Frankie's Letter (5 page)

There were two soldiers on duty at the gates. They saluted as he walked through. So far so good . . . ‘Who is the senior officer present?' Anthony barked at them.

‘Major Stabbert, sir.'

He nodded curtly and strode on. He might have to talk to the major, or perhaps, with a bit of luck, he could pull this off alone.

The tide was in, the dark water slopping against the quayside. That meant there should be at least one ship getting ready to sail. He walked along the wet cobbles, feeling a stab of joy as he saw the black bulk of a steamer, its funnel pumping out heavy gusts of smoke. A dockhand stood by a bollard, ready to cast off the hawser.

‘
Halt
!' Anthony commanded in his best Imperial Army voice.

The dockhand stopped, coming respectfully to attention as he saw an Oberstleutnant approach. ‘Yes, sir?'

‘This ship. Where is it going?'

‘She's for Korsor, sir. Zealand,' he added helpfully.

Korsor! Perfect! If he could get to Korsor, he'd be safe in Denmark and as good as home. All he had to do was get on board.

‘Lower the gangplank.'

The dockhand stared at him. ‘Lower the gangplank, sir? But . . .'

‘I want to go to Korsor,' Anthony snapped. ‘Lower the gangplank.' He was an Oberstleutnant in the German Army, albeit on a very temporary commission, and no one was going to stop
him.

The dockhand looked bewildered. Further up the quay, Anthony could see a group of soldiers and decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘You there!' he shouted to the sergeant in charge of the soldiers. ‘Bring Major Stabbert to me immediately. Leave that rope alone,' he snarled at the dockhand.

A sailor looked over the side of the ship, some fifteen feet above. ‘What's the delay?' he called. The dockhand shrugged.

Major Stabbert hurried up, slowing as he saw Anthony beside the ship. ‘You wanted me, sir?'

Anthony looked at him imperiously. ‘I am Oberstleutnant von Falkenhayn.'

‘Von Falkenhayn!' gasped the major.

Anthony smiled in a wintry sort of way. ‘I bear the same name as my uncle.'

He could see the major gulping. The nephew of the Chief of Staff was not someone to be treated lightly. If he was going to bluff, he might as well make it a good one. ‘I have urgent state business to Korsor. Secret business, you understand? It is important I leave at once. Command the captain to lower the gangplank.'

‘But sir . . .' stuttered the major.

Anthony glared at him. ‘Are you questioning my orders, Major?'

‘No, sir!' The major looked up to the ship. ‘You there! Lower the gangplank at once.'

There was a bustle and shouted orders on board.

‘There seems to be a lot of activity tonight,' Anthony said with gracious condescension as the gangplank came over the side of the ship.

‘Yes, sir. We are looking for an English spy.'

‘Two English spies,' Anthony corrected. He might as well cover his retreat while he had the chance. ‘I heard something of the matter. He has a companion with him. I trust you will manage to capture him.'

‘We will, sir.'

‘He's a clever man, Major. You need to be on your guard.' The gangplank was nearly secured. ‘You know he evaded us once before? The road was blocked and guards posted. He waited until a patrol had gone through, then approached the guards. “After that patrol,” he said. “The spy is with them.” Naturally, the officer in charge sent a detail after the patrol and the spy offered to lead them. I regret to say the spy made good his escape and the officer is an officer no longer. Be careful, Major, if you capture him. He is very plausible.'

‘I will, sir.'

Anthony walked up the gangplank and the major snapped to attention.

‘Cast off,' Anthony commanded as soon as his feet touched the deck. ‘I will talk to the captain later.'

The steamer pulled slowly away from the quay.

Anthony had to fight a huge desire to laugh. Already they were over a hundred yards away from the quay and the bluff – the outrageous bluff – had worked. He leaned over the ship's rail and grinned.

Two men, one wearing nothing but a coat and with his bare feet clearly visible, had come on to the quay surrounded by soldiers.

It was partly ordinary common sense, he knew, but there was a streak of sheer mischief which made him cup his hands round his mouth. ‘Major Stabbert! That's the English spy! Don't let him get away!'

Von Hagen gave a howl of protest, jabbing his finger at the departing ship.

