Frankie's Letter (9 page)

Richard Walbreck, the secretary, did indeed arrange everything. That had all been simple enough, thought Anthony. He could only wish the task of finding Frankie would prove as simple. It sounded impossible to hunt through the biggest city on earth for someone called Frankie, but he had hopes that someone would remember Cavanaugh.

Following Sir Charles's suggestion, he didn't start his hunt until his new uniform arrived. He unpacked the box, put on his clothes and, knotting his tie, looked at the military figure reflected in the mirror. It struck Anthony as sheer make-believe. To be a colonel with no regiment and no men had a comic opera, Gilbert and Sullivan quality about it that was as unlikely as his mission.

He wasn't sure if he liked what he saw in the mirror. He'd spent months trying to be unremarkable and the uniform, with its green cap-ribbon and tabs, singled him out as a member of the Intelligence Service. But that, according to Sir Charles, was a very good reason for wearing it. Sir Charles reassured him that he couldn't have a better camouflage than khaki. It would also, he had added with a grin, save him from being presented with any more white feathers.

During the next couple of days, Anthony tried to hunt up his old friends, but most of them had joined up and Cavanaugh's acquaintances proved even more elusive. There were men who remembered the passing American visitor but, despite Sir Charles Talbot following up every lead, there was no result. They seemed, thought Anthony with frustration, on the afternoon of the fourth day, to be getting nowhere. Even an investigation into Cavanaugh's journalism proved fruitless. He had written pieces for the American press, but had published nothing in England. And the quest, as Anthony quickly realized, was urgent.

Cavanaugh had died because a gentleman in England had betrayed him. What else that gentleman could pick up was deeply worrying. Anthony was stunned by the facts which were freely floated round London drawing rooms and not so much whispered, as openly discussed after the port.

Some of the talk was harmless chit-chat, such as Tom receiving his commission in the Blues and Royals, Dick getting the MC and Harry being sent to Gallipoli. That went with the discussions about which rifle it was best for an officer to carry, now rifles had replaced the traditional swords, and if a soldier who threw a hand grenade should be called a grenadier or a bomber, but he could, with very little effort, have written a fairly detailed report on the situation in the Dardanelles, given the inside story of Aubers Ridge and Festubert and found out about the new bombsight being developed by the Central Flying School. He learnt Italy was about to declare war, who was likely to be who in the forthcoming coalition government, how the army had first won, then lost, then drawn the battle of Neuve Chapelle and the vicious infighting between Field Marshall Sir John French and virtually everyone else.

It mainly came, as most information does, in bits and, naturally enough, Anthony couldn't know if it was accurate but anyone with their eyes open would know where to go and who to ask to check their facts.

Sir Charles wasn't remotely surprised. ‘You can't stop people talking,' was his comment when Anthony called to see him. ‘We're convinced that anyone we meet over dinner, who speaks as we do and knows the same crowd is fundamentally safe. For instance, who told you about the new bombsight?'

‘That was Kenneth Bourne after dinner two nights ago but a fair few people knew about it. Shelia Matherson mentioned it too. I've known them both for years.'

‘So it wouldn't cross their minds it was something they shouldn't talk about. The more I think about it, the more worried I am. To be totally accepted in English society must be one of the most casual and yet one of the most difficult tricks in the world. We don't ask for a man's credentials or ask to see his papers. We know that sort of thing by instinct.'

‘Well, so we do,' Anthony replied. ‘Either you know someone or you know someone who knows someone or you know what school they went to or where they come from. It'd be difficult for a foreigner or an outsider, however plausible, to break in to that circle, unless you're suggesting a disguise or a false identity.'

‘I can't see it working like that. I'm convinced Cavanaugh was on the right lines. Our man's working on the inside. He's doesn't need a disguise or a false name. This is much more subtle.' He shook his head with an anxious frown. ‘He's one of us. Damn it, Brooke, Cavanaugh must have talked to
someone.
We have to find who.'

Anthony had been in London for over a week when he got a break. He'd bumped into an old friend, Jerry Ross, in the Savoy. Over the second whisky-and-splash he pitched in with his standard gambit. He'd run through the usual list of friends and their doings before casually asking, ‘Do you remember that American chap who was here before the war? Terence Cavanaugh. Quite a character.'

