Frankie's Letter (8 page)

‘Very well. I don't see I've got much choice. Where do I start? If it comes to that,
how
can I start? I can hardly wander round Britain hoping to get on the chap's trail on the off-chance.'

‘Start with Cavanaugh's friends,' said Sir Charles promptly. ‘If any of them have links to Ireland, that gives us another clue. I'll do what I can with Sons of Hibernia, but the ringleaders are all accounted for and none of them could have been called gentlemen, to use the word in Cavanaugh's sense. The journalism angle might throw up a useful lead or two, as well. I'll do what I can. Cavanaugh was a beggar for keeping his cards close to his chest, so I can't suggest any names, but you ought to be able to find something out if you ask around. There's this girl he was keen on, as well. I don't know anything about her.'

‘She could be anywhere in the world,' Anthony said wearily.

Sir Charles nodded. ‘I know how you feel about this, Brooke. It goes against the grain but it's got to be done.' He looked at Anthony appraisingly. ‘You're going to have to ask questions, Brooke. The trouble is, people are going to ask questions back and it might be awkward for you to answer them.'

He picked up his pen and tapped it idly on the blotting pad. ‘I think it might be best if I arranged for you to have a temporary commission. The Intelligence Service would be best, as everyone will expect you to be cautious about what you say. Colonel Brooke? That's got quite a nice ring to it. When it's convenient, call round to Gieves and Hawkes and get yourself measured for a uniform. Don't worry about that side of things. I'll arrange it. The other thing I want to mention is this.'

He opened the desk drawer and, drawing out a thin silver card case, opened it and gave Anthony one of the cards it contained. It wasn't a visiting card but a picture of St Michael the archangel, fiery sword in hand. ‘Put that somewhere safe.'

After a moment's thought, Anthony slipped the card into his cigarette case.

‘The idea was suggested by the name of this street, Angel Alley,' continued Sir Charles. ‘I'm Gabriel Monks, but I'm not the only angel in London. There's three of us altogether, myself, Michael and Raphael. Should you ever get stuck – this is for dire emergencies only, mind – you can go to the War Office and either show them that card or mention angels.' He smiled. ‘With any luck that'll bring a heavenly host out on your side. Now, about your search for Cavanaugh's associates. Let's think out some details . . .'

A
nthony made his way to his club through the crowds of Regent Street. Before the war he'd had rooms in Sadlers, a club which, for no apparent reason, attracted a large number of medical men, and his things were still stored in a trunk in the basement. He certainly needed a shave, he thought, ruefully rubbing his hand over his chin, and the idea of a warm bath and a change of clothes filled him with eager anticipation. With any luck he could get his old rooms back.

It was strange to be back in London again, to hear English spoken so casually by the crowds, to see all the old shops and landmarks, grubby with soot and so unexpectedly, so heart-tuggingly familiar, they were oddly beautiful in the spring sunshine. He would never have described Swan and Edgars, for instance, with its display of linen, haberdashery, corsets and socks, as beautiful, yet the sight of the shop with its curved glass windows, there as it had always been there, gave him a lump in his throat.

He expected London to have changed and in some ways it had; there were far more soldiers on the streets, for a start, and some buildings were swathed in steel netting. He couldn't think why, at first, then realized, with a shock, it was to ward off damage from bombs dropped by Zeppelins.

It seemed incredible that war could touch London. He thought of Sir Charles's idea of arrogance with rueful agreement. Paris, he knew, showed its wounds openly, gashed by air raids, its public spaces from the racecourse at Longchamps to the Palace of Versailles, neglected and overgrown. Paris was like a deserted city, with virtually every other shop closed and bearing the notice that the owner was fighting the Boche
.
What happened to Paris could surely happen to London
and yet . . . Sir Charles was right. It was French, it was foreign, it was safely overseas. He couldn't make himself believe it could happen here.

Anthony stood on the corner of Regent Street and Piccadilly, amidst the growl of motor cars, the hubbub of passers-by, the clatter of hooves, the creak of wheels and the shouts of street vendors, trying, amongst all this noisy, careless unconcern, to imagine London scarred by war. It was no use; the city was simply too big and too vibrant.

