inspector opened his briefcase, dug out a police statement sheet and handed it to me. He then raised his hat and said, ‘Thank you, sir, I’ll be in touch.’ But I never saw him again.

Six weeks later, Stan Tancock was sentenced to three years’ imprisonment for theft, with Mr Hugo acting as the prosecution’s principal witness. I attended every day of the trial, and there wasn’t any doubt in my mind which one of them was the guilty party.

28

‘T
RY NOT TO FORGET
that you saved my life.’

‘I’ve spent the last twenty-six years trying to forget,’ Old Jack reminded him.

‘But you were also responsible for saving the lives of twenty-four of your fellow West Countrymen. You remain a hero in this city and you seem to be totally unaware of the fact. So I’m bound to ask, Jack, how much longer you intend to go on torturing yourself ?’

‘Until I can no longer see the eleven men I killed as clearly as I can see you now.’

‘But you were doing no more than your duty,’ protested Sir Walter.

‘That’s how I saw it at the time,’ admitted Jack.

‘So what changed?’

‘If I could answer that question,’ replied Jack, ‘we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

‘But you’re still capable of doing so much for your fellow men. Take that young friend of yours, for example. You tell me he keeps playing truant, but if he was to discover that you are Captain Jack Tarrant of the Royal Gloucestershire Regiment, winner of the Victoria Cross, don’t you think he might listen to you with even more respect?’

‘He might also run away again,’ replied Jack. ‘In any case, I have other plans for young Harry Clifton.’

‘Clifton, Clifton . . .’ said Sir Walter. ‘Why is that name familiar?’

‘Harry’s father was trapped in the double bottom of the
Maple Leaf
, and no one came to his—’

‘That’s not what I heard,’ said Sir Walter, his tone changing. ‘I was told that Clifton left his wife because she was, not to put too fine a point on it, a loose woman.’

‘Then you were misled,’ said Jack, ‘because I can tell you that Mrs Clifton is a delightful and intelligent woman, and any man who was lucky enough to be married to her would never want to leave her.’

Sir Walter looked genuinely shocked, and it was some time before he spoke again. ‘Surely you don’t believe that cock and bull story about Clifton being trapped in the double bottom?’ he asked quietly.

‘I’m afraid I do, Walter. You see, I witnessed the whole episode.’

‘Then why didn’t you say something about it at the time?’

‘I did. When I was interviewed by Detective Inspector Blakemore the following day, I told him everything I’d seen, and at his request I made a written statement.’

‘Then why wasn’t your statement produced in evidence at Tancock’s trial?’ asked Sir Walter.

‘Because I never saw Blakemore again. And when I turned up at the police station, I was told he was no longer in charge of the case and his replacement refused to see me.’

‘I had Blakemore taken off the case,’ said Sir Walter. ‘The damn man was as good as accusing Hugo of giving the money to Tancock, so there wouldn’t be an investigation into the Clifton affair.’ Old Jack remained silent. ‘Let’s not talk of this any more,’ said Sir Walter. ‘I know my son is far from perfect, but I refuse to believe—’

‘Or perhaps you don’t want to believe,’ said Old Jack.

‘Jack, whose side are you on?’

‘On the side of justice. As you used to be when we first met.’

‘And I still am,’ said Sir Walter. But he fell silent for some time before adding, ‘I want you to make me a promise, Jack. If you ever find out anything about Hugo that you believe would harm the family’s reputation, you won’t hesitate to tell me.’

‘You have my word on it.’

‘And you have my word, old friend, that I would not hesitate to hand Hugo over to the police if I thought for one moment that he had broken the law.’

‘Let’s hope nothing else arises that would make that necessary,’ said Old Jack.

‘I agree, old friend. Let’s talk of more palatable things. Is there anything you are in need of at the moment? I could still. . .’

‘Do you have any old clothes that are surplus to requirements?’

Sir Walter raised an eyebrow. ‘Dare I ask?’

‘No, you daren’t,’ said Old Jack. ‘But I have to visit a particular gentleman, and I’ll need to be appropriately dressed.’

Old Jack had grown so thin over the years that Sir Walter’s clothes hung off him like flax on a distaff, and, like Sir Andrew Aguecheek, he was several inches taller than his old friend, so he had to let down the turn-ups on the trousers and even then they barely reached his ankles. But he felt that the tweed suit, checked shirt and striped tie would serve its purpose for this particular meeting.

As Jack walked out of the dockyard for the first time in years, a few familiar faces turned to give the smartly dressed stranger a second look.

When the school bell rang at four o’clock, Old Jack stepped back into the shadows while the noisy, boisterous nippers poured out through the gates of Merrywood Elementary as if they were escaping from prison.

Mrs Clifton had been waiting there for the past ten minutes, and when Harry saw his mum, he reluctantly allowed her to take him by the hand. A damn fine-looking woman, Old Jack thought as he watched the two of them walking away, Harry, as always, jumping up and down, endlessly chattering, displaying as much energy as Stephenson’s
Rocket.

