Frankie's Letter (32 page)

‘It might be as well, don't you think?'

She shuddered. ‘Good luck.'

Anthony went onto the terrace and, taking his pipe from his pocket, walked slowly round the garden at the back of the house. He should, he knew, be thinking of James Smith but just for the moment he was more interested in Tara.

He was worried about Tara's reactions. That child in the photograph meant something to her, but what? Could it possibly be
her
child? Almost as soon as he'd asked himself the question, he'd dismissed it. Not only was the little girl in the photograph too old to be Tara's child, but Tara had been puzzled by the photograph, not frightened, as she would be if it were a guilty secret of her own she was concealing.

So was it Veronica O'Bryan's child? Tara could know all about it. Naturally enough, she wouldn't want to tell him. Her mother had precious little reputation left, but Tara could want to salvage whatever remnants she could.

His walk took him round to the stables and he stood for a moment by the whitewashed walls. The inside of the stable-block was quiet. All the horses were out to grass at this time of year. He slipped into the stable block and stood for a few minutes in the dusty light.

There was a collection of straps, hats and tackle on a shelf at the far end of the stable and, underneath the shelf, hanging from hooks, a couple of old hacking jackets. Something about the jackets bothered him. There was the clip-clopping of hooves on the cobbles in the yard outside and Kindred, the groom, called, close at hand.

It took that moment of distraction for a memory to click into place and his suspicions to flare. From his wallet he took the blue-grey thread he had picked from the brambles in Ticker's Wood, the day he had found Veronica O'Bryan's body, and placed it against one of the jackets.

It was a perfect match.

Biting down hard on his pipe-stem, he put the thread back in his wallet. The jacket, although old, was a fine quality tweed, a lady's coat. He could see the rough patch on the sleeve where the threads had been pulled.

There was the sound of hobnailed boots and Kindred came into the stables. ‘Afternoon, sir,' he said placidly. ‘Were you wanting a horse?'

‘No thanks,' said Anthony. ‘Kindred, who does this jacket belong to?'

Kindred peered at the jacket. ‘That's an old one of Miss Tara's, sir. She keeps it here to be handy, so to speak. She often takes one of the horses out first thing and she dresses very workmanlike, knowing that she's going to be all alone, as you might say. It wouldn't do for some ladies but Miss Tara's got a fine, independent spirit. She'd rather ride by herself than in company. She knows the country for miles around like the back of her hand. You've only just missed her, sir. She's going out this afternoon. I've just been getting Moondancer in from the paddock for her.'

Anthony put the jacket back on the peg. Tara had been in Ticker's Wood. It was Tara who had left the thread on the brambles, Tara who had so convincingly been near to fainting when they had found the body, Tara who had so cleverly carried the war into the enemy's camp by accusing him of murdering her mother. His stomach twisted.

Tara had got him
to tell her about James Smith
.

A blistering anger filled him. Tara had lied about the photograph and she had lied about her mother. He should have remembered Veronica was Tara's mother. Now she was off to hunt Josette. He had a suspicion that she'd know exactly where to find her. And he'd told Tara O'Bryan exactly who he was and what he was doing. He nodded to Kindred, not wanting to trust his voice and walked swiftly round to the trees edging the garden.

His first thought had been to wait for Tara, but what then? He couldn't restrain her by force and one word from her would bring the servants to her aid. What he wanted to do was get to Smith. Tara, he decided, could wait. However, what he could do was warn Cooke.

He stood by the line of trees and called softly. This time there was no answer. Anthony tried again, but the only sounds were those of the wind in the trees. He skirted round the trees, whistling. There was no response. With a little knot of anxiety in his stomach, Anthony walked round the bulk of the house towards the gates. Sticking out from the bushes was a shoe. Anthony walked forward softly, fearing a trap.

In a few minutes he pulled Bedford's body out from under the bushes. Thank God, he was still alive, but he had a huge lump on the side of his head and he'd obviously been in a fight. Anthony tried to get him to wake up but he was out cold. He'd been coshed.

