'I have reason to believe that Harry Clifton was arrested for the murder of Adam Bradshaw, and that Mr Jelks represented him.'
This time the name did register, and the pen moved more swiftly across the pad.
'I wish to see Mr Jelks, in order to find out how a lawyer of his standing could have allowed my fiance to take Thomas Bradshaw's place.'
A deep frown appeared on the young man's face. He clearly wasn't used to anyone referring to his boss in this way. 'I have no idea what you're talking about, Miss Barrington,' he said, which Emma suspected was true. 'But I will brief Mr Jelks, and come back to you. Perhaps you could give me a contact address.'
'I'm staying at the Mayflower Hotel,' said Emma, 'and I'm available to see Mr Jelks at any time.'
Anscott made another note on his pad, stood up, gave a curt nod, but this time didn't offer to shake hands. Emma felt confident that she wouldn't have to wait long before the senior partner agreed to see her.
She took a taxi back to the Mayflower Hotel, and could hear the phone ringing in her room even before she'd opened the door. She ran across the room, but by the time she picked up the receiver, the line had gone dead.
She sat down at the desk and began to write to her mother to say she'd arrived safely although she didn't mention the fact that she was now convinced Harry was alive. Emma would only do that when she'd seen him in the flesh. She was on the third page of the letter when the phone rang again. She picked it up.
'Good afternoon, Miss Barrington.'
'Good afternoon, Mr Anscott,' she said, not needing to be told who it was.
'I've spoken to Mr Jelks concerning your request for a meeting, but I'm afraid he's unable to see you, because it would create a conflict of interest with another client he represents. He is sorry not to be more helpful.'
The line went dead.
Emma remained at the desk, stunned, still clutching the phone, the words 'conflict of interest' ringing in her ears. Was there really another client and, if so, who could it be? Or was that just an excuse not to see her? She placed the receiver back in its cradle and sat still for some time, wondering what her grandfather would have done in these circumstances. She recalled one of his favourite maxims: there's more than one way to skin a cat.
Emma opened the desk drawer, thankful to find a fresh supply of stationery, and made a list of people who might be able to fill in some of the gaps created by Mr Jelks's supposed conflict of interest. She then went downstairs to reception, knowing that she was going to be fully occupied for the next few days. The receptionist tried to hide her surprise when the softly spoken young lady from England asked for the address of a courthouse, a police station and a prison.
Before she left the Mayflower, Emma dropped into the hotel's shop and purchased a yellow pad of her own. She walked out on to the pavement and hailed another cab.
It dropped her in a very different part of town to the one Mr Jelks inhabited. As she climbed the courthouse steps, Emma thought about Harry, and how he must have felt when he'd entered that same building, in very different circumstances. She asked the guard on the door where the reference library was, in the hope of finding out what those circumstances were.
'If you mean the records room, miss, it's in the basement,' the guard said.
After walking down two flights of stairs, Emma asked a clerk behind the counter if she could see the records for the case of the State of New York v. Bradshaw. The clerk handed her a form to fill in, which included the question, Are you a student? to which she answered yes. A few minutes later Emma was handed three large box files.
'We close in a couple hours,' she was warned. 'When the bell goes, you must return the records to this desk immediately.'
Once Emma had read a few pages of documents, she couldn't understand why the State hadn't proceeded with Tom Bradshaw's trial for murder, when they seemed to have such a strong case against him. The brothers had been sharing a hotel room; the whiskey decanter had Tom's bloody fingerprints all over it, and there was no suggestion anyone else had entered the room before Adam's body had been found lying in a pool of blood. But, worse, why had Tom fled the scene of the crime, and why had the state attorney settled for a guilty plea on the lesser charge of desertion? Even more puzzling was how Harry had ever become involved in the first place. Might the letter on Maisie's mantelpiece contain the answers to all these questions, or was it simply that Jelks knew something he didn't want her to find out?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a clanging bell, demanding that she return the files to the desk. Some questions had been answered, but far more remained unanswered. Emma made a note of two names she hoped could supply most of those answers, but would they also claim a conflict of interest?
She emerged from the courthouse just after five, clutching several more sheets of paper covered in her neat long-hand. She grabbed something called a Hershey Bar and a Coke from a street vendor, before she hailed another cab and asked the driver to take her to the 24th precinct police station. She ate and drank on the move, something her mother would never have approved of.
On arrival at the police station, Emma asked to speak to either Detective Kolowski or Detective Ryan.
'They're both on nights this week,' she was told by the desk sergeant, 'so won't be back on duty until ten.'
Emma thanked him and decided to return to the hotel and have supper before going back to the 24th precinct at ten.
After a Caesar salad and her first knickerbocker glory, Emma returned to her room on the fourth floor. She lay down on the bed and thought about what she needed to ask Kolowski or Ryan, assuming either of them agreed to see her. Did Lieutenant Bradshaw have an American accent . . . ?
Emma fell into a deep sleep, to be jolted back to consciousness by the unfamiliar sound of a police siren blaring from the street below. Now she understood why the rooms on the upper floors were more expensive. She checked her watch. It was 1.15.
'Damn,' she cursed as she leapt off the bed, ran to the bathroom, soaked a flannel under the cold tap and covered her face. She quickly left the room and took the lift to the ground floor. When she stepped out of the hotel, she was surprised to find the street was just as busy, and the pavement every bit as crowded, as it had been at midday.
She hailed another cab and asked the driver to take her back to the 24th precinct. The New York cabbies were beginning to understand her, or was she beginning to understand them?
She climbed the steps to the police station a few minutes before two. Another desk sergeant asked her to take a seat, and promised to let Kolowski or Ryan know she was waiting in reception.
Emma settled down for a long wait, but to her surprise, a couple of minutes later she heard the desk sergeant say, 'Hey, Karl, there's some lady sitting over there who says she wants to see you.' He gestured in Emma's direction.
Detective Kolowski, a coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other, walked across and gave Emma a half smile. She wondered how quickly that smile would disappear when he discovered why she wanted to see him.
'How can I help you, ma'am?' he asked.
'My name is Emma Barrington,' she said, exaggerating her English accent, 'and I need to seek your advice on a private matter.'
'Then let's go to my office, Miss Barrington,' Kolowski said, and began to walk down a corridor until he came to a door which he kicked open with the heel of his shoe. 'Have a seat,' he said pointing to the only other chair in the room. 'Can I get you a coffee?' he asked as Emma sat down.