Not that the war was entirely absent, of course. There were war posters plastered on the hoardings. They lacked the angry bite of the posters in Berlin and Kiel, consisting mainly of injunctions to the able-bodied to join up. Of course! The Germans didn't need to urge men to enlist. Conscription took care of that. Remembering the crowds of volunteers that had besieged recruiting sergeants in Trafalgar Square last August, Anthony was surprised that any more men were needed. About a hundred thousand men had joined in the first few heady days of the war, but, going off the message on the posters, that wasn't enough.

Women of Britain say – ‘GO!'
That was rather moving, with a picture of a little boy clutching onto his mother's skirts, as she sadly watched a line of departing Tommies march past the window. There was a real sacrifice implied there. She might be saying, ‘Go!' but she didn't look very happy about it.

At The Front.
Every fit Briton should join our brave men at the Front. Enlist Now.
Although the image was dramatic, it was hardly enticing. A team of horses pulling a wagon had suffered a near miss from a huge shell. The horses reared in panic and the driver was hanging to the reins for grim death. At least it gave the prospective recruit some idea of what he might be in for.

Halt! Who goes there? If you
are
a friend join the British ranks and help the brave lads at the Front.
That was illustrated by the lonely silhouette of a solider against the skyline, with rifle at the ready. And, thought Anthony cynically, if the idiot stood out in the open like that, bellowing challenges to all and sundry, his military career was likely to be very short indeed.

A painful jab in the ribs made him spin round angrily. Two women with ferocious expressions were standing behind him. One, hefting an umbrella, looked as if she was about to assault him again. ‘Did you just hit me with your umbrella?' demanded Anthony incredulously, rubbing his side.

The women exchanged meaningful glances. ‘I most certainly did, young man,' said the umbrella-wielding woman, her double chin wobbling with indignation. ‘How you can look at those pictures of our brave boys and their selfless sacrifice without feeling utterly ashamed, I do not know.'

She surveyed his clothes and his stubbly chin with a sort of loathing horror. ‘Why are you not at the Front? You speak like an educated man. Whether you have come down in the world through drink or wanton fecklessness, I do not know, but surely you can see that the war is your chance to redeem yourself, to put good some of the ravages your path – your manifestly unsatisfactory path – in life has led you down.' She took a white feather from her bag and brandished it like a weapon. ‘It is my duty to give you this!'

Anthony, his side throbbing from the ferrule of her umbrella, didn't know whether to laugh or tell her to mind her own business. The White Feather movement had started before he'd left London and hundreds, if not thousands, of women had enthusiastically taken upon themselves the task of handing out white feathers to those whom they considered to be shirkers.

She leaned forward, seized the lapel of his jacket, and made to insert it in his buttonhole. ‘Enlist today! There is still a chance to make good! Be a man amongst men!'

Anthony's sense of humour won. To be taken for a tramp and an inebriate tramp at that, to be upbraided for cowardice, urged to enlist and to be able to produce a white feather was, properly considered, very funny indeed. Sir Charles would love the joke.

His hand closed over hers. ‘Thank you,' he said brokenly. ‘You have pointed out the right path to me.' The women looked at him dubiously, wondering if he was serious. ‘It was gin that brought me to this,' he said earnestly, trying to keep the laughter out of his voice. ‘I shall reform and—'

‘
Star anger.
' It was a clear, high voice, the speaker close at hand. The words cut through the welter of noise surrounding them.

Anthony, the ferocious woman still clinging on to his lapel, whirled. Standing by a taxicab, outside Swan and Edgars, with a commissionaire in attendance, was a well-dressed, middle-aged man in a top hat and a coat with an astrakhan collar. He stood back to allow his companion, a woman in a blue velvet coat and a wisp of a hat, get into the cab. The sight of the man struck a vague chord of memory. The woman looked up at him, smiling as he bent over her. Anthony could have sworn she'd said ‘Star anger'
.
Then, for a fleeting second, he saw her face.

It was as if he had been drenched with icy water. She was, quite simply, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and the shock brought him up dead. For a moment – it was like a moment outside time – London seemed to freeze.