To Anthony's intense joy, he saw the soldiers around von Hagen bring their rifles to the ready. Denmark, neutral Denmark, was eight hours away, he was safely on board and von Hagen had been arrested by his own men. There was only one more thing he had to think of. It was unlikely on a ship this size, but . . .

He turned and walked along the deck, stopping the first sailor he saw. ‘You there! Take me to the wireless room.'

‘We don't have wireless, sir,' said the sailor.

Anthony hid his delight behind a frown. ‘In that case, I will speak to the captain now.'

‘Yes, sir!'

Really, thought Anthony, the way everyone jumped to his orders was wonderful. The German army might have its faults, but in many ways it was an excellent institution.

A
nthony walked across Trafalgar Square and turned into Cockspur Street. If he hadn't been so tired he would have enjoyed his walk. For some reason Cockspur Street was the home to most of the steamship companies in London and the destinations on the travel posters in the windows – Melbourne, Valparaiso, Cape Town, Lisbon, Karachi and Bombay – transformed this tall, smoke-blackened row of sandstone buildings into a magical doorway to travel and adventure. Not that, he reflected with a wry smile, his life had been exactly lacking in travel or adventure. In fact, just recently, he'd had quite enough to be going on with.

He was looking for the General and Commercial Steam Navigation Company Ltd., or, to be exact, the office above it. He plunged down Angel Alley, a narrow cobbled passage that ran between the shipping office and the Westminster Coke Company, and came to an unobtrusive green painted door marked by a brass plate.

W. Gabriel Monks. Export Agent.

He smiled in recognition. W. Gabriel Monks, strictly speaking, didn't exist. When Sir Charles Talbot, Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, had retired from his post five years ago, the newspapers had reported his farewell dinner and the gift of a handsomely inscribed gold watch, and noted that Sir Charles would be taking up a position in what was vaguely described as either Whitehall or the Home Office to administer police pensions. The dinner and the watch were correct, but Sir Charles's subsequent career had nothing to do with pensions.

He pulled the bell. There was the clatter of feet on the stairs and the door was opened, not, as Anthony had expected, by Sir Charles, but an extraordinarily elegant middle-aged man with silver-grey hair, high cheekbones, piercing blue eyes and perfectly tailored clothes, who looked as if he might be an archbishop or a cabinet minister.

Anthony blinked at this vision. His first impression was immediately overlaid by a second. Although the man looked all right, there was something artificial about him. He was so perfect he was like an archbishop on the stage, rather than a clergyman in real life.

The archbishop, taking in Anthony's dirty, ill-fitting clothes, greasy cap and grimy, unshaven face, regarded him coldly. ‘Can I help you?'

‘I want to see Mr Monks,' said Anthony, then, before the man could protest, added, ‘I've got a cargo for him.'

The man's eyebrows rose. ‘I see.' He smoothed back his hair and added in beautifully modulated but reluctant tones, ‘I suppose you'd better come upstairs.'

He stepped aside to let Anthony enter the tiny hall. Anthony was prepared to bet the words, ‘Wipe your feet!' were trembling on his lips. With a disdainful glance, the archbishop led the way up the narrow staircase into a lobby on the landing and through a door.

Granted the modesty of the entrance, the office was large and very well appointed. The window, protected by bars, looked out onto Cockspur Street, letting in the fitful spring sunshine and the rumble of noise from the traffic below. Two men, evidently clerks, were working at a big oak desk which filled the middle of the room. The bookcases that covered three walls were lined with files and leather-bound volumes. A large safe stood beside the fireplace and on the desk were piles of papers, blotting pads, pens, inkwells and – surprisingly – no less than three telephones.

‘I'll tell Mr Monks you're here,' said the archbishop, crossing the room to another door. ‘What name shall I give?'

‘Brooke. Dr Anthony Brooke.'

He didn't have to knock at the door. Sir Charles Talbot – or, as he was known here, Mr Monks – could evidently hear what was being said in the outer office, flung the door open and hurried into the room.

‘Brooke!' he said, his hand outstretched. ‘My dear fellow, what on earth are you doing here? We knew something had gone badly wrong, but we've been starved of news.'

Anthony took his hand, moved by the other man's obvious pleasure. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the archbishop's discomfiture at the warmth of Sir Charles's greeting. ‘I thought it best not to say too much before I actually got here.'

