Clifton Chronicles 01 - Only Time Will Tell (21 page)

Maisie got off the tram at the end of Victoria Street. As she made her way across Bedminster Bridge, she checked her watch, his first present, and once again thought about her son. Seven thirty-two: she would have more than enough time to open the tea shop and be ready to serve her first customer by eight. It always pleased her to find a little queue waiting on the pavement as she turned the ‘closed’ sign to ‘open’.

Just before she reached the High Street, another fire engine shot past, and she could now see a plume of black smoke rising high into the sky. But it wasn’t until she turned into Broad Street that her heart began to beat faster. The three fire engines and a police car were parked in a semi-circle outside Tilly’s.

Maisie began to run.

‘No, no, it can’t be Tilly’s,’ she shouted, and then she spotted several members of her staff standing in a group on the other side of the road. One of them was crying. Maisie was only a few yards from where the front door used to be when a policeman stepped in her path and prevented her from going any further.

‘But I’m the owner!’ she protested as she stared in disbelief at the smoking embers of what had once been the most popular tea shop in the city. Her eyes watered and she began to cough as the thick black smoke enveloped her. She stared at the charred remains of the once gleaming counter, while a layer of ash covered the floor where the chairs and tables with their spotless white tablecloths had stood when she’d locked up the previous evening.

‘I’m very sorry, madam,’ said the policeman, ‘but for your own safety I must ask you to join your staff on the other side of the road.’

Maisie turned her back on Tilly’s and reluctantly began to cross the road. Before she reached the other side, she saw him standing on the edge of the crowd. The moment their eyes met, he turned and walked away.

Detective Inspector Blakemore opened his notebook and looked across the table at the suspect.

‘Can you tell me where you were at around three o’clock this morning, Mrs Clifton?’

‘I was at home in bed,’ Maisie replied.

‘Is there anyone who can verify that?’

‘If by that, Detective Inspector, you mean was anyone in bed with me at the time, the answer is no. Why do you ask?’

The policeman made a note, which gave him a little more time to think. Then he said, ‘I’m trying to find out if anyone else was involved.’

‘Involved in what?’ asked Maisie.

‘Arson,’ he replied, watching her carefully.

‘But who would want to burn down Tilly’s?’ Maisie demanded.

‘I was rather hoping you might be able to assist me on that point,’ said Blakemore. He paused, hoping Mrs Clifton would add something that she would later regret. But she said nothing.

Detective Inspector Blakemore couldn’t make up his mind if Mrs Clifton was a very cool customer, or simply naive. He knew one person who would be able to answer that question.

Mr Frampton rose from behind his desk, shook hands with Maisie and motioned her towards a chair.

‘I was so sorry to hear about the fire at Tilly’s,’ he said. ‘Thank God no one was hurt.’ Maisie hadn’t been thanking God a lot lately. ‘I do hope the building and contents were comprehensively insured,’ he added.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Maisie. ‘Thanks to Mr Casey it was well covered, but unfortunately the insurance company is refusing to pay out a penny until the police can confirm that I was not involved.’

‘I can’t believe the police think you’re a suspect,’ said Frampton.

‘With my financial problems,’ said Maisie, ‘who can blame them?’

‘It will only be a matter of time before they work out that’s a ridiculous suggestion.’

‘I don’t have any time,’ said Maisie. ‘Which is why I’ve come to see you. I’ve got to find a job, and when we last met in this room, I recall you saying that if I ever wanted to come back to the Royal . . .’

‘And I meant it,’ interrupted Mr Frampton. ‘But I can’t give you your old position back, because Susan’s doing an excellent job, and I’ve recently taken on three of Tilly’s staff, so I don’t have any vacancies in the Palm Court. The only position I have available at the moment is hardly worthy—’

‘I’ll consider anything, Mr Frampton,’ said Maisie, ‘and I mean anything.’

‘Some of our customers have been telling us that they would like something to eat after the hotel restaurant has closed for the night,’ said Mr Frampton. ‘I’ve been considering introducing a limited service of coffee and sandwiches after ten o’clock, which would be available until the breakfast room opens at six a.m. I could only offer you three pounds a week to begin with, although of course all the tips would be yours. Naturally I’d understand if you felt—’

‘I’ll take it.’

‘When would you be able to start?’

‘Tonight.’

When the next brown envelope landed on the mat at No. 27, Maisie stuffed it in her bag, unopened, and wondered how long it would be before she received a second, perhaps a third, and then finally a thick white envelope containing a letter not from the bursar, but the headmaster, requesting that Mrs Clifton withdraw her son from the school at the end of term. She dreaded the moment when Harry would have to read that letter to her.

