Frankie's Letter (24 page)

He tilted his chair forward. He looked, thought Anthony, so tired he was haggard. ‘I don't know what they're planning, but it's evil, Brooke. I hoped Veronica O'Bryan would lead us to the truth, but she's quite literally dead and gone. I wish to God I could work out what to
do
.'

Anthony pushed his chair back and, getting to his feet, walked to the window. ‘I've got an idea,' he said at last. ‘I couldn't carry it off for long, but it might work for a short time. You've been trying to find out what's planned through the Irish end. What about the German angle? I can be a very convincing German. Let it be known, through your Camden Town man or whoever, that a German agent – me – has landed in Britain and is awaiting further instructions. Even if they guess I'm a phoney, they'll still want to see who I am, but I think we can pull it off. I'd need a lot more information if I was going to pretend to be a German agent for any length of time, but it should be all right for a couple of hours.' He looked at Sir Charles. ‘It might give us the break we've been looking for.'

‘You're a brave man, Brooke,' muttered Sir Charles. He swallowed. ‘A damn brave man.' He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘You do know this is dangerous?'

Anthony nodded. ‘Of course I know. You said we were up against something evil. That's not a word you use lightly.'

‘No,' said Sir Charles. ‘No, it's not.' Relief showed in his eyes. ‘It's a chance. My God, it's a real chance. We'll have to think up a credible place for you to stay and a credible character for you to be. It won't take long to put the word out that you've arrived.' He gave a little grunt of annoyance. ‘What about the inquest?'

‘I'll have to go,' said Anthony after a few moments' thought. ‘If I don't, it'll be noted, and we might as well tell the enemy I'm engaged elsewhere.'

‘Fair enough,' agreed Sir Charles. ‘Now, what name shall we give you?'

L
ate on Friday evening, John Robinson, a tall, soldierly-looking man with dark hair greying at the temples, disembarked from the
Maid Of Orford.

The
Maid Of Orford,
a little tub of a boat, regularly plied between the Hook of Holland and Harwich and had, on this trip, been carrying a mixed cargo of lard, chair legs, tallow, stair rods and, as a seeming afterthought, four passengers.

John Robinson had, as the other passengers knew, been in Holland and the Low Countries, buying pigs' bristles for artists' oil brushes. What John Robinson – not so obvious a name as John Smith but still commonplace enough for a German to think of as typically English – knew about artists' oil brushes he owed to an intensive couple of hours with Nathaniel Burgh of Minsmere and Burgh, Artists' Requisites, on Wednesday morning. He had been more than happy to share his knowledge with the other passengers on the
Maid Of Orford.

The trip to the Hook of Holland for the express purpose of bouncing back across the North Sea in a wallowing tramp cargo boat had been Anthony's idea. Not that he thought of himself as Anthony Brooke anymore. He was Günther Hedtke of Kiel, a German explosives expert pretending to be John Robinson of London. If his vowels were slightly too clipped and his manners rather too formal, that was Hedtke's personality showing through. Anthony had begun to be quite fond of Günther Hedtke in the short time he had known him.

He booked in the Ocean Hotel and waited.

The busy Ocean Hotel was, he thought as he drank a glass of watery wartime beer in the bar that evening, a good choice. Most of the men in the bar were in groups of twos and threes but there were a couple of solitary drinkers.

A thin man in a drab raincoat interested him. There was a pianist in the bar, entertaining the crowd with a selection of sentimental modern songs and ragtime, but the thin man, although he sat near the piano and had the newspaper spread out before him, didn't seem to be reading or listening to the music. Oddly enough, the newspaper was open at today's stirring account of an ‘Intrepid Briton's Adventures in the Heart of the Kaiser's Empire'
.
He, thought Anthony, looked promising.

Waiting until the solitary man had nearly finished his beer, he drained his glass and went to the bar. With a prickle of anticipation he saw the solitary man stand up and, empty glass in hand, come to the bar. The jostle the solitary man gave him seemed reasonably natural in the crowd, but it wasn't.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,' said the solitary man.

Anthony politely – perhaps too politely for an Englishman – said it was of no consequence. Contact established.

