Best Kept Secret

for some time and began to wonder if she’d been cut
off, until the voice said, ‘That subscriber’s number is ex-directory, madam, so I’m afraid I’m unable to put you through.’
    ‘But this is an emergency.’
    ‘I’m sorry, madam, but I couldn’t put you through if you were the Queen of England.’
    Mrs Tibbet put down the phone. She sat for some time wondering if there was any other way of getting in touch with Mrs Clifton. Then she thought of Janice, and returned to the kitchen.
    ‘Where do you buy those paperbacks you’ve always got your head in?’ she asked Janice.
    ‘At the station, on my way in to work,’ Janice replied as she continued with the washing-up. Mrs Tibbet cleaned the Aga while she thought about Janice’s reply. Once she’d
completed the job to her satisfaction, she took off her apron, folded it neatly, picked up her shopping basket and announced, ‘I’m off to the shops.’
    After leaving the guest house, she didn’t turn right as she did every other morning, when she would head for the butcher in search of the finest slices of Danish bacon, the greengrocer for
the freshest fruit, and the baker for the warmest loaves as they were taken from the oven, and even then she would only buy them if the price was sensible. But not today. Today she turned left and
walked towards Paddington Station.
    She kept a firm grip on her purse, as she’d been told once too often by disillusioned guests that they’d been robbed within moments of setting foot in London – Sebastian being
the latest example. The boy was so mature for his age, and yet still so naïve.
    Mrs Tibbet felt unusually nervous as she crossed the road and joined the bustling crowd of commuters making their way into the station. Perhaps it was because she’d never been inside a
bookshop before. She hadn’t had much time to read since her husband and baby son had been killed fifteen years ago in a bombing raid on the East End. If the child had lived, he would have
been about the same age as Sebastian.
    Without a roof to cover her head, Tibby had migrated west, like a bird that needs to find new feeding grounds. She took a job at the Safe Haven guest house as a general dogsbody. Three years
later she became the waitress, and when the owner died, she didn’t so much inherit the guest house as take it on, since the bank was looking for someone, anyone, to pay the mortgage.
    She nearly went under, but in 1951 she was rescued by the Festival of Britain, which attracted a million extra visitors to London, making it possible for the guest house to show a profit for the
first time. That profit had increased every year, if only by a small margin, and now the mortgage had been paid off and the business was hers. She relied on her regulars to get her through the
winter, as she had learned early on that those who rely solely on passing trade soon have to close their doors.
    Mrs Tibbet snapped out of her daydream and looked around the station until her eyes settled on a W.H. Smith sign. She watched as seasoned travellers dashed in and out. Most only bought a morning
paper for a halfpenny, but others at the back of the shop were browsing among the bookshelves.
    She ventured in but then stood helplessly in the middle of the shop, getting in the customers’ way. When she spotted a woman at the back stacking books on to the shelves from a wooden
trolley, she walked over to her, but didn’t interrupt her work.
    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