Frankie's Letter (29 page)

Anthony looked away, chilled. He'd taken risks, of course, but they were necessary. To trail a broken wing across the path of a cold-blooded killer was a very different matter. He remembered how deliberately Smith had taken aim and fired at him in the Daimler, how he'd brushed Warren out of the way, the icily precise preparations he'd made to kill young Greenwood and how he'd executed Chapman on a crowded tram platform. To say he wasn't scared was ridiculous; of course he was. However, Sir Charles was right. As long as Smith was at large, he would always be looking over his shoulder.

He took a deep breath, looked up and met Sir Charles's eyes squarely. ‘All right. I'll be the bait. What do I do?'

‘Go back to Starhanger,' suggested Sir Charles. ‘After all, I think there's a good chance there's still something to be discovered there.'

‘Putting it plainly, you think Sherston is in touch with James Smith? And that if I turn up, James Smith will follow?'

‘It's a possibility.' Sir Charles lit a cigarette. ‘As far as the public knows, Veronica O'Bryan was murdered by Chapman, but the reason for her murder is as mysterious as ever. As the one who found the body, you've got every reason to be interested in Mrs O'Bryan's murder. What's to stop you getting in touch with Sherston, telling him you're curious, and want to investigate further? If we're right, I bet he'll invite you to Starhanger like a shot.'

Anthony thought for a moment. ‘I think you're right. Yes, that would work.' And it probably would work. What he couldn't tell Sir Charles – what he shied from admitting to himself – was how much he both wanted and flinched from being near Josette. While he stayed away from Josette, he could keep his head. Near her, he didn't trust himself and it hurt like hell.

‘You won't be alone, Brooke,' urged Sir Charles. He'd seen his hesitation and misinterpreted it. ‘I'll have men nearby to keep watch.'

‘That's reassuring,' said Anthony matter-of-factly, glad for once of Sir Charles's lack of insight. ‘It'll be good to have support, but how do I get in touch with them? Sherston may invite me, but he won't invite your guard dogs.'

‘No. They'd better stay in the village inn.' Sir Charles thought for a moment. ‘What about the boathouse? You could leave a message under the seats.'

‘There's an old canoe lashed to the wall,' suggested Anthony. ‘I can leave a message in that and vice versa.'

‘That'll do. Well, what d'you think?'

‘Have I got any choice?' asked Anthony. ‘Either I go to Starhanger and keep my eyes open or I wait for James Smith to nab me when I'm off my guard.' He finished his whisky and stood up. ‘I'm going back to the club.' He yawned. ‘I know I slept most of yesterday, but I wouldn't mind a bit more rest. Let me know when you've organized your guard dogs and I'll get in touch with Sherston.'

‘I'll speak to you soon,' promised Sir Charles, seeing him to the door.

They spoke sooner than Sir Charles had anticipated. Less than half an hour after leaving Cockspur Street, Anthony telephoned. ‘Talbot? There was a letter for me at the club. It arrived this morning. Sherston's invited me to Starhanger.'

Sir Charles was silent for a moment. ‘That sounds suspiciously like a trap.'

‘I thought so too,' agreed Anthony. ‘Make sure I've got good guard dogs, Talbot. I think I'll need them.'

‘I must apologize, Colonel,' said Sherston over the apple charlotte at dinner that evening. ‘I hoped to be able to take a few days off, but I have to go to London tomorrow.'

‘Oh Patrick, you promised,' said Josette reproachfully.

‘I'll be back in the evening, my dear,' said Sherston. ‘It can't be helped, I'm afraid.' He looked at Anthony. ‘In the meantime, my dear chap, I would be very grateful if you could look into poor Veronica's death.'

Anthony cast a quick look at Tara, wondering if she'd care to have her mother's death discussed so openly round the dinner table.

She caught his look. ‘I want to know why it happened, Colonel. The police are certain Cedric Chapman killed my mother, but I want to know why.'

‘I wish we didn't have to discuss it,' said Josette irritably. ‘We've done nothing but ask the same questions endlessly.'

Tara looked surprised. ‘But you want to know just as much as we do, Josette. It was you who suggested Colonel Brooke might like to look into the matter.'

