Frankie's Letter (12 page)

‘That isn't one of the servants,' said Walbreck with a puzzled frown. ‘Dash it all, Brooke, I don't like the sound of this. I certainly don't like the fact he was wearing the club uniform and knew enough to use Baxter's name. Was anything taken?'

Anthony clicked his tongue in dissatisfaction. ‘Nothing valuable, that's for sure. I've got my money and various bits and pieces on me and there's damn all else to take.'

‘I'll warn the porters there's a petty thief about,' said Walbreck. ‘It sounds as if he could be a former servant, looking for easy pickings.' He shrugged. ‘All I can do is apologize.'

Anthony went back upstairs but he didn't go to his room. Instead he turned into the bathroom on the corridor. The window was open and, stacked neatly in a corner, were the duster, pan, brush and apron. He nodded in understanding. Those were the man's props. He looked out of the window. It was an easy climb to the fire escape beneath. It wouldn't have taken much for the man to have climbed in and out that way, find the caretaker's cupboard and rig himself out as a servant.

Sir Charles Talbot, when Anthony told him about it an hour later, was worried. ‘What did you say he looked like?'

Anthony shrugged. ‘He wasn't a man you'd look at twice. He was a weaselly, insignificant little chap.'

‘Weaselly,' repeated Sir Charles, drumming a tattoo on the desk. He pushed a notepad towards Anthony. ‘Write down as good a description as you can and I'll get it checked.' He chewed his lip anxiously. ‘It's that blasted article that's done it. I'm sorry, Brooke. I had to get you into Starhanger and this seemed the most obvious way. Damn it! He's bright enough to have found out the caretaker's name.'

‘That's what made me think he was genuine,' admitted Anthony. ‘I'm at fault. I should have hauled him down to Walbreck there and then. That would have settled his hash.'

‘Yes, it's a pity you didn't.' Sir Charles sighed uneasily. ‘I had no idea this would happen. I should have realized the risk.'

‘No one can really know the article's about me,' said Anthony. ‘They might guess but they can't be certain.'

‘They might be able to guess enough to want to be certain. Did you have anything in your room relating to your time in Germany?'

‘No, I . . .' Anthony stopped. He suddenly realized what was missing. When he'd gone to the club after arriving in London, he had emptied his pockets into his bedside drawer before going for a bath. There wasn't much, but there were a few Danish kroner in notes and some öre coins, amounting to a few shillings in English money.

He hadn't considered the Danish money of any importance. After all, Denmark wasn't an enemy country. There weren't any kroner or öre in the drawer now.

He felt chilled. The fact that the worthless kroner had been taken spoke for itself. That, together with that wretched article, spelt out he'd been in Germany and escaped through Denmark. So much for anonymity.

Sir Charles listened gravely. ‘I can only apologize, Brooke,' he said, digging bits out of his blotting pad with the nib of his pen. ‘I hope to God I haven't put you in danger.'

Anthony hoped so too, but the fact was that the enemy knew exactly who he was and where he was. He didn't like it.

S
ir Charles stood up and, with his hands clasped behind his back, walked to the window, gazing unseeingly at the traffic on Cockspur Street. He turned, looking at Anthony wryly. ‘I've put you in danger. If you want to join the Medical Corps, I won't stand in your way.'

Anthony jerked his head up sharply. ‘What about Frankie?'

‘Damn Frankie,' muttered Sir Charles. ‘The Germans know who you are.'

Looking at Sir Charles's crestfallen face, Anthony felt torn. He wanted to join the Medical Corps but he had a huge reluctance to leave a job undone. He seemed to hear once again the desperation in Terry Cavanaugh's voice as he died.
Gentleman. He must be a gentleman.

There was a gentleman in England and Cavanaugh thought he was at Starhanger. Tara O'Bryan was at Starhanger . . .

‘No, Talbot,' he said firmly.

Sir Charles's eyes widened. ‘No?'

‘No, damnit. I said I'd find Frankie and I will. The Germans must think I'm a complete dud. I wouldn't think much of an enemy agent who boasted in the newspapers and was fooled by that cringing little weasel who searched my room. Good. I won't be caught napping a second time, by the Weasel or anyone else. They think they've got away with it. Let them. Don't forget, I can recognize at least one German agent. That might prove very valuable.'

‘It might,' conceded Sir Charles. He cocked his head to one side, raising his eyebrows. ‘Are you sure?'

