FOURTEEN
Anthony finished his whisky and soda. ‘By jingo, I needed that,’ he said in satisfaction. They were in Sir Charles’s room in Cockspur Street, and never had whisky tasted so good or the green leather armchair been so welcoming. He stretched out his legs comfortably and took a cigarette from the silver box on the table. ‘Well,’ he said, cocking an eyebrow at Sir Charles. ‘What did the Home Secretary have to say?’
It was nine o’clock in the morning and Sir Charles had returned from an interview with a hugely relieved politician, an eminent soldier and the Chief Commissioner of Scotland Yard.
‘He was very complimentary,’ said Sir Charles. ‘We’ve been asked to give his sincere thanks to everyone involved, which means, old man, Captain Black and his men, the Scotland Yard people who organized the evacuation which, thank God, never happened, but principally, and richly deserved, you.’
Anthony grinned lazily. ‘Just for once, I feel inclined to take the praise. I hope you came in for some as well.’
Sir Charles nodded. ‘I did. However, neither of us can afford to sit back on our laurels just yet. We’ve got a job to do.’
‘Blimey, the man’s a slave-driver,’ said Anthony with a groan. ‘What have you got in mind?’
‘Finding James Smith.’
Anthony pulled a face. ‘Yes, I suppose we’ve got to.’
Sir Charles sat down in the winged armchair and stuck his feet up on the low table. ‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘what information Bertram Farlow could have passed on. You’re sure, aren’t you, that James Smith was at Veronica O’Bryan’s inquest?’
‘As certain as I can be. I suppose I’ve got Farlow to thank for that.’
Sir Charles shook his head. ‘That’s just it. I was the only one in the department who knew you’d be at the inquest, and I certainly didn’t tell Farlow.’
‘Couldn’t he have guessed?’ asked Anthony.
Sir Charles swirled the whisky round in his glass. ‘That’s just it, damnit. He might have, but I don’t see how.’ He looked at Anthony, his face twisted. ‘You see where that gets us?’
Anthony paused. ‘Starhanger?’
‘Exactly. The Starhanger people knew you found the body and would be called to the inquest. There was virtually no coverage in the press – Sherston saw to that – and of the other people involved, such as the Moultons and the local constabulary, I suppose they could have said something out of turn, but I doubt it. All the attention was on Tara O’Bryan. For Farlow or anyone else to find out from them, they’d have to know enough to ask the right questions, and I don’t think they did.’ Sir Charles put down his glass and frowned in perplexity. ‘I’m not happy about Starhanger and I’m very unhappy about James Smith. Have you considered how he must feel about you, Brooke?’
‘I don’t suppose I’m on his Christmas card list, if that’s what you mean,’ said Anthony with a grin.
Sir Charles smiled fleetingly. ‘I think it’s more profound than that. You’ve crossed him at every turn. You brought us the notebook and stopped the bomb, turning what should have been one of the biggest blows of the war into a damp squib.’ He frowned at his whisky. ‘Add to that the loss of a U-boat and crew and I’d say you’ve made James Smith’s life nearly unbearable. I think he must hate you.’
‘Hate me?’ repeated Anthony startled. ‘That’s putting it strong.’
‘Is it? I think Smith has one chance to re-establish himself. And that’s by producing the diamonds and you.’ Sir Charles looked up thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid, old friend, as long as James Smith is at large, you’re in very real danger.’
Anthony raised his glass ironically. ‘Cheers. What do you suggest I do?’
‘Remember he’s dangerous,’ said Sir Charles seriously. ‘We have to find James Smith, Brooke.’
Anthony stubbed out his cigarette. ‘How? The police are looking for him, but there’s damn all to go on.’
Sir Charles got up and restlessly walked round the room. He paused by the desk, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. ‘That’s the problem. I can’t see the police are ever going to find him.’ He hitched himself onto the desk and looked at Anthony. ‘Instead of us trying to find him, I think we have to get him to find us. After all,’ he added, ‘we’ve got something he wants.’
Anthony knew the answer but he asked the question anyway. ‘And that is?’
Sir Charles grimaced. ‘You.’
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.
Anthony flicked his torch along the shelves, looking for the Beau Monde. There it was. He pulled it down and opened it on the desk. Here, separated into Manila folders, was information classified as it had been on the Sentinel. In the record of contributors was Frankie.
Frustratingly, that was the only name she appeared under. Anthony spread the papers out, looking for a note of payment, but there wasn’t any. He wanted some evidence that Patrick Sherston knew who Frankie was and how she was using the ‘Letters’.
