Only Time Will Tell (2011)

by Jeffrey Archer

  He told me he’d left St Bede’s because a prefect was bullying him - damned if I can recall the cad’s name - and he was going to run away to sea. If he had, I suspect the boy would have ended up an admiral. But happily he listened to my advice and was back at school in time for breakfast the following morning.

  Because he always used to come to the docks with Stan Tancock, it was some time before I realized Harry was Arthur Clifton’s boy. He once asked me if I’d known his father, and I told him yes, and that he was a good and decent man with a fine war record. He then asked me if I knew how he died. I said I didn’t. The only time I ever lied to the boy. It was not for me to ignore the wishes of his mother.

  I was standing on the dockside when the shift changed. No one ever gave me a second glance, almost as if I wasn’t there, and I knew that some of them thought I wasn’t all there. I did nothing to dispel this, as it allowed me to serve my sentence in anonymity.

  Arthur Clifton had been a good ganger, one of the best, and he took his job seriously, unlike his best mate, Stan Tancock, whose first port of call on the way home was always the Pig and Whistle. That was on the nights he managed to get home.

  I watched Clifton as he disappeared inside the hull of the Maple Leaf to make some final checks before the welders moved in to seal the double bottom. It was the raucous sound of the shift horn that must have distracted everyone; one shift coming off, another coming on, and the welders needed to get started promptly if they were going to finish the job by the end of their shift and earn their bonus. No one gave a second thought to whether Clifton had climbed back out of the double bottom, myself included.

  We all assumed that he must have heard the blast on the horn and was among the hundreds of dockers trooping through the gates, making their way home. Unlike his brother-in-law, Clifton rarely stopped for a pint at the Pig and Whistle, preferring to go straight to Still House Lane and be with his wife and child. In those days, I didn’t know his wife or child, and perhaps I never would have if Arthur Clifton had returned home that night.

  The second shift was working flat out when I heard Tancock shouting at the top of his voice. I saw him pointing to the ship’s hull. But Haskins, the chief ganger, simply brushed him aside as if he were a tiresome wasp.

  Once Tancock realized he was getting nowhere with Haskins, he charged down the gangway and began to run along the quayside in the direction of Barrington House. When Haskins realized where Tancock was headed, he chased after him and had nearly caught up with him by the time he barged through the swing doors into the shipping line’s headquarters.

  To my surprise, a few minutes later Tancock came running back out of the building, and I was even more surprised when Haskins and the managing director followed close behind. I couldn’t imagine what would have convinced Mr Hugo to leave his office after such a brief conversation with Stan Tancock.

  I found out the reason soon enough, because the moment Mr Hugo arrived on the dock, he gave orders for the entire shift to lay down their tools, stop working and remain silent, as if it were Remembrance Sunday. And indeed, a minute later, Haskins ordered them all back to work.

  That was when it first occurred to me that Arthur Clifton might still be inside the double bottom. But surely no man could be so callous as to walk away if he’d thought, even for a moment, that someone might be trapped alive in a steel grave of their own making.

  When the welders went back to work, Mr Hugo spoke to Tancock again before Tancock trooped off through the dockyard gates and out of sight. I looked back to see if Haskins was pursuing him again, but he was clearly more interested in pushing his men to their limits to recover lost time, like a galley master driving his slaves. A moment later, Mr Hugo walked down the gangway, climbed back into his car and drove off to Barrington House.

  The next time I looked out of my carriage window I saw Tancock running back through the gates and once again charging towards Barrington House. This time he didn’t reappear for at least half an hour, and when he did, he was no longer red-cheeked and pulsating with rage, but appeared far calmer. I decided he must have found Clifton and was simply letting Mr Hugo know.

  I looked up at Mr Hugo’s office and saw him standing by the window watching Tancock as he left the yard. He didn’t move away from the window until he was out of sight. A few minutes later Mr Hugo came out of the building, walked across to his car and drove away.

  I wouldn’t have given the matter another thought if Arthur Clifton had clocked in for the morning shift, but he didn’t, nor did he ever again.

  The following morning, a Detective Inspector Blakemore paid me a visit in my carriage. You can often judge the character of a person by the way he treats his fellow men. Blakemore was one of those rare people who could see beyond his nose.

  ‘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

  ‘TRY 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 betwee
n 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 protege 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.

  Old Jack’s only fear was that Lieutenant Frobisher might not remember him.

  29

  OLD JACK WAITED until Hugo had left Barrington House, but it was another half an hour before the lights finally went out in Miss Potts’s room.

  Jack stepped out of the railway carriage and began to walk slowly towards Barrington House, aware that he had only half an hour before the cleaning ladies came on duty. He slipped into the unlit building and climbed the stairs to the fifth floor; after twenty-five years of Sir Walter turning a blind eye, like a cat he could find his way to the door marked ‘Managing Director’ in the dark.