The solitary man looked over his shoulder at the pianist. ‘I wish he'd play some of the old songs,' said the solitary man, and paused expectantly. His voice had the nasal twang of a Liverpool accent.

Anthony swore under his breath. That was a cue if he'd ever heard one. Sir Charles had told him the signs and countersigns that were known to be currently in use, but there were no songs among them. The best he could do was pretend not to have twigged and hope for the best.

The solitary man waited, a slight frown creasing his forehead. ‘You know, something with a real tune to it,' he prompted.

Anthony smiled politely.

‘An Irish song, perhaps?'

There were hundreds of Irish songs. Anthony continued to smile.

‘Like
The Minstrel Boy
?' suggested the solitary man.

It was as well Anthony's mind was running on songs and Irish songs, at that. He supplied the next line quickly. ‘
To the war has gone,
in the ranks of death you'll find him.
'

The Liverpudlian's face cleared. ‘I thought you were never going to get it. How about joining me for a drink?'

‘My apologies,' Anthony muttered quietly as they sat down at the table by the piano. ‘It was very natural, very good, the way you introduced yourself. For the moment I did not realize.'

‘You'll have to be a bit quicker off the mark next time,' said the man in a low voice. ‘It's lucky I saw you come in on the boat. Otherwise I might just have walked away. You're for London. The big one. If it comes off,' he added unexpectedly.

‘Wednesday? The fourteenth?' suggested Anthony.

‘That's the one,' agreed the man. ‘You'll be contacted next Tuesday.'

‘That is a long time,' said Anthony, making his disappointment evident. In one way it suited him very well indeed, as the inquest on Veronica O'Bryan was fixed for Monday, but he was conscious of time slipping away.

The man shrugged. ‘It can't be helped. The boss has got something else on. We don't need you till the day itself. We can pull this off alone, but expert help is always welcome, I suppose. Stay in the hotel and make yourself useful. There's a lot of shipping in and out of the docks but don't draw attention to yourself.'

‘I am here to make things go with a bang, yes?' said Anthony carefully. ‘That is a good way of putting it?'

The man grinned. ‘It's a very good way. But listen, Mr Robinson –' Anthony had not introduced himself – ‘if you'll be guided by me, you'll not talk to too many strangers. You speak English very well but you've got a way of saying things that might arouse attention.'

‘That is good advice,' agreed Anthony, enunciating the words carefully.

The man raised his eyebrows and finished his drink in a few gulps. ‘I'm off. Don't stand up as I go. It's not necessary. The chances are you'll bow and click your heels,' he added, more to himself than Anthony.

Anthony looked crestfallen. ‘No, this I will not do. It is not the custom here.'

‘Just watch who you're speaking to,' the man advised. ‘See you, Mr Robinson.' The man stood up, put on his cap, and left.

Anthony sat back. He gave an inward sigh of relief but he was careful not to show too much satisfaction. After all, you never knew who was watching.

The rest of the weekend passed without incident. As Mr Robinson, Anthony stayed quietly at the hotel, ate, slept, walked round the town and noted the shipping in the harbour.

In the very early hours of Monday morning, he departed for London and his club, from where he emerged as Anthony Brooke, complete with uniform, to catch the train to Swayling to give evidence at Veronica O'Bryan's inquest.

The inquest was held at Swayling Assembly Rooms in the middle of the village. To his relief, there were no cameras and precious few reporters. Sherston was in a position to curb the enthusiasm of the gentlemen of Fleet Street.

It was as he was going up the steps into the Assembly Rooms that Anthony felt a definite sense of unease. He stopped and glanced round the crowd, but they were, as far as he could see, only locals.

Nevertheless, as the inquest got under way, his unease grew. Maybe, he thought, as he took the stand and, in answer to the coroner's question, affirmed his identity, it was nothing more than having to declare in public exactly who he was and where he lived. Maybe it was the heart-wrenching sight of Josette, so near and yet so remote, her face strained with nerves. She seemed to be finding the proceedings even more difficult than Tara, whose determined bravery in recounting the discovery of her mother's body won the immediate sympathy of the coroner, courtroom and jury. Maybe – but he didn't quite believe it.