He put the papers back in the file and returned it to the shelf, and, sitting on the chair at Sherston’s desk, forced himself to look methodically round the room. He needed something out of place, something that didn’t seem right. He used the picklocks to open the desk drawer. The right-hand side contained a cash box and chequebooks. The left-hand side drawer was unlocked and contained stationery.
He really needed to examine every piece of paper in the place but he couldn’t see Sherston letting him do— Bloody hell!
It was there. Anthony put the torch down on the desk beside the typewriter and a wedge of light shone on the papers beside the machine. The top sheet had a neatly typed title. ‘Frankie’s Letter’.
He picked up the typed sheet and read it through. ‘Frankie’s Letter’. Frivolous, inconsequential and apparently trivial. And new.
He stared at the piece of paper. Veronica O’Bryan had written ‘Frankie’s Letter’. Veronica O’Bryan was dead. This was a new ‘Letter’ so Veronica couldn’t be Frankie. They’d been wrong.
His name was in the ‘Letter’. Anthony couldn’t read the code, but there was a reference to ‘babbling brooks’. He’d eat the damn thing if that didn’t mean him. Sir Charles had to see this right away. He picked up a pencil and turned to find a piece of blank paper so he could copy it out.
Anthony froze. The window was outlined in moonlight on the floor and, cast in clear silhouette, was the shape of a man’s head and shoulders.
He kept very still, leaving the torch on the desk. Although the man could see there was a light. Anthony didn’t think the man could see him. He slid off the chair and crept into the shadows, working his way round the walls, out of the study and into the hallway. The garden door, he knew, would bring him out onto the terrace. As quietly as he could, Anthony unlocked the door and stole round the corner of the house.
The man was crouched by the window. Anthony had no weapon apart from his fist, but he knew that one sharp blow in the right place was as effective as a cosh.
He was at arms’ length before the man realized he was there. Anthony’s fist was raised when he turned – and he very nearly hit Bedford.
Bedford gave a little yelp of surprise. Anthony let out his breath in a gasp and jerked his thumb behind him to indicate they should move away from the house.
‘What the devil,’ he demanded in a whisper when they were far enough away from the house and the shadow of some bushes, ‘are you doing here?’
Bedford was still recovering from Anthony’s near-miss. ‘I had no idea you were there, sir,’ he said admiringly. ‘I thought I was pretty good, but that takes the biscuit.’
‘Never mind that,’ Anthony broke in impatiently. ‘Answer the question.’
‘Mr Monk’s orders are to keep watch, sir. I saw torchlight in that room and was trying to make out what was going on.’
‘That was me. How about earlier? Did you follow the chauffeur?’
Bedford shook his head. ‘No, sir. We tried to follow the bike-tracks but the main road was too hard to take a print. The bike had a sidecar, so I don’t know if he was alone or not.’
‘He could have been,’ said Anthony. ‘It depends if he was planning to kill me or abduct me.’ He sucked in his cheeks thoughtfully. ‘Never mind that now. We know they’re here and they know I’m guarded. Quits. Are you in touch with Mr Monks?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’ Anthony pointed to where the boathouse stood dark against the moonlit lake. ‘You see the boathouse?’
‘Yes, sir. I know that’s our letter box.’
‘Good. I’ll have a message for Mr Monks inside it within an hour. There’s another thing. Sherston is planning to go to London tomorrow. Have him followed.’
‘Will do, sir.’
They parted, Bedford to God knows where, Anthony back to Sherston’s study. He took ‘Frankie’s Letter’ up to his room to copy out and, rather to his surprise, was able to return the original and deliver the copy to the boathouse without further ado.
The next day, Sherston, with apologies to his guest, left for London.
Anthony picked up a heap of magazines from the hall table and took them into the garden. The other magazines were camouflage. The first time he’d seen ‘Frankie’s Letter’, he’d been too stunned to take in anything more than the fact that he’d found it and last night his emotions had been much the same.
Frankie’s literary style was a matter he hadn’t considered but now he wanted to read the ‘Letters’ themselves. He didn’t expect to find anything that the code breakers hadn’t seen, but hoped for an insight into Frankie by reading the words around the messages.
Veronica O’Bryan certainly hadn’t written the ‘Letter’ he’d found last night, but that wasn’t to say she hadn’t written the others. Somebody else – Sherston, at a guess – could easily have written the latest one. And really, with such an excellent method of communication to hand, it made sense to keep ‘Frankie’s Letter’ going.
