Frankie's Letter (18 page)

Anthony stood to one side while Sir Charles opened the door. ‘Stay outside,' he said quietly as the door swung open. ‘I'll feel happier knowing you're on guard.'

He took the picklocks and went in. His real fear, that Veronica O'Bryan had somehow doubled back and was waiting for him, had been quieted by the telltale of the piece of paper. That would be impossible to arrange from the inside. He stood by the door and considered the room.

He hoped that Veronica O'Bryan would have some letters, some papers, even some drafts of ‘Frankie's Letter'. They were very private and the presumption was she would hide them in her room. So where would she put them?

There was the bed, of course, its covers laid back to air. It couldn't be anywhere a servant would look, so under the mattress or bed was out. The wardrobe? There was nothing on top and the inside contained only clothes and shoes. Anthony had hopes of the hat boxes, but they held nothing but hats. He pressed his hands against the back and the base of the wardrobe, looking for a hidden compartment, but it seemed solid enough.

Working very quickly, he examined the bedside table, the chairs and the small bookcase. He picked up the rug and ran his hands over the floorboards, but they were all true and well-fitting. He pulled out the drawers in the chest of drawers, rifled through their contents and reassured himself there wasn't the space for a secret drawer. Satisfying himself the drawers looked untouched, he stood in the centre of the room.

The hiding place couldn't be anywhere too difficult or dirty. Mrs O'Bryan needed to get at these papers – if she had any – so a loose brick up the chimney was out. Her jewellery box was on top of the chest of drawers. It was locked, of course, but the folded wire tool in his pocket made short work of that. Nothing.

He replaced the necklaces and brooches in the order he'd taken them out, aware that time was slipping away. Her writing desk was next, a mahogany affair with a sloping top and drawers. The drawers weren't locked and an innocent array of writing paper and pens met his eyes. Again, there was no false back to the desk.

Consciously forcing down his frustration, Anthony sat back on his haunches on the rug. Was there anything to find? His eyes lit once more on the jewellery box. It was a big affair of ebony. Very big for the jewels he'd taken out and yet they'd reached the top of the box.

Impatiently he opened it up once more and took out the glittering contents, slipped his fingers into the box at diagonally opposite corners and pressed down. There was a click as the velvet-covered bottom came away.

He swore under his breath. The space contained a fine ruby brooch, obviously Veronica O'Bryan's most valuable piece, and nothing else. And yet the box was still too big for its contents. Anthony picked it up and examined it thoroughly, then, holding the bottom securely, pushed the side of the box. It slid open, revealing a drawer a few inches deep. It was full of papers. Bingo!

‘Talbot,' he called softly. ‘We're in business.'

Back in the safety of Sir Charles's room, they opened up the jewellery box.

The contents were damning. There was a series of letters from an address in The Bronx, New York, from a Sean Kennedy.
They mainly concerned raising enough funds in America to buy arms in Germany to ship to Ireland, but one letter made the hairs on the back on Anthony's neck stand up.

‘Your Terence Cavanaugh sounds like our Patrick Quinn,' wrote Kennedy. There followed a detailed description of Cavanaugh. ‘Quinn is a British agent. He escaped from New York but needs to be taken care of as soon as possible. I'll leave the details to you.'

And she had taken care of him, thought Anthony, remembering once more the clutch of the dying man's hand. There were other letters, referring to the ‘London end' and – this made Sir Charles sigh with relief – the Sons of Hibernia.

‘She's in it up to her neck,' said Sir Charles with deep satisfaction.

‘There's no reference to “Frankie's Letter”
,
' though, said Anthony, skimming through the letters.

‘Why should there be?' asked Sir Charles with a shrug. ‘After all, how Veronica O'Bryan gets information to Germany is her concern, not this Sean Kennedy's.'

‘True enough. What's this?' There was a cardboard-backed envelope in the box which, unlike the other letters, had a British stamp on it. ‘The postmark's London EC1.'

Anthony opened the envelope and frowned in surprise. There was a photograph, a studio picture, of a little girl about five years old, sitting on a stool holding a toy cat with a curtain draped artistically behind her. She was a pretty little thing with very solemn eyes and someone – an adult – had written across the bottom of the picture ‘To Mummy'
.