To his delight, Jerry frowned. ‘Was he the bloke who'd been a cowboy or something?'

‘That's the one,' said Anthony, keeping the raging urgency out of his voice.

‘I don't know how many of his tales I believed, but yes, I knew him. A friend of my sister's introduced him. He was a real tough egg, I'd have said, but pleasant enough.'

With painful carelessness and another one for the tonsils, Anthony elicited the information that Ross's sister's friend was a Miss Tara O'Bryan. And that, the sum total of Jerry Ross's knowledge, was to prove priceless.

Next morning Anthony had a visit from Sir Charles's assistant, the elegant Farlow. ‘Colonel Brooke?' he murmured in inaudibly cultured tones. Anthony had to smother a grin. He was sure MacIntyre, the porter, who was watching them from his desk in the hall, thought he was entertaining a duke or an earl, at least. Farlow leaned forward confidentially. ‘I've come from Mr Monks.'

‘What is it?' asked Anthony quietly.

Farlow cleared his throat. ‘Mr Monks wants you to meet him in the bar in the Melbourne at quarter past twelve. Lunch,' he added languidly. ‘Oh, and Mr Monks said to come in uniform. Create the right impression, don't you know?'

‘Who on earth,' demanded Anthony when he joined Sir Charles in the bar of the Melbourne, ‘is that chap Farlow?'

Sir Charles grinned broadly and picked up his sherry. ‘Bertram Farlow? He's one of the stars of the department. I use him to fetch and carry and do odd jobs. He's not very bright, but he looks impressive, doesn't he?'

‘Very.'

‘I hide behind him on occasion, so to speak. One look at Farlow and no one takes any notice of me. He used to be an actor and, despite looking as if he's too aristocratic for words, he's actually the son of a Lancashire millworker.'

‘Good grief. Anyway,' said Anthony, mentally dismissing Farlow, ‘why did you want to see me? Have you got a lead?'

Sir Charles drew his chair closer. ‘We have. Incidentally,' he said with a look at Anthony's clothes, ‘the uniform suits you.'

‘Never mind my uniform. What about this lead?'

‘Ah, but your uniform is part of my scheme. It was your pal Ross with his sister's friend, Miss Tara O'Bryan, who led us in the right direction. Have you ever heard of a man called Sherston? Patrick Sherston?

Anthony frowned. ‘Somewhere or other. The name rings a bell.' He clicked his fingers. ‘Hang on! I've got it. He was the man getting into the taxi! I couldn't place him but I knew I'd come across him. He's Irish, isn't he, Talbot?' He lowered his voice. ‘Could he be one of the Sons of Hibernia?'

‘If we suspected every Irishman of being involved with the Sons of Hibernia and their ilk, we'd have to keep an eye on half the army and most of the police,' said Sir Charles. ‘However, he does have a link to Cavanaugh. Tell me what else you know about Sherston.'

Anthony shrugged. ‘As I recall, he's a newspaper man and a pretty big cheese. He owns the newspaper, I mean. I met him at the university once. He was at a dinner hosted by my crowd at the School of Tropical Medicine, the neuropathology and parasitic diseases people. There was a fairly big donation in the offing. He made a speech about the Congo, Uganda and German East, setting the scene for everyone. It was a pretty good speech as these things go. I swapped notes with him afterwards. He sounded as if he knew Africa like the back of his hand, but he admitted his experience amounted to a holiday on the Cape and ten minutes with an encyclopaedia. I think I'd always treat him with care but I rather took to him.'

‘That's the man. Well, I didn't know you'd met him, but he's joining us for lunch at one.'

Anthony sat up. ‘Is he, by George? What's his association with Cavanaugh?'

‘All in good time,' said Sir Charles with a grin. ‘To go back to Mr Sherston for a moment, it's because we're meeting him for lunch that I particularly wanted you to wear uniform. It commands respect, you know.'

‘And why do you want me to command Mr Sherston's respect? Particularly, I mean.'