‘Certain,' said Anthony firmly. ‘After all, what have we lost? We think our gentleman might be Sherston and we're fairly sure he's associated with Starhanger. Sherston is the one person in the one house in England where I can't pretend to be anyone but myself.'

‘That's true,' agreed Sir Charles. ‘Well, I'm not going to argue. You're a sight too valuable for that.'

‘Besides, I want to go to Starhanger.' Anthony leaned forward. ‘You were looking for a plan, weren't you? Some information so choice the Germans simply won't be able to resist it. I've got an idea.'

Sir Charles listened as Anthony ran through his scheme. ‘That's exactly the sort of thing I wanted,' he said enthusiastically when Anthony had finished. ‘Would you mind if I worked on the details?'

‘Feel free.'

Sir Charles clicked his tongue. ‘Thanks to that article, you can't take the principal part. If they use the Weasel again, he'll know you're a fake. Never mind. I'll get somebody else. Leave it with me, Brooke.'

The following morning the ineffable Farlow called on Anthony with a note signed ‘Yr affectionate Aunt, Emily'.

Anthony's Uncle Albert, it appeared, was as well as could be expected. Aunt Emily enquired after his health, but Aunt Emily's heart wasn't with her nephew but in her garden. She mentioned her three plum trees were in blossom but her budding roses were afflicted with greenfly. She'd sprayed them four times with soap solution and was going to try two applications of a nicotine spray before seeking advice from Mr Thornbury – Anthony remembered Mr Thornbury who'd been such a help to Mrs Rycroft – who had done so well with his roses at the Chelsea flower show.

Anthony had an Aunt Constance and an Aunt Cicely but no Aunt Emily, or, come to that, no Uncle Albert either. These relatives were convenient fictions. Anthony thought they appealed to Sir Charles's sense of humour.

The innocent-sounding message, when read properly, told him to ask for a Mr Rycroft at 42, Thornbury Road, Chelsea at three o'clock that afternoon. That Sir Charles had written in code, even when the note was delivered by his own messenger, told him how much the Weasel had rattled him.

‘Tell Mr Monks I'll meet him in Aunt Emily's garden,' Anthony said to the waiting Farlow.

42, Thornbury Road was a neat Georgian house, a few streets away from the Embankment. As the chimes of the clock from the Old Church sounded the hour, Anthony was shown into the sitting room where Sir Charles was waiting, accompanied by two men.

Sir Charles introduced the first man as John Rycroft, the owner of the house, and the second as Michael Greenwood. Greenwood, an open-faced, bright-looking lad with a shock of ginger hair, wore the uniform of the Intelligence Corps. ‘Greenwood's our stalking horse, Colonel, if I can put it like that.'

‘It sounds like a very easy assignment,' said Greenwood cheerfully.

‘I hope so,' said Anthony, accepting the chair Rycroft offered. ‘Incidentally,' he added, ‘I've been followed. It wasn't the Weasel but there was a man on the tube. I managed to lose him.'

‘Was he carrying a bag of workman's tools?' queried Sir Charles, then continued in response to Anthony's nod. ‘He's one of ours. He was watching for anyone interested in you. Incidentally, I want you to make sure you're seen with Greenwood this evening. Dinner at the Savoy should do it.'

‘That's fine with me,' said Greenwood so enthusiastically Anthony had to hide a smile. Dinners at the Savoy were obviously not an everyday occurrence to this particular young officer.

‘Now,' said Sir Charles, ‘to business.'

He unlocked an attaché case and drew out a small wash-leather bag. He opened the bag and spilled lumps of soapy-coloured pebbles of various sizes onto the table. ‘These, gentlemen,' he said, ‘are uncut diamonds.'

Anthony's eyebrows shot up. Michael Greenwood gave a low whistle of surprise.

Sir Charles smiled. ‘I'm glad you like them. There's half for you, Brooke, and half for Mr Greenwood.'

Anthony picked up a handful of stones, rubbing them between his fingers. ‘This is very generous of you,' he said with a smile. ‘I didn't expect you to take my grumbles about pay to heart quite so radically.'

‘Unfortunately they're just on loan. I'd be obliged if you didn't lose them. His Majesty's Government has promised to make good any loss but, between ourselves, His Majesty's Government would rather not. Our plan is to catch an enemy agent by giving them some irresistible information. Colonel Brooke will pass on this information to a select few and if it's acted on, we'll know that our agent is one of the people he's told.'