Anthony's lips set in a grim line. There was only one man he'd come across recently who used a cosh and that was the chauffeur. He crouched beside Bedford and looked among the trees. There was another grey bundle in the wood about a hundred yards away. It was Cooke. He, too, had been coshed.

Anthony knelt by Cooke's body. It was one thing to calmly wait for Smith, knowing that Cooke and Bedford were watching his every move. It was quite another to put himself at the mercy of a ruthless killer when he was alone. The chauffeur must be close by.

As quietly as he could, he made his way through the trees to the high brick wall of Starhanger. Choosing a likely-looking tree, he swung himself up into the branches and stealthily climbed high enough to look over the wall.

He pulled back into the shelter of the branches. Not more than ten yards away stood a big green car, a tourer with its hood raised. The chauffeur and a second man were leaning against the car, smoking cigarettes. The second man wasn't Smith but a dark-haired man in a brown suit, someone he had never seen before.

Their voices were low and Anthony inched himself along the branch, trying to get close enough to overhear. He caught the word ‘woman', and the chauffeur laughed. The branch had grown out over the wall, part of it resting on the brick coping stones. Again Anthony pulled himself forward. From his vantage point above their heads, he saw the man in the brown suit look at his watch and throw away his cigarette. ‘It's about time . . .' he said, when the branch creaked ominously.

The two men looked round. Anthony tried to pull back before they looked up, slipped, put his weight on a rotten branch and, with a rending crack from the tree, fell heavily into the muddy ditch, in a welter of leaves, twigs and rotten wood.

‘Bloody
hell
!' yelled the chauffeur.

In an explosion of movement, the chauffeur hurtled himself towards Anthony.

Winded from the fall, Anthony, his ribs in agony from his returning breath, managed to pull himself away. The chauffeur's hands reached out for him, but Anthony moved once more and the chauffeur grasped air and twigs. Half in and out of the ditch, Anthony reached out and held onto the polished leather of the chauffeur's boot and brought him crashing down into the ditch beside him.

Still on his knees, Anthony made a wild grab. The chauffeur rolled to one side, struggling like a maniac. Some of those blows from his flailing fists and kicking feet went home, but Anthony shook them off, desperately trying to land one piledriving punch. He seized the chauffeur by the front of his uniform, raised him up, his right hand clenched into a fist.

Anthony saw his eyes widen, waiting for the punch, then a searing pain blasted his left shoulder as a shot rang out. He fell away, rolling back into the ditch.

The other man was by the car, gun in hand. ‘Get him!' he yelled.

The chauffeur picked himself up, straightened his tunic and lunged at Anthony with murder in his eyes.

From somewhere in the distance came a shout, the crack of a whip and the sound of wheels and horse's hooves. Sprawled on the edge of the ditch, Anthony could see a horse and cart, the driver whipping the horse into a canter, rattling down the road towards them. The driver shouted, his words lost over the racket of the cart.

The man by the car looked round wildly. ‘Leave it!' he shouted. ‘Come on!'

The chauffeur stopped, drew back his foot and landed a kick in Anthony's ribs. For a second or so everything went black. Lights scratched jagged lines of pain in his head, then there was the sound of swearing, a revving engine and Anthony felt a hand on his collar.

He opened his eyes and saw the carter bending over him, hauling him out of the ditch. Anthony made a vague gesture with his hand – he was halfway to being strangled – and, raising himself on his elbow, managed to get unsteadily to his feet.

The car was already some distance away, a cloud of dust marking its passage.

The carter, a big man, stood back. ‘Was that a gun?' he said incredulously. Anthony nodded, unable, for the moment, to speak. ‘A real gun? A pistol, I mean?' Anthony still couldn't speak.

‘You need a doctor,' said the carter. ‘The police will have to know too, I reckon. Who were they?'

Anthony didn't want a doctor and he certainly didn't want the police. And, although the carter had been useful, he didn't want him, either. All he wanted was to get his hands first of all on the chauffeur and then on James Smith. He straightened up and took a deep, gasping breath.

‘It's all right,' he said to the carter's obvious incredulity. ‘The gun wasn't real. I'm an actor. We were trying out a scene for a film.'