Sir Charles sat back in his chair. ‘Because, as you said, Patrick Sherston is a newspaper man. You said he was a big cheese. That, if anything, is an understatement. He owns the Sherston Press and is, in consequence, a very important person indeed. He owns the
Examiner,
the
Mercury,
the
Sentinel
and a host of others. As well as the big papers he's got lots of little magazines with names like
Modern Poultry Breeding
and so on.'

‘Crikey. The
Sentinel?
We're moving in elevated circles. Does he know who you are?'

Sir Charles shook his head. ‘No. He knows I work in Whitehall, but he thinks I've got something to do with police pensions. I've known him in a vague sort of way for years and would never have thought he'd had any connection with Cavanaugh if it hadn't been for your friend Ross mentioning Miss Tara O'Bryan. Sherston is Miss O'Bryan's uncle.'

‘Is he, by jingo?' murmured Anthony. ‘Are they close?'

Sir Charles nodded. ‘Very. Miss O'Bryan's father is dead and both she and her mother, Veronica O'Bryan, Sherston's sister, live with him. You might have heard of Miss O'Bryan's father, Bernard O'Bryan. He was a well-known poet and literary figure in Dublin twenty-odd years ago.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Anthony. ‘I don't know much about poets.'

‘He made quite a name for himself. He was an expert on Irish folklore and mythology and fiercely pro-Independence. He was a fiery sort of beggar, calling for young men to sacrifice themselves on the altar of freedom and so on. I don't know how much was poetic licence and how much was meant, but it's violent stuff. Sherston's pro-Independence but so are many people, on both sides of the Irish Sea. He's never made any secret of it and it might or might not be important. I hope it isn't. What
is
important for our purposes is the name of his house. Guess what it is.'

Anthony shrugged. ‘It could be anything, I suppose.'

‘It's Starhanger.'

‘
What?
'

Sir Charles smiled triumphantly. ‘Starhanger. And if that's not Cavanaugh's
Star anger
I'll eat my hat.'

‘That's incredible!' Anthony couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘And the woman I saw – the woman in blue – could she be Miss O'Bryan?'

‘How old was she, would you say?'

Anthony had thought about this. He had thought about the woman in blue intently ever since that life-shattering glimpse. ‘She'd be in her twenties at a guess.' He wanted it to be her. He very much wanted the woman in blue to be her.

‘That sounds about right,' said Sir Charles. ‘There is a Mrs Sherston, Mrs Josette Sherston, but we don't know anything about her. What does worry me is that Sherston is undoubtedly a gentleman.'

Anthony gave a low whistle. ‘I see where you're going. Surely you don't think Mr Sherston might be our gentleman?'

Sir Charles looked at him with a twisted smile. ‘It seems incredible, doesn't it? And yet in many ways he fits the bill. He's had a few swipes at the powers that be in his time, which is probably why he isn't Lord something or other. He might resent that, you know. He was very pro-Boer and, as I say, he's all for Irish Home Rule. He's run many an article about John Bull's other island, as he usually calls it. He might see his role as Cavanaugh's gentleman as a way of paying off a few old scores. Granted what Cavanaugh said, I can't deny he fits.' He paused. ‘There's another thing, too. I looked him up in
Who's Who.
His second name is Francis.'

Anthony stared at him. ‘Francis? And we're looking for a Frankie? That's a coincidence.'

Sir Charles held up a steadying hand. ‘And that could be the top and bottom of it. I hope to God it's not him. There'll be hell to pay if it is. Since the war started, Sherston has become the patriot of patriots and has some very influential friends. He's also put his money where his mouth is as regards the war. Any member of his staff who joined up has been guaranteed full pay for the duration of hostilities and he's raised no end of money for various good causes associated with the services. If it's a front, it's a very good one. He regularly dines with Asquith and other members of the cabinet.'

‘He's in a perfect position to have valuable information.'

‘I agree. However, you see what I mean when I said he's someone we have to treat with caution. We've got a free press and Sherston knows how to use it. If this goes wrong, Sherston can make such a stink it'll wreck the department. It's hard enough to justify our work to some of the bigwigs in the War Office as it is, without giving them that sort of ammunition. We can't afford to let him have the faintest suspicion we're looking into him and his affairs, but it's important that we do. I want you to be invited to Starhanger. You can find out an awful lot very quickly about a man in his own home. I'd like to be there as well.'