The White Feather women, the crowds, the noise, all stopped. Then, with a shock like thunder, the implication of what she'd said crashed in upon him.
Star anger.
She knew what
star anger
meant!

Anthony tried to run towards her but the ferocious woman held him back. He ignored her, intent on getting to the woman in blue. ‘Hoy!' he shouted as loudly as he could. ‘Stop!'

The woman in the blue coat didn't hear him. She gathered her skirts together and disappeared into the taxi. The man climbed in the cab, the commissionaire closed the door and the taxi pulled away from the kerb.

Anthony unclasped the ferocious woman's hand from his lapel, took the white feather and, shaking off her clutching hand – she clearly thought he'd gone mad – strode rapidly to the commissionaire. ‘Excuse me,' he said crisply. ‘Who were those people? The man and woman who just got in the cab?'

The commissionaire blinked. Anthony could see him contrasting his voice and his clothes. ‘What's it to you?'

Anthony pulled out a sovereign – the only English money he had was a roll of sovereigns – from his pocket and pressed it into the man's hand.

The commissionaire's bewilderment increased. ‘I'm sorry, guv, I can't help you. They were going to Waterloo, if that's any use.'

The White Feather women joined them. ‘Did you give this man money?' demanded the ferocious woman.

‘Yes,' said Anthony desperately. ‘I'm an eccentric millionaire. Now hop it, will you, my good woman.' He turned to the commissionaire. ‘Call a taxi for me, please.'

‘
My good woman!
' repeated the ferocious woman, shrill with indignation. ‘How dare you!'

The commissionaire put his whistle to his lips and blew.

Amidst a stream of recriminations from the women, a taxi drew up. The driver looked doubtfully at the embattled and down-at-heel Anthony.

‘He's all right,' said the commissionaire with a grin. He had thoroughly enjoyed listening to the women on the subject of Anthony's shortcomings. ‘He's an eccentric millionaire.'

‘Aren't we all,' said the taxi driver looking at Anthony and his unwanted companions disparagingly. ‘I'm not taking that lot on board. This is a cab, not a circus turn. Millionaire! Pull the other one, mate.'

He put in the clutch and drove off, leaving Anthony on the pavement. Anthony sighed in exasperation and, leaving the women arguing on the pavement, made for the underground. It was hopeless, of course. He couldn't buy a tuppenny ticket with a sovereign, so had to stop at the news kiosk for change, which meant further delays.

There were lots of trains leaving from Waterloo, he thought despondently, as he stood on the station concourse. Lots of trains from which, if you made the right connections, you could get to any destination in Britain. His hand curled over the white feather in his pocket. If it wasn't for those blasted women he'd have caught the man in the top hat and the woman in the blue coat.

Maybe – just maybe – it was as well he hadn't. After all, what would he have said? If he had caught them, he might have given the game away. Cavanaugh said they were looking for a gentleman and the man in the top hat was a gentleman, sure enough. What's more, he was certain he'd seen him somewhere before. And the woman? His stomach turned over as he recalled that fraction of a second when she'd looked in his direction.

‘Would you recognize either of them again?' asked Sir Charles, when Anthony telephoned his private line from Waterloo station.

Oh yes, he would certainly recognize them again. He couldn't, although he didn't say as much to Sir Charles, get the woman in blue's face out of his mind.

There was something else too, he added to himself as he plunged back into the underground. Whatever
star anger
meant, it meant something to the woman in blue. Somehow or other, he would see her again.

Fortunately, MacIntyre, the porter at Sadlers, remembered him well, otherwise Anthony might have had trouble being admitted to his old club.

‘I've been abroad,' he said, as carelessly as he could, trying not to laugh as MacIntyre's raging curiosity visibly diminished. That respectable doctors should turn into tramps, inebriate or not, the minute they set foot abroad was clearly nothing more than MacIntyre expected and part of the dangers inherent in foreign travel. ‘I don't suppose my rooms are still free?'

They weren't, much to MacIntyre's sorrow. ‘Another gentleman's got them now,' he said, apologetically. ‘He's a very nice gentleman,' he added, as if that made up for it somehow. There were, however, two fine quiet rooms at the back, next to the fire escape. He was sure that Mr Walbreck, the secretary, would be glad to arrange everything for him.