The Sins of the Father

'How very generous of you, Mr Jelks,' interrupted Emma, before he could continue. 'Allow me to offer you some free advice in return. I know perfectly well that it was Harry Clifton'  -  Jelks's eyes narrowed  -  'and not your client, who wrote The Diary of a Convict. If you were foolish enough, Mr Jelks, to issue a writ for slander against me, you might well find yourself in court having to explain why you defended a man on a charge of murder who you knew wasn't Lieutenant Tom Bradshaw.'

Jelks began frantically pressing a button underneath his desk. Emma rose from her chair, smiled sweetly at both of them, and left the room without another word. She marched quickly down the corridor towards the elevator, as Mr Anscott and a security guard hurried past her on their way to Mr Jelks's office. At least she'd avoided the humiliation of being escorted off the premises.

When she stepped into the lift, the attendant enquired, 'Which floor, miss?'

'Ground, please.'

The attendant chuckled. 'You must be English.'

'Why do you say that?'

'In America, we call it the first floor.'

'Of course you do,' said Emma, giving him a smile as she stepped out of the elevator. She walked across the lobby, pushed through the revolving doors and ran down the steps and out on to the pavement, quite clear what she had to do next. There was only one person left she could turn to. After all, any sister of Lord Harvey had to be a formidable ally. Or would Great-aunt Phyllis turn out to be a close friend of Sefton Jelks, in which case Emma would be taking the next boat back to England.

She hailed a cab, but when she jumped in, she almost had to shout to make herself heard above the blare of the radio.

'Sixty-fourth and Park,' she said, working out how she might explain to her great-aunt why she hadn't visited her earlier. She leant forward and would have asked the driver to turn the volume down, if she hadn't heard the words, 'President Roosevelt will address the nation from the Oval Office at twelve thirty this afternoon, Eastern Time'.

GILES BARRINGTON

1941 - 1942

20

THE FIRST THING Giles saw was his right leg hitched to a pulley and encased in plaster.

He could dimly remember a long journey, during which the pain had become almost unbearable, and he had assumed he would die long before they got him to a hospital. And he would never forget the operation, but then how could he, when they'd run out of anaesthetic moments before the doctor made the first incision?

He turned his head very slowly to the left and saw a window with three bars across it, then to the right; that's when he saw him.

'No, not you,' Giles said. 'For a moment I thought I'd escaped and gone to heaven.'

'Not yet,' said Bates. 'First you have to do a spell in purgatory.'

'For how long?'

'At least until your leg's mended, possibly longer.'

'Are we back in England?' Giles asked hopefully.

'I wish,' said Bates. 'No, we're in Germany, Weinsberg PoW camp, which is where we all ended up after being taken prisoner.'

Giles tried to sit up, but could only just raise his head off the pillow; enough to see a framed picture on the wall of Adolf Hitler giving him a Nazi salute.

'How many of our boys survived?'

'Only a handful. The lads took the colonel's words to heart. "We will all sacrifice our lives before Rommel books a suite at the Majestic Hotel".'

'Did anyone else from our platoon make it?'

'You, me and - '

'Don't tell me, Fisher?'

'No. Because if they'd sent him to Weinsberg, I'd have asked for a transfer to Colditz.'

Giles lay still, staring up at the ceiling. 'So how do we escape?'

'I wondered how long it would be before you asked that.'

'And what's the answer?'

'Not a chance while your leg's still in plaster, and even after that it won't be easy, but I've got a plan.'

'Of course you have.'

'The plan's not the problem,' said Bates. 'The problem is the escape committee. They control the waiting list, and you're at the back of the queue.'

'How do I get to the front?'

'It's like any queue in England, you just have to wait your turn . . . unless - '

'Unless?'

'Unless Brigadier Turnbull, the senior ranking officer, thinks there's a good reason why you should be moved up the queue.'

'Like what?'

'If you can speak fluent German, it's a bonus.'

'I picked up a bit when I was at OTS  -  just wish I'd concentrated more.'

'Well, there are lessons twice a day, so someone of your intelligence shouldn't find that too difficult. Unfortunately even that list is still fairly long.'

'So what else can I do to get bumped up the escape-list faster?'

'Find yourself the right job. That's what got me moved up three places in the past month.'

'How did you manage that?'

'As soon as the Krauts found out I was a butcher, they offered me a job in the officers' mess. I told them to fuck off, excuse my French, but the brigadier insisted I took the job.'

'Why would he want you to work for the Germans?'

'Because occasionally I can manage to steal some food from the kitchen, but more important, I pick up the odd piece of information that's useful to the escape committee. That's why I'm near the front of the queue, and you're still at the back. You're going to have to get both feet on the ground if you're still hoping to make it to the washroom before me.'

'Any idea how long it will be before I can do that?' asked Giles.

'The prison doc says it'll be at least another month, possibly six weeks before they can remove the plaster.'

Giles settled back on the pillow. 'But even when I do get up, how can I hope to be offered a job in the officers' mess? Unlike you, I don't have the right qualifications.'

'But you do,' said Bates. 'In fact, you can go one better than me, and get yourself a job in the camp commandant's dining room, because I know they're looking for a wine waiter.'

'And what makes you think I'm qualified to be a wine waiter?' asked Giles, making no attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

'If I remember correctly,' said Bates, 'you used to have a butler called Jenkins working for you at the Manor House.'

'Still do, but that hardly qualifies me - '

'And your grandfather, Lord Harvey, is in the wine trade. Frankly, you're over-qualified.'

'So what are you suggesting?'

'Once you get out of here, they'll make you fill in a labour form, listing your previous employment. I've already told them you were a wine waiter at the Grand Hotel, Bristol.'

'Thanks. But they'll know within minutes - '

'Believe me, they don't have a clue. All you have to do is get your German up to scratch, and try to remember what Jenkins did. Then if we can come up with a decent plan to present to the escape committee, we'll march to the front of the queue in no time. Mind you, there's a catch.'

'There has to be, if you're involved.'

'But I've found a way round it.'