‘Who the dickens is she, I wonder?' said Sir Charles.

Anthony scratched his chin. The child in the picture reminded him of someone. Veronica O'Bryan? Maybe. He stared hard at the photograph and the fleeting impression of familiarity vanished. ‘Could it be Mrs O'Bryan's child?' he suggested tentatively.

Sir Charles whistled. ‘I suppose it could,' he agreed. ‘It seems unlikely but it wouldn't be impossible. No,' he added reflectively. ‘It wouldn't be impossible at all. After all, how old is she? Early forties at the most, I'd say.'

He carefully replaced the photograph in the envelope. ‘If she is Mrs O'Bryan's child, she's kept it very quiet. She'd have to, of course. The scandal if it got out would be terrific. She couldn't live here if it became known.'

He looked at Anthony and read his expression. ‘If it is Mrs O'Bryan's child, she'll be protected. I'm not having an innocent child dragged into this, don't worry.' Besides,' he added, looking at the letters, ‘we've got more than enough evidence to act on.'

He pursed his lips. ‘I think we'll put these back where we found them. I don't want to give the game away too soon. I'll get Sedgley to wire London from the village. That'll mean a telegram here, calling me away on urgent family business. I want “Frankie's Letter” decoded as quickly as possible.'

‘What about Veronica O'Bryan?' asked Anthony. ‘Do we arrest her?'

‘I don't think so,' said Sir Charles. ‘I'd like to keep up my pretence as a harmless government official for as long as possible. Besides that, I want to know more. The
Beau Monde
is Sherston's paper. I want to find out how deeply he's involved and if anyone else is in on it. Granted who Sherston is, that's going to be tricky but it shouldn't be impossible. We've made massive progress, but this is just the start. No, sit tight, Brooke, and be as nice as pie to Veronica O'Bryan. I don't want her to realize anything's wrong.'

The telegram for Sir Charles turned up during afternoon tea which was served under the cedar tree. As Vyse, the butler, came across the grass with a salver containing a yellow envelope, they all fell silent. Even in a household like Sherston's, thought Anthony, where telegrams were commonplace, wartime meant telegrams were greeted with apprehension. It was significant that the first thing Sherston said, as Sir Charles ripped open the envelope was, ‘Is everything all right, Talbot? Not bad news, I trust?'

Josette Sherston went pale. She'd been tired and nervy during tea, and had obviously found it an effort to keep up with the conversation. ‘Is it bad news?' she asked, echoing Sherston's question.

Sir Charles read the telegram quickly. ‘It's Uncle Albert,' he said with a deep sigh. ‘He's been ailing for some time but he's taken a turn for the worse.' He tossed the telegram onto the table and looked round apologetically. ‘I'm very sorry, Mrs Sherston, but I'm afraid I'll have to return to town immediately.'

‘What a pity,' said Josette Sherston sympathetically. She turned to Vyse. ‘Instruct Sir Charles's valet to pack his things, Vyse, and have the car brought round. I'm not sure of the times of the trains,' she added to Sir Charles, ‘but there's a timetable in the library, of course.'

‘That went very smoothly,' said Anthony quietly to Sir Charles as he accompanied him back into the house.

‘That's the easy bit,' said Sir Charles. ‘I just hope Veronica O'Bryan doesn't get the wind-up when she finds I've gone. If she shows signs of making a run for it, you might have to stop her. We can't risk her getting away. You'll have to use your judgement.'

Anthony raised an eyebrow. He was a guest, after all, and apprehending the host's sister-in-law wasn't the sort of situation he'd ever encountered in a book of etiquette. ‘Let's hope Mrs O'Bryan doesn't tumble to it,' he murmured. ‘It doesn't sound much fun,'

In the event, Anthony needn't have worried. At half-past seven, Tara remarked that her mother was very late. At twenty past eight Sherston wondered if she'd decided to stay with a friend somewhere. At ten to nine, Kindred, the groom, came in from the stables and reported that Moondancer, Mrs O'Bryan's horse, had been found wandering, riderless, over the slough, a marshy stretch of rough ground between Ticker's Wood and the village.

