Frankie's Letter (11 page)

Sherston looked at Anthony, then dropped his gaze. There was an odd pause. He pulled his napkin straight, fiddling with the corners. ‘The Cavanaugh I knew was American,' he said. ‘I imagine he called himself a journalist.' There was a hard edge in his voice. Anthony saw Sir Charles flick a quick glance of surprise towards Sherston. ‘He was distantly related to my brother-in-law, Bernard, and made the acquaintance of my sister, Veronica. My brother-in-law has been dead for many years and my sister's devoted to his memory. Veronica welcomed Cavanaugh into the house. Cavanaugh presumed on the relationship.'

Presumed,
thought Anthony, was a fairly loaded word. The soup arrived and there was silence for a few moments. ‘So he's dead?' repeated Sherston. He picked up a piece of bread and crumbled it in his fingers. There was a restrained violence in the gesture. ‘Dead, eh?' He sounded satisfied.

Anthony, intrigued by Sherston's reaction, answered without emotion. ‘He died in Germany.'

‘How very sad.'

He didn't sound very sad, thought Anthony. Gratified if anything.

Sir Charles finished his soup and pushed the bowl to one side. ‘Tell us how you got into Berlin, Brooke,' he said with cheerful eagerness. ‘I bet that's a story worth hearing.'

The look Sherston gave Anthony made him feel like a pig being prodded by a cautious farmer at a livestock market. With Sir Charles's careful guidance he embarked upon the more lurid of his adventures. He appreciated just how good a newspaperman Sherston was. His questions were designed to draw Anthony out, and, as he spoke, Anthony could feel Sherston warming to him. He was a knowledgeable interviewer, too. Anthony guessed some of his early questions were tests, designed to show if he really knew what he was talking about.

After about quarter of an hour of thorough grilling on Sherston's part and some solid hard work on Anthony's, Sherston laid down his knife and fork. Anthony was sure he hadn't noticed what he'd been eating. ‘This is truly remarkable, Colonel. I wish I could bring your story to the public. Why, what a series of articles you could write!'

‘I've got no hand for writing,' said Anthony modestly. He wasn't going to leap at the first opportunity. ‘I haven't got the popular touch.'

‘That's no problem,' said Sherston encouragingly. ‘If you'd give an interview to one of my men, he can write it up.'

Anthony tried for an expression of sincere regret. ‘It's one thing talking to you, Mr Sherston. I know you'll treat it all in confidence. It's quite another publishing it in the press.'

‘I think you should,' said Sir Charles, a shade more definitely than a completely sober man would have done. ‘We all need a boost. There's too much bad news knocking about. Why don't you get permission, Brooke?' he said, with an almost imperceptible wink.

Anthony pretended to chew the matter over.

‘I urge you to consider it, Colonel,' said Sherston persuasively. ‘The public will be inspired by your exploits. No names, of course, but simple facts.'

Now this was all very well, thought Anthony, but he hadn't been invited to Starhanger. Maybe that would follow, but he wanted to be a bit more secure, so . . .

‘I'm not sure,' he said, after what he hoped seemed like a reasonable amount of cogitation. ‘I can't see why, given the proper safeguards, there should be any real objection, but I was hoping to have a few days in the country. I want to have some fresh air, get some fishing in, that sort of thing and I don't want a pack of reporters clamouring at my door.' He nodded at Sir Charles. ‘Talbot here has offered to show me one of his favourite haunts.'

‘Absolutely, my dear chap,' agreed Sir Charles heartily. ‘I'm looking forward to our little holiday.' He looked at Sherston. ‘I was thinking of Melton on the Bewl, Sherston, down in Kent. Do you know it? It's a delightful spot.'

‘Indeed it is,' agreed Sherston mechanically, his eyes abstracted. ‘It's not far from my place. In fact . . .' He leaned forward. ‘Perhaps, Colonel, you would agree to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak,' he said persuasively. ‘I would be delighted if you could manage to put in a few days at my house, Starhanger. You too, Talbot. You'd both be very welcome. As far as fishing is concerned, we have a first-rate trout river on the estate and my wife is an excellent hostess. As far as the articles are concerned, all it would entail is having roughly the same conversation we've just enjoyed and I can guarantee you will not be troubled by pressmen.'