He looked at Greenwood. ‘Mr Greenwood, your part is to play the role of a prospector, a miner, who's just arrived in London.'

‘I see,' said Greenwood doubtfully. ‘Do I have to dress up? I don't fancy going round London with a pickaxe or what-have-you.'

Rycroft laughed. He was a stocky man with the faintly yellow complexion of someone who'd spent a lot of time in strong sun. ‘I'm a prospector, young man, and I don't have to carry a spade to let people know I'm good at digging. All you have to do is stay in a hotel and act the part.'

Greenwood looked moderately reassured. ‘I see,' he said once more.

‘Don't worry,' said Rycroft. ‘You'll be fine. If, by any chance you do run into anyone who knows their onions, say that you're onto something but you don't want to talk about it. I'll teach you some of the jargon and there's a couple of books you can read to get into the spirit of the thing. Now then, to details.'

Rycroft took a folded map from a case on the bookshelf and opened it out on the table. It was a large-scale map of the African Central Highlands, showing the border between British East Africa, Kenya and German East. ‘Your story, Mr Greenwood,' he said, lighting a thin black cigar, ‘is that you've found a diamantiferous area.'

‘I've found a what?'

Anthony was glad Greenwood asked. He wanted to know as well.

‘A diamantiferous area,' said Rycroft patiently, ‘is an area which produces diamonds.'

‘That's a diamond pipe, isn't it?' put in Greenwood intelligently. ‘Blue clay and all that.'

Rycroft shook his head. ‘You're thinking about Kimberly.'

‘Am I?'

Anthony felt himself warming to the young man. Greenwood's knowledge of diamonds was obviously about as profound as his own and he didn't mind asking obvious questions.

Rycroft smiled. ‘I think you found your diamonds in a river, Mr Greenwood. River gravels and sandstones can be very productive. That's where the majority of diamond finds are made in India and Brazil and in some parts of Africa, too. As I said, I'll give you the technical knowledge you need. Now the region I suggest for your find is here –' he tapped the map with a stubby forefinger – ‘in the waters coming down from Mount Erok. That's in Ukambaland, just over the border from German East.'

Anthony nodded in satisfaction. When he'd sketched out his ideas to Sir Charles, what he had in mind was something hugely valuable, like a gold mine, but diamonds, which a lone prospector could apparently find tumbling about in a river seemed to fit the bill better.

Sir Charles nodded. ‘Mount Erok it is.' He looked at Greenwood. ‘The idea is that if the Germans hear you're in an unguarded hotel bedroom with maps of a valuable diamond find, especially one so close to the borders of German East, they're more or less bound to try and steal them. Your cache of diamonds will add a bit of substance to the maps. I can't see them failing to take the bait. Like the rest of us, they're desperate for diamonds.'

Anthony was surprised by the word
desperate.
He wouldn't say no to a few diamonds himself but he'd never been desperate for them. Greenwood was about to speak but thought better of it, so Anthony was forced to display his ignorance. ‘Why? Does the Kaiser want a new necklace or something?'

Sir Charles swapped a long-suffering look with Rycroft. ‘It's industry, man. The Germans don't want diamonds for jewellery, they need them for industry.'

Now Anthony was really puzzled. ‘Industry?' Admittedly, what he knew about diamonds could have been comfortably written on a stamp, but he associated them with expensively dressed women, not smoky factories.

‘Industry. Drilling, engraving, making scales and meters, turning metal and so on, to say nothing of wire making.'

‘We're using a fair bit of wire in France,' put in Greenwood.

‘As you say.' Sir Charles interlocked his fingers and braced his hands in a satisfied way. ‘Yes, that all hangs together. Mr Greenwood, I've arranged a false identity for you. Mr Rycroft has kindly offered to take you on as his nephew, so I want you to rid yourself of your uniform and reappear as Martin Rycroft. Once that's taken care of, you need to book into a hotel. The St George's in Cheshire Place will suit our purposes very well.'

‘Right-ho, sir.'

‘As well as the maps, you'll have various documents to support your story of a find, but the principal prop is your cache of diamonds.' He rose to his feet. ‘I think that's all I need to say at this stage. Thank you very much for your help, Mr Rycroft. Brooke and I will leave you in peace to give a few pointers to Mr Greenwood.'