‘That was to put an end to this ceaseless speculation,' said Josette. She looked at Anthony apologetically. ‘I'm sorry, but we've talked about nothing else ever since it happened.' She looked at the butler. ‘Vyse, you can clear away now.'

As if to make up for her abruptness, she gave Anthony a consciously friendly smile, adding, with a glance at her husband, ‘I'm not going to let you monopolize Colonel Brooke over the port, Patrick. I want to show him the rose garden while there's still light enough to see.' She stood up and put a hand on Sherston's shoulder. ‘We'll have our coffee in the drawing room afterwards.'

Anthony stood up and, seeing it was expected, offered Josette his arm. He was keeping a tight grip on his emotions.

With her arm in his, they strolled into the gathering dusk of the rose garden. It was a little way from the house, laid out with grass walks and sheltered by a dark belt of trees, the rich smell of roses filling the evening air. The sun had dipped below the horizon and the bats had started their jerky night-time dance. Josette led him to a seat surrounded by an arch of flowers.

‘Please smoke, Colonel, if you want to,' she said, sitting down. She smiled at him hesitantly. ‘I want to talk to you and I thought this was the best place.'

It was a wonderful place, but between the smell of the roses and the nearness of Josette, he was finding it difficult to think. There was something else, too. He couldn't quite place it, but he felt as if this had been staged, as if what should have been a private moment was somehow a public performance.

He lit a cigar and took a deep breath of smoke, trying to clear his mind. As he looked at Josette, he didn't see a very lovely woman but a very anxious one.

‘You're worried,' he said gently. ‘Why?'

Josette took a deep breath. ‘Ever since Veronica died we've talked about nothing else. I'm very sorry for Tara but it's hard to be sorry in the right way. Tara's so strong-minded and so clear-headed she seems ruthless at times. I . . . I don't know if she really loved Veronica. That's wrong, isn't it?'

‘Did Veronica love Tara?'

‘Of course she did! She was her mother. I wish Veronica had been nicer. It would be easier to be sorry then, but she wasn't nice at all. She hated me. Patrick doesn't understand how much Veronica hated me. She stored up resentment and would never forgive or forget. God help anyone she ever took against.'

She clearly meant herself. Anthony thought he could guess why Veronica O'Bryan resented Josette so much. After all, Veronica had ruled the roost for years and to have Sherston's beautiful new wife thrown into the mix must have upset the apple cart good and proper. That could be more or less taken as read. However, there was someone else Veronica had her knife into and he wondered exactly what Josette knew.

‘She disliked Terence Cavanaugh, didn't she?' he asked. ‘Why?'

Anthony thought she was going to faint. She started forward and he caught her from falling. ‘No,' she whispered. ‘I won't talk about him.' She shook herself free.

Anthony reached out. ‘Cavanaugh was my friend.'

She looked up at him. ‘Then . . .' She hesitated, then spoke in a rush. ‘You don't understand. Veronica didn't hate Terry. She loved him and he didn't love her. All her love turned to hate. She told Patrick it was all Terry's fault, that he had led her to believe he cared for her. Patrick was furious. I knew the truth and she hated me for knowing. I tried to tell Patrick but he wouldn't listen. He got angry. You don't know what a temper he has, but it's frightening sometimes. He didn't like me taking Terry's part.' She hesitated once more. ‘I've been scared. It's stupid, but I've been scared.'

It was dusk; she was beautiful; the smell of the roses and the scent of her perfume mingled in intoxicating closeness. She was a frightened woman and she turned to him. Anthony reached out his arms and she lent forward. Almost unconsciously he leaned forward to kiss her . . . and she screamed.

‘Look!' she yelped, pointing.

Anthony whirled in time to see a man disappear into the trees. He hurtled after him, thudding across the lawn. The man looked back, his face a white blur in the gloom.

It was James Smith's chauffeur. Anthony made a desperate leap, managed to get within a hand's breadth, grabbed out and caught his leg, sprawling into the leaves on the ground. The chauffeur kicked out, shaking off Anthony's grasping hand, and vanished into the wood. Three men burst out of the bushes across the lawn and plunged into the wood after him. Anthony got to his knees, staring after them, as the roar of a motorbike bit through the air.