He didn’t have the last ‘Letter’ but, having copied it out only hours earlier, knew exactly what was in it. Was there any difference in style between it and the earlier ‘Letters’?
If there was, he couldn’t see it. Frankie’s gossipy, trivial style seemed consistent throughout. It wouldn’t, he thought, be a difficult style to mimic but if the last ‘Letter’ was written by another person they’d done it very well.
Annoyed, he lit his pipe and looked yet again at the light-hearted sentences.
‘Good heavens! What on earth are you reading, Colonel?’
Anthony started. It was Tara O’Bryan. Her feet had made no noise on the grass as she crossed the lawn behind him. She was looking at the magazine over his shoulder. She came round the bench, picked up the magazines, put them on the lawn and sat down beside him.
‘I found you reading Uncle Patrick’s magazines once before,’ she said chattily, ‘but I never expected to find you with your nose in the Beau Monde. I wouldn’t have thought it was your sort of thing.’
Anthony summoned up a smile. ‘I’m just passing the time, really. Seeing how the other half lives and all that.’
‘The other half being the mysterious female sex?’ For some reason that seemed to amuse her. ‘You won’t find many clues by reading magazines, you know. Especially,’ she added, looking at the magazine on his knee, ‘“Frankie’s Letter”.’
‘Why not?’ Tara didn’t answer and Anthony carried on. ‘After all, it’s about things girls do talk about, isn’t it? Fashion and gossip and so on.’
‘Not all the time,’ she said in a pained voice.
He pulled at his pipe and plunged in. ‘As a matter of fact, I wondered who actually did write it. I know it’s a secret . . .’
‘A very closely guarded secret.’
‘But I wondered if Frankie was your mother. Sorry to mention it, but I did.’
The humour vanished from her face. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? You’re wrong.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Absolutely.’
Anthony sat back. ‘Why?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘After all, if you don’t know who wrote “Frankie’s Letter”, why shouldn’t it have been your mother?’
‘Because . . .’ She stopped, biting her lip. Anthony felt a sudden conviction. She knew! ‘She couldn’t,’ she finished, avoiding his eyes.
‘You know who Frankie is,’ he stated. It wasn’t a question.
Again, she avoided his eyes. ‘So what if I do? After all, it’s just a newspaper stunt. It doesn’t matter.’
‘If your mother wrote it, it does. And, as Mr Sherston has asked me to investigate what happened to your mother, if she did write “Frankie’s Letter”, I need to know. There has to be some link between her and Cedric Chapman. This could be it.’
A line creased her forehead. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Chapman was a criminal.’
‘A blackmailer, perhaps? If your mother was Frankie, she’d have to do some digging around. She could easily have found out something disreputable about someone. Maybe Chapman was acting on their behalf.’
She threw her hands up impatiently. ‘For heaven’s sake! Colonel, this is idiotic. You’re barking up the wrong tree.’ She looked round, saw they were alone and drew closer. ‘I’m only telling you because I can’t let you waste your time.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Frankie isn’t a woman at all. It’s Uncle Patrick.’
Time seemed to stand still. Anthony looked at Tara. She had recovered her poise and her eyes met his in an amused challenge. He forced himself to laugh. ‘What? Patrick Sherston writes “Frankie’s Letter”?’
‘Shush!’ She raised a hand. ‘Uncle Patrick would have a fit if he knew I’d told you. But you can see why I said you won’t find out much about women from “Frankie’s Letter”.’
‘But . . .’ Anthony pretended to be bewildered. Perhaps he wasn’t pretending. He’d suspected Sherston right enough, but to have it confirmed was stunning. ‘How do you know?’
Tara became confidential. ‘It was ages ago. I wanted to see Uncle Patrick and went into the study. He wasn’t there, but on the typewriter was “Frankie’s Letter”. He was halfway though it. When he came back I said, It’s you! You’re Frankie! He swore me to secrecy. He said that “Frankie’s Letter” was shaping up to being one of his best stunts. It had pushed the circulation of the Beau Monde past Vogue for the first time ever.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t say anything, will you? It’s only a joke but it’d be ruined if the truth got out. Promise?’
Anthony looked at her bright eyes. ‘Promise,’ he said, lying with a heavy heart. Yes, the joke would be ruined.
Not only that, he thought, half an hour later as he left his message inside the canoe, Patrick Sherston would be ruined. He knew ‘Frankie’s Letter’ – that joke – had killed Terence Cavanaugh, but he hated the part he had to play.