In September Harry was expecting to enter the sixth form, and he couldn’t hide the excitement in his eyes whenever he talked about ‘going up’ to Oxford and reading English at the feet of Alan Quilter, one of the most prominent scholars of the day. Maisie couldn’t bear the thought of having to tell him that would no longer be possible.

Her first few nights at the Royal had been very quiet, and things didn’t get much busier during the following month. She hated being idle, and when the cleaning staff arrived at five in the morning they would often discover there was nothing for them to do in the Palm Court room. Even on her busiest night Maisie didn’t have more than half a dozen customers, and several of those had been turfed out of the hotel bar just after midnight and seemed more interested in propositioning her than in ordering coffee and a ham sandwich.

Most of her customers were commercial travellers who only booked in for one night, so her chances of building up a regular clientele didn’t look promising, and the tips were certainly not going to take care of the brown envelope that remained unopened in her handbag.

Maisie knew that if Harry was to remain at Bristol Grammar School and have the slightest chance of going up to Oxford, there was only one person she could turn to for help. She would beg if necessary.

19

‘W
HAT MAKES YOU THINK
Mr Hugo would be willing to help?’ asked Old Jack, leaning back in his seat. ‘He’s never shown any sign of caring about Harry in the past. On the contrary . . .’

‘Because if there’s one person on earth who ought to feel some responsibility for Harry’s future, it’s that man.’ Maisie immediately regretted her words.

Old Jack was silent for a moment before he asked, ‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Maisie?’

‘No,’ she replied, a little too quickly. She hated lying, especially to Old Jack, but she was determined that this was one secret she would take to her grave.

‘Have you given any thought to when and where you will confront Mr Hugo?’

‘I know exactly what I’m going to do. He rarely leaves his office before six in the evening, and by then most of the other staff in the building have already left for the night. I know his office is on the fifth floor, I know it’s the third door on the left. I know—’

‘But do you know about Miss Potts?’ interrupted Old Jack. ‘Even if you did manage to get past reception and somehow made it to the fifth floor unnoticed, there’s no way of avoiding her.’

‘Miss Potts? I’ve never heard of her.’

‘She’s been Mr Hugo’s private secretary for the past fifteen years. I can tell you from personal experience, you don’t need a guard dog if you’ve got Miss Potts as a secretary.’

‘Then I’ll just have to wait until she goes home.’

‘Miss Potts never goes home before the boss, and she’s always behind her desk thirty minutes before he arrives in the morning.’

‘But I’ll have even less chance of getting into the Manor House,’ said Maisie, ‘where they have a guard dog too. He’s called Jenkins.’

‘Then you’ll have to find a time and place when Mr Hugo will be on his own, can’t escape and can’t rely on Miss Potts or Jenkins to come to his rescue.’

‘Is there such a time and place?’ asked Maisie.

‘Oh yes,’ said Old Jack. ‘But you’ll have to get your timing right.’

Maisie waited until it was dark before she slipped out of Old Jack’s railway carriage. She tiptoed across the gravel path, eased open the back door, climbed in, and shut it behind her. Resigned to a long wait, she settled herself down on the comfortable leather seat. She had a clear view of the building through a side window. Maisie waited patiently for each light to go out. Old Jack had warned her that his would be among the last.

She used the time to go over the questions she planned to ask him. Questions she’d rehearsed for several days before trying them out on Old Jack that afternoon. He’d made several suggestions, which she’d happily agreed to.

Just after six, a Rolls-Royce drew up and parked outside the front of the building. A chauffeur got out and stationed himself alongside. A few moments later Sir Walter Barrington, the chairman of the company, marched out of the front door, climbed into the back of the car and was whisked away.

More and more lights went out, until finally only one was still aglow, like a single star on the top of a Christmas tree. Suddenly Maisie heard feet crunching across the gravel. She slipped off the seat and crouched down on the floor. She could hear two men, deep in conversation, heading towards her. Her plan didn’t include two men, and she was about to leap out of the other side and try to disappear into the night when they came to a halt.

‘. . . But despite that,’ said a voice she recognized, ‘I’d be obliged if my involvement could remain strictly between the two of us.’

‘Of course, sir, you can rely on me,’ said another voice she’d heard before, although she couldn’t remember where.

‘Let’s keep in touch, old fellow,’ said the first voice. ‘I have no doubt I’ll be calling on the bank’s services again.’