He glanced at Josette. She was standing framed in the arch of roses, her hand to her mouth. ‘Who were those men?' she demanded. ‘Who were they?'

Anthony knew very well who they were. Their names were Bedford, Cooke and Parkinson, Sir Charles's watchdogs, but he could hardly tell her that. ‘Burglars?' he suggested.

Unbelievably and much to Anthony's relief, she bought it. ‘I must tell Patrick,' she said. She ignored the hand he held out to her. ‘Patrick will know what to do.'

She walked back into the house alone, leaving him in the darkening garden.

Anthony waited, looking after her, then turned back to the woods and gave a low whistle.

Bedford, Cooke and Parkinson emerged from the trees. ‘He got away, sir,' said Bedford in disgust. ‘He's been creeping about the place for around half an hour. When you and the lady came out he settled down to watch.'

‘Why didn't you arrest him?' snapped Anthony, his temper at fraying point.

Bedford shook his head. ‘We wanted to see what he'd do. We hoped he'd take us to Smith. He's the one we want.'

They were right; even though he was boiling with frustration, Anthony knew they were right. Smith
was
the one they wanted. With the chauffeur so close at hand the danger had been very real and he couldn't fault the men for keeping such an excellent watch. They should be congratulated but all he could really think of was that he'd been about to kiss Josette with the chauffeur, Bedford, Cooke and Parkinson as his audience. So much for romance. He felt an absolute fool.

Sherston insisted on calling out the menservants, arming them with shotguns and searching the grounds. Predictably, they found nothing and Anthony was hailed as a hero for dispatching four burglars single-handed.

He took the unmerited praise with as good a grace as he could muster. Although uncomfortable in his new role as strongman, he chose discretion as the better part of valour. Sherston might not like the idea of burglars, but Anthony thought he'd like the idea of his gardens as the rendezvous for secret service men and enemy agents even less. It was a relief when Sherston finally finished chasing imaginary crooks and, ensuring that all the doors were firmly barred, suggested the household retire to bed.

Once in his own room, Anthony's first thought was to open his window, lean out and take a few deep breaths. He stopped. Out there, despite the burglar hunt, and perhaps very close, was Smith and at least one of his men. Anthony didn't want to tell them which room he was in. Careful not to show himself against the light, he closed the curtains and retreated to the chair by the fireplace.

This couldn't go on. Smith had to be caught and he had to find out, once and for all, if Sherston was a friend or an enemy.

He stayed awake, listening and half-heartedly reading, as the house settled down for the night. Eventually the stairs stopped creaking and the noises in the corridor were stilled. From somewhere down below a grandfather clock softly marked the passage of time in mellow chimes.

It seemed a long time before the clock chimed twice. Silence wrapped the house like a blanket. He put on his pyjamas and dressing gown. If he was found creeping round in someone else's house in the dead of night, it would be a great deal easier to pretend he couldn't get off to sleep and needed a book to read if he wasn't fully clothed.

Torch in pocket, he stood behind his bedroom door, listening, before slipping out into the corridor. Keeping to the side of the stairs – he didn't want them to creak – he walked down into the moonlit hall and along to Sherston's study.

The door was locked but, to his surprise, the key was in the lock. He wouldn't need the bunch of picklocks in his dressing-gown pocket.

The moonlight shining through the study window was very bright, making deep pools of sharp-edged blackness. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for but hoped that somewhere in this room would be a note, a message, some record of contact between Sherston and the enemy.

Sherston was, Anthony knew, a methodical man and, at a guess, would keep his notes at home rather than his office in Sherston House. It was probably safer here than in his London office. As far as he knew, Sherston and his secretary were the only people who came in the study.

The walls of the study were lined with box files. A whole section concerned the house and estate but the ones which interested him were the press files, each labelled with a name of a newspaper or magazine.

The
Sentinel
, Sherston's flagship paper, had four boxes, which were, according to the notes on the spine of the files, split between a record of contributors and their specialities, a note of special features the paper had run, circulation figures arranged by region and an account of money paid and received. Anthony guessed these papers would be duplicated at Sherston House together with more extensive records. He was looking at information Sherston needed at his fingertips. It was a digest of his entire business.