‘I see.' Sir Charles turned to the elegant clerk. ‘Farlow, Dr Brooke and I have a lot to discuss. I don't want any interruptions unless it's really urgent. Use your judgement. Unless . . .' He paused, taking in Anthony's battered clothes. ‘Have you eaten? You look a bit worse for wear.'

It was typical, Anthony thought, of him to be concerned first about the man rather than the mission. ‘I feel a bit second-hand,' he said with a rueful smile, ‘but I had some breakfast on the boat. I arrived at Tilbury this morning. I could do with a bath and a shave, but that can wait.'

‘Are you certain about breakfast? Well, well, I'll let you be the judge of that.' Sir Charles led the way into his office and closed the door behind them. ‘Now,' he said, pulling out a chair for Anthony. ‘Sit down and tell me what you've been up to.'

Anthony relaxed gratefully into the armchair. The atmosphere of this inner office was that of a gentleman's club, quiet, unhurried and rich with green leather and dark wood. One of the few touches of modernity was a telephone and even that looked as if it would never do anything as strident as actually ring. From the half-open window the traffic was muted to a background hum. ‘Thanks,' he said. He jerked his thumb behind him. ‘All those clerks and what-have-you are new, aren't they? When I was here last there was just you and the office cat.'

‘The cat's still here,' said Sir Charles, ‘but yes, we've expanded.' He grinned. ‘They know me as Monks, by the way. Don't disillusion them.' He pushed the cigarette box towards Anthony. ‘Help yourself.'

Anthony took a cigarette. In one way it seemed impossible, in this incredibly civilized room, to convey the stomach-churning tension of Kiel, but although Sir Charles didn't look as if he'd understand, Anthony knew he would.

Anthony had first met Sir Charles a couple of years ago when they were fellow guests at the Benhams' house party. Anthony had taken to the plump, balding, good-natured man who always had a bounce in his step. He could imagine him as a well-to-do farmer, a cavalry general who loved his food, his horses and his troops, or a popular businessman, the sort who built ideal homes for his workers, or even, at a pinch, ‘mine host' in an old-fashioned coaching inn. Sir Charles was, as he said with a smile, actually a retired policeman who was now ‘something in Whitehall', and that was all Anthony knew.

They'd met at infrequent intervals afterwards and, although Anthony never thought about it, he later realized how much Sir Charles had learnt about him. He knew Anthony had been a student at Cambridge when, unexpectedly stony-broke after his father's death, he was forced to take a position as a ship's surgeon.

Anthony had been fascinated by the new world shipboard life opened up and tropical medicine captivated him. He worked hard, saved some money, and invested his precious capital on further studies in Berlin. He found his niche at London University, enthralled by the opportunities for research offered by the School of Tropical Medicine. Anthony couldn't really credit Sir Charles Talbot was as spellbound as he appeared to be by the life cycle of the trypanosomes parasite, but he was a gifted listener.

Sir Charles never mentioned what the ‘something in Whitehall' actually was. Then, on the fifth of August, 1914, with the whole country galvanized by war, Anthony was on the point of volunteering for the Royal Army Medical Corps when he received a note asking him to call on a Mr Monks of Angel Alley. To his surprise, Mr Monks turned out to be his old friend, and the nature of the ‘something in Whitehall' was spelt out.

And now Anthony was back, sitting by the same desk he had sat at that day in August. It was, he thought, a few months and a whole lifetime away.

Anthony mentally shrugged. There wasn't an easy way to start so he plunged right in. ‘The first thing I've got to tell you is that Cavanaugh's dead.'

Sir Charles paused, then sat down slowly. ‘Terence Cavanaugh?' he repeated. He rested his forehead on his hand for a brief moment, then looked up. ‘Are you sure?'

‘I was with him when he died.'

Sir Charles swallowed. ‘Poor devil,' he breathed. ‘How did it happen?'

‘He was shot. I don't know where he was attacked, but he managed to get away. He made it to my rooms in a pretty poor state and what seemed to be half the German army arrived shortly afterwards.'

Sir Charles's eyebrows crawled upwards. ‘That must have been awkward. When was this?'

‘On the 28th April.' Anthony's mouth twitched in a smile. ‘As you can imagine, I had to leave Kiel in fairly short order.'