Frankie's Letter (15 page)

She put the stones back into the saucer and handed it back. With a jolt, Anthony felt her hand touch his.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but her fingers seem to linger on his outstretched palm for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

‘They're like people, you know? Some have all the glitter on the outside and some need drawing out and polishing to show what's hidden.'

Anthony glanced away. It could be nothing more than imagination, but he thought she was referring to him. That little weed of hope started to grow.

A
nthony put down his whisky and soda and walked quietly to the door. He had called into Sir Charles's room for a nightcap and, by mutual consent, the two men had talked trivialities until they judged the rest of the household was safely in bed.

He opened the door a couple of inches, listening intently. In the distance he could hear the sonorous tick-tock of the grandfather clock below them in the hall, but it was the only sound in the quiet house.

‘All clear,' he said in a low voice, settling back in his chair. ‘By the way, there's a very useful creaking floorboard outside your room.'

‘I noticed that, too,' said Sir Charles. ‘I think the diamond scheme went well. You dangled all the right clues very nicely. If Sherston really is our man, he surely can't fail to follow up your lead to the third-rate hotel in Cheshire Place, as you very happily put it. If that comes off we're really out of the slips and no mistake.'

‘Yes, it went well,' said Anthony. ‘There's something else I found out tonight. It's about the Sons of Hibernia.'

Sir Charles sat up in his chair. ‘What is it?'

Anthony related the conversation in the drawing-room as concisely as he could. ‘There's no doubt in my mind,' he finished, ‘that Veronica O'Bryan knows a sight more than she should do. I think Tara O'Bryan's in the clear, but if Mrs O'Bryan is involved with the Sons of Hibernia, then we're really on to something.'

‘It sounds like it,' agreed Sir Charles. ‘Veronica O'Bryan, eh? She's someone we've never contemplated. Where does this leave Sherston? Do you think they're in it together?'

Anthony rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, seeing how the light danced and reflected on the glass in his hand. He was trying very hard to be fair.

‘Sherston didn't show any interest in my conversation with Tara O'Bryan,' he said eventually. ‘He doesn't seem to fit. I know Cavanaugh thought we were looking for a man. He said we've got to stop
him.
However, I wonder if our man isn't a man but a woman.'

‘Veronica O'Bryan?' asked Sir Charles.

‘Veronica O'Bryan,' repeated Anthony. ‘Thanks to Sherston's social connections, she's in a position to pick up some very valuable gossip. Mrs O'Bryan might disapprove of Terry Cavanaugh for some family reason, such as Cavanaugh falling for Tara – Tara certainly liked Cavanaugh and might have had her head turned, despite him being so much older – or it could be more sinister. I'm sure Veronica O'Bryan knows who Frankie is. What's more, when I said I was looking for a man called Frankie, she seemed very self-satisfied, as if she was congratulating herself I was on the wrong lines. It might be that Frankie's a woman.'

‘A woman?' Sir Charles sucked his cheeks in. ‘There's no reason why Frankie shouldn't be a woman, of course. Anything else?'

‘Only that Frankie may be associated with either the New York or London Hibernian charities. That's a guess, but it might be right.'

Sir Charles sat back and drummed his fingers on the smooth leather of the chair-arm. ‘Take it that what you've said is correct. How did it all work?'

Anthony lit a cigarette and smoked it reflectively. ‘What I think happened is something like this. Terry Cavanaugh got involved with the Sons of Hibernia, the London equivalent of the New York Hibernian Relief Fund. He starts to uncover the Sons' links between Ireland and Germany. At a meeting of the Sons he came across Veronica O'Bryan and her daughter, and gets invited here. Tara O'Bryan said Cavanaugh was a distant relation of her father's. I'm assuming that's a ruse on Cavanaugh's part, as otherwise it's too convenient for words. What that means, of course, is that he suspected Veronica O'Bryan and wanted to get closer to her.'

‘Or to Sherston,' put in Sir Charles. ‘He could have suspected Sherston.'

‘So he could,' agreed Anthony. ‘In any event, we know Cavanaugh fell from grace. He left Starhanger under a cloud and went to Germany. Mrs O'Bryan has his activities in New York investigated and, via Frankie, writes a letter to their friendly German pals, with disastrous results for Cavanaugh. For all I know, she is Frankie. She was certainly smug enough when I mentioned Frankie's name.' Anthony looked at Sir Charles. ‘Can you pick any holes in that?'