‘That's a very generous offer,' said Anthony. ‘Talbot, what do you say?'

‘I think it's a splendid idea,' said Talbot enthusiastically. ‘Absolutely first-rate. I'm much obliged to you, Sherston.'

‘What do you say, Colonel?' asked Sherston.

‘It's very kind of you,' said Anthony, privately congratulating Sir Charles. His scheme had worked, sure enough. If Sherston had been given a doormat he would have written
Welcome
on it. ‘I'll have to get permission to go ahead, but I accept with pleasure.'

Sherston folded up his napkin. ‘Good. We'll consider it settled.' He drew out his card case, took out a card and jotted a number on the back. ‘That's my private number. Let me know as soon as you have permission and we'll arrange for you to come down.' He turned to Sir Charles. ‘You can get away from the office, can you, Talbot?'

‘Absolutely,' said Sir Charles cheerfully. ‘Not that I'll be missed. To be honest I don't know why I stick at it, but someone's got to see that form CH 123 is filled in triplicate. Now most of my young clerks have joined up, I'm left with the halt and the lame and the old. How anyone expects me to run a government department with the staff I'm left with, I don't know. I suppose you've got much the same problem with your newspapers, Sherston.'

‘It's a burden, certainly. However, talking of newspapers, Colonel, I appreciate you'll have to consult with the powers that be, but I'd like to run an article as soon as possible. Now, what I'd like to suggest is sending one of my men round . . .'

‘What did you think of Sherston?' asked Sir Charles as he and Anthony crossed St James' Park after lunch. ‘D'you think he could be Cavanaugh's Gentleman?'

Anthony scratched his ear. ‘To be honest, I don't know if Sherston would fit Cavanaugh's ideas. He's rich and powerful and wears the right clothes, but his accent's against him. I'm not sure if an Irish-American would think another Irishman could be an English gentleman, if you see what I mean. I tell you something that I did think was odd though, and that was the way he talked about Cavanaugh.'

‘You're right,' agreed Sir Charles. ‘I don't know why. It could be nothing more than some trifling love affair with his sister – you remember Sherston said Cavanaugh presumed on the relationship? – or Sherston could be our man and realized Cavanaugh was on to him. We'll find out more at Starhanger.'

‘Let's hope so,' Anthony agreed. ‘By the way, you know we want a scheme to sell the Jerries? I've got a glimmer of an idea. It was all the talk about Africa which set me off, but I need to think through the details.'

The next morning Anthony telephoned Sherston to say the necessary permissions had been granted.

He was rewarded by an invitation to Starhanger for the following Friday and a visit from a senior reporter from the
Sentinel.
The day after that, he had the dubious pleasure of reading about his own anonymous exploits under the title ‘Germany! The Truth! One Intrepid Briton's Account Of Life Under The Kaiser'.

He couldn't complain about the lack of enthusiasm shown by the writer but he wasn't prepared for the amount of interest it stirred up.

He got his first inkling when Diana Willis sprang to her feet as he was announced. She was his cousin's wife and he'd been invited for tea. The room seemed to be a sea of great-aunts, a sprinkling of youths in uniform and a few men too old to be in the army.

She drew him to one side, her eyes sparkling. ‘Anthony, it's you, isn't it? The man in the paper, the One Intrepid Briton? I knew you'd done something
frightfully
brave but I had no idea what. Listen everyone!' she said, addressing the room. ‘You've all got to be most fearfully respectful. This is Anthony Brooke, the man in the paper, the one who's just got back from Germany.'

‘Cut it out, Diana,' he said, laughing. ‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

But nobody believed him.

That the article was to have another and unwelcome consequence was brought home the next morning.

Bertram Farlow called with a note from Sir Charles asking him to call at five o'clock. Anthony, who was just off to lunch, invited Farlow for a bite to eat in Simpsons. As they walked down the Strand, Anthony felt an indefinable prickle at the back of his neck. He knew someone was watching him.

He walked on a few steps before stopping by a newspaper vendor. He bought a paper, then turned casually, looking at the crowds on the pavement. Nobody. He stepped into the shelter of a shop doorway and, beside a curved glass window, stopped and glancing in idle interest at the packets of tea and granulated sugar displayed in the window.