‘A film?' echoed the carter. ‘Moving pictures, like?'

‘Yes,' said Anthony, brushing twigs and leaves off his clothes with his right hand. His left arm, the same arm that had been injured before, felt like a block of wood. ‘It's a spy story about the war,' he said. ‘Mr Sherston's making it.'

At the mention of Sherston's name, the carter's face cleared. ‘It should be a good film,' he said. ‘It looked real, so it did.'

Anthony laughed dismissively. ‘No, but if the fight was real, I'd have been very grateful to you. I think I'll put the bit where you save me into the film.' He felt in his pocket and drew out two half-crowns. ‘Here you are. Thanks very much.'

The carter shrugged and took the money. ‘Thank you, sir. And you say it's a film?'

‘That's right,' said Anthony, removing leaves from his hair and forcing a smile. He cast a look downwards. ‘We're thinking of calling it
Ditched
!'

The carter looked at him uncomprehendingly, then at the ditch by the side of the road, and suddenly threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘
Ditched
! That's a good one, that. Wait till I tell everyone about that.
Ditched
!'

Still laughing he went back to the horse, climbed back up to his seat, jiggled the reins and slowly clopped away.

Anthony watched him go, the sound of the horse's hooves gradually fading into silence. He moved his left arm tentatively and winced. The bone hadn't been touched, thank God, but the muscle was damaged. His ribs were incredibly sore. He was desperate to follow the car but his arm was screaming for attention.

He managed to pull off his jacket. The bullet had creased his biceps and his sleeve was wet with blood. He thought of going back to the house for help but all he wanted to do was follow that bloody chauffeur and his car.

His shirtsleeve was ripped already and he tore the fabric off. Using his teeth and his good hand he managed to make a passable bandage with his handkerchief. He draped his jacket round his shoulders to cover his arm – he didn't want to have to explain myself to any kindly passer-by – and set out to follow the car.

He was alone. Cooke and Bedford would take a long time to recover and he didn't have a clue where Parkinson was. In the meantime he had a fresh trail to follow.

F
or about a mile there was no turning in the road. He should, Anthony realized, after walking for ten minutes or so, have left some sort of note for Cooke and Bedford, but he couldn't face the thought of going back. He trudged along, gradually recovering his strength. There was a horse-trough on the road fed by a spring and Anthony had a rudimentary wash.

He plunged his head into the clear water, taking off the worst of the dirt and the mud. It would take more than a wash to make him feel better but it did him a lot of good. He could feel his arm stiffening and, gritting his teeth, forced himself to move the damaged muscles.

Then came a choice. The road proper continued on, but a cart track stretched off to the right. It wound off between the trees, dark underneath the overhanging branches. It looked little used. Anthony followed it for a few yards, looking intently at the ground. After a few minutes' walk he was rewarded with a fresh tyre-track in the red clay soil.

A little further and he saw where the bank had been scraped by something large. Crushed grass-stems and cow parsley hung forlornly, but the flowers on the cow parsley were still fresh. They had been broken very recently. Less than ten minutes later the track widened out into a clearing.

He crouched down behind some shrubby undergrowth. Before him stood a cottage with its door open and, to the side of the cottage, was the big green tourer.

The clearing was deserted but, from the open door of the cottage, he could hear the murmur of voices. The place looked as if it'd been abandoned for years.

Tiles hung off the roof, the glass in three of the windows was smashed and the lean-to privy at the side stood with its door hanging drunkenly from broken hinges. What had been a kitchen garden was overgrown with nettles, loosestrife, brambles and scrubby trees, surrounded by a low, broken wall.

The only people he could imagine finding shelter here were passing tramps, glad of any sort of protection from the elements.

He shrank back into the bushes as the chauffeur and the man in the brown suit came out of the cottage door. They had mugs in their hands and they were both smoking cigarettes.

‘Please God we don't have to spend the night here,' said the brown-suited man, taking a drink from his mug. From his accent, he was from Belfast. He pulled a face. ‘Why didn't you bring sugar? I can't abide tea without sugar.'