‘Why was there such a long delay?' asked Sir Charles. ‘It was a good few months after Cavanaugh left Starhanger before he was killed in Germany.'

‘Maybe it took that long for them to be sure. You said Cavanaugh used another name in New York. Veronica O'Bryan might have suspected Cavanaugh but didn't want to act until she was certain. If the Germans arrested an American who really was an innocent neutral, it'd be very awkward for them and their Irish partners.'

‘Fair enough,' acknowledged Sir Charles. ‘What about Sherston, though? He had a down on Cavanaugh, too.'

‘Maybe he's in on it. He could be, you know. After all, his middle name is Francis and if he's Frankie, Veronica O'Bryan might well look smug at my description of him as a friend of Cavanaugh's.'

Sir Charles raised his eyebrows. ‘If they're in it together, that might explain something. Sherston's surprisingly well-liked locally, when you consider the crowd here tonight are solid county types and he's an Irish newspaper proprietor of humble origins. Everyone likes Tara O'Bryan, but no one can stand her mother. Mrs O'Bryan's an expert card player, which should make her popular, what with bridge parties and whist drives and so on, but none of the ladies like playing with her. She's got a sarcastic tongue, dislikes her neighbours and, in addition, has a real down on Mrs Sherston. Mr Moulton, quoting his better half, reckoned that Mrs O'Bryan thoroughly enjoyed running the roost and had her nose put out of joint good and proper when Sherston turned up with his glamorous new wife. General Harker agreed.'

This, felt Anthony, was getting onto dangerous ground. ‘Glamorous?' he queried.

‘Good Lord, man, didn't you notice? She's outstanding. However, apparently Mrs Sherston is content to give Mrs O'Bryan her own way. The General said – quoting his wife – that Mrs Sherston is known for her generosity and kindness. Mrs Harker's opinion is that Mrs Sherston is verging on sainthood for putting up with Veronica O'Bryan. The general opinion is that Sherston should make Veronica O'Bryan an allowance and, for his wife's sake if not his own, issue his sister her marching orders. If they're in it together though, he'd want her close at hand.'

He frowned. ‘I just don't know about Sherston. In light of what you've told me, Veronica O'Bryan has to be our chief suspect, but I'm not dismissing Sherston yet. I hope it's not him, though. I can't help liking the man.'

Anthony crushed out his cigarette. ‘He seems agreeable enough, I grant you.' And that, he thought, with a dull ache twisting his stomach, was about as much enthusiasm as he could honestly manage.

After breakfast the next morning, Anthony was gathered in politely but firmly by Sherston to be interviewed in his study.

The study was a pleasant, book-lined room, with French windows leading onto the sun-filled garden with the waters of the lake sparkling through the trees. There was a collection of box files on the shelves, each marked with a name of a newspaper or magazine, a solid oak table with the cigarette box agreeably close at hand, some comfortable chairs and a desk which held a neat and crisply new stack of magazines and a serviceable-looking typewriter. Elstead, the secretary, sat waiting, ready to make a shorthand record of the interview.

Sherston, Anthony was surprised to find, was conducting affairs himself. ‘There's very few things associated with the newspaper business I can't do, Colonel,' he said with assertive pride. ‘Although I say it myself, I'm the best man for the job. You see, I know the entire range of the Sherston Press and I'll think of questions it wouldn't occur to anyone else to ask.'

Or which, thought Anthony, it might be useful for their gentleman to know, but, as the interview progressed, he became more and more convinced that Sherston wasn't their man.

If Anthony refused to answer a question, Sherston moved on, remarking that he didn't want to publish anything that would endanger British interests. He might have one eye on the censor and another on the Defence of the Realm Acts, but he didn't, as Anthony half expected, press him or try and get the information ‘just between the two of us'.

However, there was his attitude to Cavanaugh to account for. So far, the idea that Cavanaugh had been smitten with Tara O'Bryan was nothing more than a theory. To try and draw him out, Anthony brought up the treatment of neutrals in Germany, using Cavanaugh as an illustration. That led onto an entirely fictitious story of Cavanaugh's death. To Anthony's disappointment, Sherston listened, frosty-faced but without comment.