Old Jack waited until they were out of sight before he crossed the road and walked into the school yard. If he’d been dressed in his old clothes, he would have been stopped by someone in authority long before he reached the front door. He looked up and down the corridor, and spotted a master coming towards him.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ said Old Jack, ‘but I’m looking for Mr Holcombe.’

‘Third door on the left, old fellow,’ the man said, pointing down the corridor.

When Old Jack came to a halt outside Mr Holcombe’s classroom he gave a gentle tap on the door.

‘Come in.’

Old Jack opened the door to find a young man, his long black gown covered in chalk dust, seated at a table in front of rows of empty desks, marking exercise books. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ said Old Jack, ‘I’m looking for Mr Holcombe.’

‘Then you need look no further,’ said the schoolmaster, putting down his pen.

‘My name is Tar,’ he said as he stepped forward, ‘but my friends call me Jack.’

Holcombe’s face lit up. ‘I do believe you’re the man Harry Clifton goes off to visit most mornings.’

‘I fear I am,’ admitted Old Jack. ‘I apologize.’

‘No need,’ said Holcombe. ‘I only wish I had the same influence over him that you do.’

‘That’s why I came to see you, Mr Holcombe. I’m convinced that Harry’s an exceptional child and should be given every chance to make the best of his talents.’

‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Holcombe. ‘And I suspect he has one talent even you don’t know about.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘He has the voice of an angel.’

‘Harry’s no angel,’ said Old Jack with a grin.

‘I quite agree, but it may turn out to be our best chance of breaking down his defences.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Old Jack.

‘There’s a possibility he might just be tempted to join the choir at Holy Nativity. So if you were able to convince him to come to school more often, I know I can teach him to read and write.’

‘Why’s that so important for a church choir?’

‘It’s compulsory at Holy Nativity, and Miss Monday, the choir mistress, refuses to make any exceptions to the rule.’

‘Then I’ll just have to make sure the boy attends your lessons, won’t I?’ said Old Jack.

‘You could do more than that. On the days he doesn’t come to school, you could teach him yourself.’

‘But I’m not qualified to teach anyone.’

‘Harry Clifton is not impressed by qualifications, and we both know that he listens to you. Perhaps we could work as a team.’

‘But if Harry were to find out what we were up to, neither of us would ever see him again.’

‘How well you know him,’ said the schoolmaster with a sigh. ‘We’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t find out.’

‘That may prove something of a challenge,’ said Old Jack, ‘but I’m willing to give it a try.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mr Holcombe. The schoolmaster paused before adding, ‘I wonder if I might be allowed to shake hands with you.’ Old Jack looked surprised as the schoolmaster thrust out his hand. Old Jack shook it warmly. ‘And may I say it has been an honour to meet you, Captain Tarrant.’

Old Jack looked horrified. ‘How could you possibly . . .’

‘My father has a picture of you that still hangs on the wall in our front room.’

‘But why?’ asked Old Jack.

‘You saved his life, sir.’

Harry’s visits to Old Jack became less frequent during the next few weeks, until the only time they met was on a Saturday morning. Old Jack knew that Mr Holcombe must have succeeded in his plan when Harry asked him if he would come to Holy Nativity the following Sunday to hear him sing.

On Sunday morning, Old Jack rose early, used Sir Walter’s private cloakroom on the fifth floor of Barrington House to have a shower, a recent invention, and even trimmed his beard, before putting on the other suit Sir Walter had given him.

Arriving at Holy Nativity just before the service began, he slipped into the back row and took a seat at the end of the pew. He spotted Mrs Clifton in the third row, sitting between what could only have been her mother and father. As for Miss Monday, he could have picked her out in a congregation of a thousand.

Mr Holcombe had not been exaggerating about the quality of Harry’s voice. It was as good as anything he could remember from his days at Wells Cathedral. As soon as the boy opened his mouth to sing
Lead Me, Lord
, Old Jack was left in no doubt that his protégé had an exceptional gift.

Once the Reverend Watts had given his final blessing, Old Jack slipped back out of the church and quickly made his way to the docks. He would have to wait until the following Saturday before he could tell the boy how much he’d enjoyed his singing.

As he walked back, Old Jack recalled Sir Walter’s reproach. ‘You could do so much more for Harry if you would only give up this self-denial.’ He thought carefully about Sir Walter’s words but he wasn’t yet ready to remove the shackles of guilt. He did, however, know a man who could change Harry’s life, a man who had been with him on that dreadful day, a man he hadn’t spoken to for more than twenty-five years. A man who taught at a school that supplied St Mary Redcliffe with choristers. Unfortunately Merrywood Elementary was not a natural recruiting ground for its annual choral scholarship, so the man would have to be guided in the right direction.