Best Kept Secret

forget.’
    ‘When I write my memoirs, Tibby, you’ll get a whole chapter,’ Sebastian said as they walked out on to the pavement together.
    ‘You’ll have forgotten us both long before then,’ she said wistfully.
    ‘Not a hope. This will become my second home, you’ll see.’ Sebastian planted a kiss on Janice’s cheek, before giving Tibby a long hug. ‘You’re not going to
get rid of me quite that easily,’ he added as he climbed back into the waiting taxi.
    Mrs Tibbet and Janice waved as the cab began its journey back to Eaton Square. Tibby had wanted to tell him one more time, for heaven’s sake ring your mother the minute she gets back from
America, but she knew it would be pointless.
    ‘Janice, go and change the sheets in number seven,’ she said as the taxi turned right at the end of the road and disappeared out of sight. Mrs Tibbet quickly returned to the house.
If Seb wouldn’t get in touch with his mother, she would.

    That evening, Bruno’s father took the boys to the Ritz for dinner; more champagne, and Sebastian’s first experience of oysters. Don Pedro, as he insisted Sebastian
call him, thanked him again and again for shouldering the blame and making it possible for Bruno still to go to Cambridge. ‘So British,’ he kept repeating.
    Bruno sat silently picking at his food, rarely joining in the conversation. All his confidence of the afternoon seemed to have evaporated in the presence of his father. But the biggest surprise
of the evening came when Don Pedro revealed that Bruno had two older brothers, Diego and Luis, something he’d never mentioned before, and they’d certainly never visited him at
Beechcroft Abbey. Sebastian wanted to ask why, but as his friend kept his head bowed, he decided he’d wait until they were alone.
    ‘They work alongside me in the family business,’ said Don Pedro.
    ‘And what is the family business?’ asked Sebastian innocently.
    ‘Import and export,’ said Don Pedro without going into detail.
    Don Pedro offered his young guest his first Cuban cigar, and asked what he planned to do now he wouldn’t be going to Cambridge. Sebastian admitted between coughs, ‘I suppose
I’ll have to look for a job.’
    ‘Would you like to earn yourself a hundred pounds cash? There’s something you could do for me in Buenos Aires, and you’d be back in England by the end of the month.’
    ‘Thank you, sir, that’s most generous. But what would I be expected to do for such a large sum of money?’
    ‘Come to Buenos Aires with me next Monday, stay for a few days as my guest, then take a package back to Southampton on the
Queen Mary.’
    ‘But why me? Surely one of your staff could carry out such a simple task?’
    ‘Because the package contains a family heirloom,’ said Don Pedro without missing a beat, ‘and I need someone who speaks both Spanish and English, and can be trusted. The way
you conducted yourself when Bruno was in trouble convinces me that you’re the right man –’ and looking at Bruno, he added, ‘and perhaps this is my way of saying thank
you.’
    ‘That’s kind of you, sir,’ said Sebastian, not able to believe his luck.
    ‘Let me give you ten pounds in advance,’ Don Pedro said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. ‘You’ll get the other ninety on the day you sail back to England.’ He
removed two five-pound notes from his wallet and pushed them across the table. It was more money than Sebastian had been given in his life. ‘Why don’t you and Bruno enjoy yourselves
this weekend? After all, you’ve earned it.’
    Bruno said nothing.

    As soon as the last guest had been served, Mrs Tibbet instructed Janice to hoover the dining room and lay up for tomorrow’s breakfast, but not until she’d finished
the washing-up, as if she’d never given the order before. Then Mrs Tibbet disappeared upstairs. Janice assumed she was going to her office to prepare the morning shopping list, but instead
she just sat at her desk staring at the phone. She poured herself a glass of whisky, something she rarely did before her last guest had gone to bed, took a gulp and picked up the receiver.
    ‘Directory enquiries,’ she said, and waited until another voice came on the line.
    ‘What name?’ asked the voice.
    ‘Mr Harry Clifton,’ she replied.
    ‘And which city?’
    ‘Bristol.’
    ‘And the address?’
    ‘I don’t have it, but he’s a famous author,’ said Mrs Tibbet, trying to sound as if she knew him. She waited