The slough, as Tara said, white-faced, was a treacherous area, full of tussocks, ditches and bogs. By ten to ten, Sherston, Anthony, Tara and four local policemen, armed with torches, were gingerly negotiating the paths through the swampy ground, before abandoning the search, two hours later, as useless.

The search started again at first light. After a fruitless few hours, Anthony looked wearily over the desolate marsh. In the distance, chopped into flurries by the wind, came the sound of church bells pealing for early service in the village.

He couldn't help feeling a grudging professional respect for Veronica O'Bryan. Because of the paper telltale in her door, he had discounted the possibility she'd made a run for it. That little piece of paper had quieted his fears, persuaded him, hours after she should have returned, that she was coming back.

Perhaps it wasn't so subtle; perhaps she had intended to return but reflected on what she'd overheard, saw her chance and took it. In any event, she had, as he said to Sir Charles, when he finally managed to slip away and telephone privately, completely disappeared.

First round, commented Sir Charles grimly, to Veronica O'Bryan.

L
ater that same day, Lieutenant Michael Greenwood stepped out of the lunchtime May sunshine into the gloomy oak panelled lobby of the St George's Hotel. In his role as the newly arrived colonial, Martin Rycroft, he had supplied himself with a Baedeker's guide. That it was also useful to Michael Greenwood, the junior officer, was something he was young enough to conceal from himself.

Baedeker described the St George's accurately, if succinctly. ‘Hotels in Westminster and Belgravia', ran the heading. ‘Convenient for the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, the government offices, Hyde Park, etc.'

Westminster and Belgravia did not feature ‘Hotels Of The Highest Class'; they were to be found on the adjoining pages: ‘In Or Near Piccadilly' and ‘In Or Near Charing Cross And The Strand' and their names, to an impecunious second lieutenant, were like spells; Claridges; The Ritz; (‘sumptuous') The Savoy; The Cecil; The Waldorf. With ‘restaurant, ballrooms, palm courts etc.' (and what ‘etcs
.
' there could be was anyone's guess) their prices matched their status. ‘Room 21s, with bathroom from 35s.'

Thirty-five shillings for a room with a tub! By jingo, reflected Michael, that was a dickens of a lot, far more than he could ever afford.

The St George's rates were more modest. ‘Room 9s., with bathroom 15s
.
'
His Majesty's Government did not run to private bathrooms, but the ‘charge for a hot bath
was noted as ‘1s. Gratuities (‘tips'),' Michael had read, thankful for the information, ‘should amount to 10-15% of the bill and be divided between the head waiter, the waiter who has specially attended to the traveller, the chambermaid, the “boots” etc.' A prudent note was sounded; ‘to produce the best results they should be distributed weekly.' This, Michael, happily aware that it wasn't his own money he was distributing, proposed to do.

One other piece of worldly wisdom he owed to Baedeker. ‘Money and valuables should be securely locked up in the visitor's own trunk, as the drawers and cupboards of hotels are not always inviolable receptacles.'

True,
‘objects of great value had better be entrusted to the keeping of the manager in exchange for a receipt', but as the sole object of his stay in the St George's was to be robbed, he wanted to make it credibly difficult for any prospective thief, not downright impossible.

The wash-leather bag of diamonds was securely in his pocket, but the maps of the waters of Mount Erok, all beautifully coloured by John Rycroft to show the location of the supposed diamond find, were kept, as Baedeker had suggested, in his trunk. An ordinary thief wouldn't touch them, but if the plan worked, they should draw a German agent like a magnet.

As he crossed the lobby the clerk looked up from the reception desk. ‘Mr Rycroft?' He coughed apologetically. ‘I'm afraid we've had a small problem.'

‘Oh yes? What is it?'

‘One of our porters found a man trying to force the lock on your door. Don't worry,' he added hastily, ‘the porter saw the man off before any damage was done. Unfortunately O'Dwyer, the porter, suffers from a stiff knee, so although he gave chase, the man escaped.'

‘Did he get a look at the chap?' asked Michael.

The clerk shrugged. ‘Not really, I'm afraid, sir. O'Dwyer says he was a little nothing of a man with a moustache, but that's all. Naturally, if anything had been taken, we would insist O'Dwyer make a full statement to the police, but in the circumstances . . .' the clerk broke off.

‘In the circumstances it doesn't seem worth making a fuss,' Michael said.