Tara conducted herself with great dignity.
The daughter and only child of the deceased.
That was how she was described.

Only child? There was the little girl in the photograph with ‘To Mummy' written across it. Her solemn eyes tugged a chord of memory. Was she really Tara's half-sister? Perhaps, thought Anthony, dissatisfied. She looked an engaging sort of kid, the little girl in the photograph. He'd always liked kids. He'd love to see her smile. Maybe then he would see the resemblance that he frustratingly couldn't sharpen into focus.

The inquest brought in the predictable verdict of wilful murder against Cedric Chapman. Anthony was making his way out of the Assembly Rooms, when his sense of danger flared. He stopped dead. At the back of the crowd was a flurry of movement. At that precise moment Sherston caught up with him and took him by the elbow.

‘Can we offer you some refreshment up at the house, my dear fellow?'

‘Thank you,' said Anthony abstractedly. ‘Yes, thank you very much.'

A little way up the street, walking away very rapidly, Anthony saw the back of a man. As he turned the corner, Anthony could see he was tall and stiff-shouldered, dressed in a dark topcoat and carrying a black stick with a glint of silver at the handle. Under his soft hat Anthony could have sworn he saw a glimpse of fair hair.

Anthony tried to break through the crowd, but the throng on the pavement was too great.

‘Is there something wrong?' asked Sherston.

Anthony reluctantly turned back with a shrug of disappointment. ‘It's nothing. I thought I saw someone I recognized.'

So he'd been watched. Well, Cedric Chapman had known enough about him to search his rooms, and the fair-haired man was, he had guessed, Chapman's boss. It wasn't remarkable that he should be observed but he still didn't like it.

‘You must be mistaken, Colonel,' said Josette. ‘Anyone who recognized you would've spoken to you, surely?'

Sherston ushered them both towards the waiting car where they stood, waiting for Tara. Sherston looked dissatisfied. ‘I'm glad the inquest's over, but I can't say I'm much wiser. I still can't work out why Veronica was in Ticker's Wood.'

‘Do stop, Patrick!' said Josette sharply. She looked at Anthony apologetically. ‘I'm sorry, Colonel, but we've gone over this endlessly. I don't know how poor Tara has coped.' She gave them both a warning glance as Tara approached. ‘There you are, my dear.'

‘What an absolute waste of time!' said Tara. ‘I still don't know why my mother was killed.'

‘Tara, don't!' pleaded Josette with a shudder. ‘You mustn't brood about it. It can't be good for you.'

Tara, pale and heavy-eyed, put her hand on Josette's arm. ‘Maybe it isn't, but I find it easier to face things, rather than ignoring them.'

‘But you can't
do
anything,' said Josette, sympathetically.

Tara squeezed her arm. ‘You are sweet, Josette,' she said seriously. ‘Both you and Uncle Patrick couldn't have been more thoughtful. I know you hate anything violent, and I do appreciate your kindness. We won't talk about it if you'd rather not. Perhaps it is better that way.'

Josette looked relived. As they settled into the car, she hunted round for another topic of conversation. ‘Colonel, have you seen the articles in the
Sentinel
? The ones about you, I mean?'

‘They've caused an absolute sensation,' said Sherston proudly. ‘I've rarely known anything like it. By jingo, Colonel, if anyone had the slightest idea that you were the man all the fuss is about, even I couldn't have kept the press away from the inquest. Have you seen the German Town we're building? That's drawing in crowds already and it isn't finished yet.'

Once started, he happily talked about the Town and the
Sentinel
all the way to Starhanger. It was a relief when Anthony, pleading a train to catch, could finally slip away.

It was getting on for dusk when he arrived back at the Ocean Hotel, a golden evening, with the sun catching the clouds in pinks and blues in the big East Anglian sky. As far as he could tell, no one on the journey from Swayling to London had evinced any interest in him or, thank goodness, Günther Hedtke (alias John Robinson) as he went on from Liverpool Street Station to Harwich.

The evening really was lovely, thought Anthony as he walked back from the station, far too pleasant to stay in the bar of the hotel.

He'd picked up a paper at the station and, sitting on the sea wall at Dovercourt, he turned to the latest breathless account of his doings.