Best Kept Secret

The assistant looked up. 'Can I help you, madam?' she asked politely.

'Have you heard of an author called Harry Clifton?'

'Oh yes,' the assistant replied. 'He's one of our most popular authors. Was there a particular title you were looking for?' Mrs Tibbet shook her head. 'Then let's go and see what we have in stock.' The assistant walked to the other side of the shop, with Mrs Tibbet following in her wake, stopping when she reached a section labelled CRIME. The William Warwick Mysteries were stacked in a neat row, with several gaps confirming how popular the author was. 'And of course,' continued the assistant, 'there are the prison diaries, and a biography by Lord Preston, called The Hereditary Principle, which is about the fascinating Clifton-Barrington inheritance case. Perhaps you remember it? It dominated the headlines for weeks.'

'Which of Mr Clifton's novels would you recommend?'

'Whenever I'm asked that question about any author,' replied the assistant, 'I always suggest, start with the first.' She took a copy of William Warwick and the Case of the Blind Witness from the shelf.

'Will the other one, the hereditary one, tell me more about the Clifton family?'

'Yes, and you'll find it as gripping as any novel,' the assistant said as she walked over to the biography section. 'That will be three shillings, madam,' she said, handing her both books.

When Mrs Tibbet returned to the guest house just before lunch, Janice was surprised to see that her shopping basket was empty, and even more surprised when she locked herself into the office, only coming out when a knock on the front door announced a prospective customer.

It took her two days and two nights to read The Hereditary Principle by Reg Preston, by which time Mrs Tibbet realized she was going to have to visit another place she had never entered before, and it would be far more nerve-racking than a bookshop.

Sebastian came down to breakfast early on Monday morning, as he wanted to have a word with Bruno's father before he left for work.

'Good morning, sir,' he said as he took a seat at the breakfast table.

'Good morning, Sebastian,' said Don Pedro, putting down his newspaper. 'So, have you made up your mind if you're going to come to Buenos Aires with me?'

'Yes, I have, sir. I'd love to come, if I haven't left it too late.'

'That won't be a problem,' said Don Pedro. 'Just be sure you're ready by the time I return.'

'What time will we be leaving, sir?'

'Around five o'clock.'

'I'll be ready and waiting,' said Sebastian as Bruno came into the room.

'You will be pleased to hear that Sebastian will be travelling to Buenos Aires with me,' said Don Pedro as his son sat down. 'He'll be back in London by the end of the month. Make sure you take care of him when he returns.'

Bruno was about to comment when Elena came in and placed a rack of toast in the centre of the table.

'What would you like for breakfast, sir?' she asked Bruno.

'Two boiled eggs, please.'

'Me too,' said Sebastian.

'I must go,' said Don Pedro, as he rose from his place at the head of the table. 'I have an appointment in Bond Street.' He turned to Sebastian and added, 'Be sure you're packed and ready to leave by five o'clock. We can't afford to miss the tide.'

'I can't wait, sir,' said Sebastian, sounding genuinely excited.

'Have a good day, Papa,' said Bruno as his father left the room. He didn't speak again until he heard the front door close, when he looked across the table and said to his friend, 'Are you certain you're making the right decision?'

Mrs Tibbet couldn't stop shaking. She wasn't convinced she could go through with it. When the guests sat down for breakfast that morning, they were served with hard-boiled eggs, burnt toast and lukewarm tea, and it was Janice who ended up taking the blame. It didn't help that Mrs Tibbet hadn't done any shopping for the past two days, so the bread was stale, the fruit was over-ripe and they'd run out of bacon. Janice was relieved when the last disgruntled guest filed out of the breakfast room. One even refused to pay the bill.

She went down to the kitchen to see if Mrs Tibbet was feeling poorly, but there was no sign of her. Janice wondered where she could possibly be.

Mrs Tibbet was in fact on a No. 148 bus heading down Whitehall. She still didn't know if she could go through with it. Even if he did agree to see her, what would she say to him? After all, what business was it of hers? She became so preoccupied that the bus had crossed Westminster Bridge before she got off. She took her time walking back across the Thames, and not because, like the tourists, she was admiring the views up and down the river.

She changed her mind several times before she reached Parliament Square, where her pace became slower and slower until she finally came to a halt outside the entrance to the House of Commons, when, like Lot's wife, she turned to salt.

The senior doorkeeper, used to dealing with people who were overawed by their first visit to the Palace of Westminster, smiled at the frozen statue and asked, 'May I help, madam?'

'Is this where I come to see an MP?'

'Do you have an appointment?'

'No, I don't,' said Mrs Tibbet, hoping she would be turned away.

'Don't worry, not many people do. You'll just have to hope he's in the House, and free to see you. If you'd like to join the queue, one of my colleagues will assist you.'

Mrs Tibbet walked up the steps, past Westminster Hall, and joined a long, silent queue. By the time she reached the front over an hour later, she remembered she hadn't told Janice where she was going.

She was escorted into the Central Lobby, where an official ushered her across to the reception desk.

'Good afternoon, madam,' said the duty clerk. 'Which Member were you hoping to see?'

'Sir Giles Barrington.'

'Are you a constituent of his, madam?'

Another chance to escape, was her first thought. 'No. I need to speak to him concerning a personal matter.'

'I understand,' said the clerk, as if nothing would surprise him. 'If you'll give me your name, I'll fill in a visitor's card.'

'Mrs Florence Tibbet.'

'And your address?'

'Thirty-seven Praed Street, Paddington.'

'And what is it you wish to discuss with Sir Giles?'

'It's about his nephew, Sebastian Clifton.'

The clerk completed the card and handed it to a badge messenger.

'How long will I have to wait?' she asked.

'Members usually respond fairly quickly if they're in the House. But perhaps you'd like to have a seat while you're waiting,' he said, pointing to the green benches that circled the walls of Central Lobby.

The badge messenger marched down the long corridor to the Lower House. When he entered the members' lobby he handed the card to one of his colleagues, who in turn took it into the chamber. The house was packed with members who had come to hear Peter Thorneycroft, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, announce that petrol rationing would be lifted following the end of the Suez Crisis.

The messenger spotted Sir Giles Barrington seated in his usual place and handed the card to a member at the end of the third row, from where it began its slow progress along the packed bench, each member checking the name and then passing it down the line, until it finally reached Sir Giles.