It was odd, sitting in that quiet room, with sounds of early summer drifting through the open window, to cast his mind back to those desperate months in Germany. The events he was recalling seemed so far away it was as if he was describing another man's life.

After a thorough grilling, during which Anthony thought he had given Sherston enough material to write a three-volume treatise on Germany, laced with some of his more memorable exploits, his host was in an expansive mood. ‘I'm very grateful to you, Colonel,' he said, rubbing his hands together. He turned to his secretary. ‘Get those notes typed up, Elstead. The Colonel will want to read them through, I'm sure.'

Anthony wasn't sure he wanted to do anything of the sort. The whole point of a secret agent, he thought ruefully, was to remain secret. The preliminary article had been bad enough but the interview he had just given constituted a spectacular burning of his boats. Still, this was what Sir Charles wanted. ‘What happens to the notes now, Sherston?' he asked. ‘Are you going to publish them as they are?'

Sherston smiled at this innocent abroad. ‘Oh no, my dear fellow. After you've looked the notes over, I'll give them to Lissett, the editor of the
Sentinel.
He's a very sound man. I propose to run a series of articles. We'll drum up some really good publicity and I'll be very much surprised if the
Sentinel
doesn't knock every other newspaper into a cocked hat.'

His air of eager anticipation increased. ‘D'you remember the series of invasion stories we ran before the war, Elstead?' he asked, turning to his secretary. ‘That was only fiction, of course,' he added to Anthony, ‘but my word, it was a stunt and a half.'

‘It certainly was, sir,' agreed Elstead with a reminiscent grin. ‘We had all our street vendors dressed as German soldiers,' he explained, turning to Anthony, ‘with the banner, “This Could Be True”,
emblazoned on every stand. We had to put out extra editions, it was so successful.'

‘We'll go one better with this,' said Sherston happily. ‘We'll run the story over a couple of weeks, then put all the articles together and print it as a separate magazine. We're thinking of transforming a few streets into a replica of a German town, based on the information you've given us. We won't have any problems with the authorities, as long as we make the entrance fee payable to a good charity. What d'you reckon, Colonel? The Red Cross should fit the bill, unless you've got a pet charity of your own.'

For a wild moment Anthony thought of saying the Sons of Hibernia, just to see how Sherston would react, but he quelled the notion. ‘The Red Cross seems very suitable,' he agreed.

‘Excellent!' said Sherston enthusiastically. ‘We can dress it up, have soldiers lording over civilians and so on, show them what it's really like to live crushed under the Kaiser's heel. We can even stage a rooftop escape,' he added with a laugh. ‘That'll make London sit up.'

Anthony winced. The chances of remaining anonymous after that were virtually nil. ‘That'll take some time to arrange, won't it?' he asked hopefully.

‘No time at all,' said Sherston, crushing Anthony's hopes as effectively as any heel of the Kaiser's. ‘You'll be amazed at how quickly we can put it together. You, of course, will be our consultant on the project, Colonel.'

‘I'll have to get permission,' said Anthony, clutching at this fragile straw.

‘With any luck there won't be any trouble about that,' said Sherston heartily. ‘As well as the
Sentinel
I intend to run pieces in some of our other papers and magazines. For instance,
Hearth and Home
will get a lot a mileage out of the comparison between what a typical German can expect for dinner, say, and an ordinary British working man.'

‘What about the
Citizen
?' put in Elstead. ‘Banks of the
Citizen
loves the scare stuff and a Hidden Hand Of Germany story. The Colonel's insights will give them a lot of material on how to spot a spy.'

‘Well done, Elstead,' said Sherston. ‘Note that down.' His enthusiasm increased. ‘Why, even
Market Garden and Allotment Times
can run an article on German versus British food production.' Anthony winced once more and Sherston turned on him sharply. ‘You mustn't despise any journal, Colonel, no matter how trivial the subject matter may seem.'

That hadn't been the reason why Anthony had recoiled but he didn't feel able to explain himself. At this rate, he thought ruefully, Sherston might as well start a paper called
Intelligence Agent News by Anthony Brooke, Esq.,
and have done with it. He didn't make the suggestion; Sherston might just do it.