There he was! Reflected in the curved glass was a man in a dark overcoat and bowler hat. He had a split-second glimpse of startled eyes, distorted in the glass, then the man disappeared into the crowd. Damn! Anthony waited a few more minutes, apparently intent on the headlines, but, although at least five bowler-hatted, dark-coated men walked past, Anthony knew his watcher wasn't amongst them. He folded up the paper, tucked it under his arm, and mounted the steps into Simpsons.

‘I'm being followed,' he said to Farlow in a low voice, once they were inside and had been shown to a table.

‘Indeed, Colonel?' asked Farlow in a voice that sounded as if he was about to announce the next hymn. ‘Can you describe him?'

‘Apart from the fact he's average height with a dark overcoat and bowler hat, no. I saw him reflected in the tea shop window. He knows his stuff. He knew exactly what I was up to and scarpered before I could get a proper look.'

‘Perhaps he'll be there when we leave,' suggested Farlow. ‘Let me go first. I'll cross over to the other side of the road, to March and Weeks, the umbrella shop. I'll see if I can spot anyone taking an interest in you.'

However, when Anthony joined Farlow outside March and Weeks, Farlow, peering into the window, shook his head as if gravely dissatisfied with the sticks and umbrellas on display. ‘Not a trace of him, Colonel.'

Anthony nodded. The prickle at the back of his neck had disappeared. He kept a careful lookout as he walked back to his club, but could see nothing out of the way. Then, as always, doubts crept in. Had he been mistaken? Perhaps he was simply being overly sensitive.

A succession of late nights had made him tired and, although it was only quarter to three in the afternoon, he curled up in an armchair with a book. It was a long-winded Victorian thing he'd picked up in the library downstairs and could induce sleep after a couple of pages. He wouldn't mind a rest before he went to see Sir Charles.

He was halfway down the page before he realized he'd read the account of tiger hunting in Garhwal before. That was odd. His bookmark was in the wrong place. He couldn't be bothered to find the right page and let the book drop to the floor. Although tired, he was unable to settle. His suspicions were pretty nebulous but even a nebulous impression was probably worth reporting. He got up and went to the desk, intending to jot down exactly what he had seen.

His pen had been moved. It was at that point his senses flared. The few papers in his desk had been searched, he was sure of it. He sat rigidly still. Very faintly from the next room, his bedroom, came a tiny succession of noises.

He got up and crept to the door, resting his hand on the handle. There it was again. Tensing himself, he flung back the door and erupted into the room.

Anthony felt a complete fool. Standing by the bed, duster in hand, brush and pan beside him, was a club servant, dressed in the standard uniform of black trousers and striped waistcoat, covered by a khaki apron. He looked up with justified astonishment.

‘What the devil are you doing in here?' Anthony snapped.

The man fingered his wisp of a moustache, nervously avoiding Anthony's gaze. ‘I'm sorry, sir,' he said in deferential Cockney. ‘I was just finishing your room. I didn't hear you come in. I'm sorry if I disturbed you. We got behindhand this morning and Mr Baxter told me to catch up while you were out.' He was the picture of aggrieved innocence.

Baxter was the chief caretaker and his name was reassuring. Anthony relaxed and stood away from the door. ‘I'm sorry if I startled you. I heard someone creeping about and wondered who on earth it was.'

‘Not at all, sir,' he said, obsequiously, picking up the brush and pan. ‘It's all done now. Terribly sorry, sir.'

He left and Anthony flung himself back into a chair. Damnit,
had
his papers been moved? He looked at them again. Yes, they had. Anything else? He went back into the bedroom.

The window was open at the bottom as well as the top. He hadn't left it like that. The fire escape ran underneath and someone could enter that way. He pulled out the top drawer of his bedside cabinet. He knew there was something missing. He looked at the drawer for a few moments, trying to place what it was, but the memory stayed frustratingly elusive.

He pulled down the window, locked the door, and went to hunt up the secretary, Richard Walbreck. Walbreck left Anthony in his office and was back in twenty minutes.

‘No one's been in your room this afternoon, Brooke. I've had a word with Baxter and it was cleaned this morning. What did you say the chap looked like?'

Anthony scratched the side of his chin. ‘A bit nondescript, really, a weedy sort of bloke in his late twenties, I'd say. He was about average height, I suppose, with sandy hair, a small moustache and a little chip of a scar on the left hand side of his chin.'