SIXTEEN
For 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.’
‘I put it in the box,’ said the chauffeur, drinking his tea. ‘You’re blind, Keegan.’
‘Blind yourself,’ said Keegan morosely. ‘I’ve had enough of this job. For two pins I’d be on the next boat. To listen to the boss, you’d think all we had to do was whistle for that bastard Brooke and he’d come running. I’d like to see the boss get his hands dirty.’
‘The boss is tough enough,’ said the chauffeur. ‘And he is the boss. Don’t get any fancy ideas about leaving. You wouldn’t get far.’
‘D’you think I’m scared?’
‘You should be,’ said the chauffeur grimly.
Keegan looked back at the cottage and shifted uncomfortably. ‘Maybe. But no one’s ever spoken to me like that.’ He spat in disgust. ‘It’s going to be dark soon, all under these trees as we are. What’s the boss going to do? We can’t stop here. It’s not fit for a pig. And what will we do with the girl?’
‘Don’t you worry,’ said the chauffeur with a laugh. ‘The boss’ll see to her.’ He inclined his head and lowered his voice. Anthony had to strain to hear. ‘She’s not going anywhere.’ To Anthony’s horror he mimed taking a gun from his pocket. ‘Bang. End of problem.’
Keegan started away and swore. ‘Jesus, what about the cops? Count me out.’
‘You’re in if the boss says so,’ said the chauffeur. ‘You don’t say no to him.’ He laughed at Keegan’s expression. ‘Relax. He’ll see to it. He enjoys it. He wants to find out what she knows first, though.’ He laughed once more. ‘He’ll enjoy that too.’
Keegan shuddered and threw away his cigarette end. ‘I’m going back in. These bloody midges are biting me to death and I can’t see a thing out here. Fancy a game of cards?’
‘We might as well.’
The two men went back into the cottage. Anthony saw a glow from the room as they lit the lamp.
He sat back on his heels. His original idea had been to find Smith, then get help. Well, he’d found Smith all right but he couldn’t afford to waste a minute. Somehow he had to get into that cottage. The thought of Josette in Smith’s hands made his blood run cold.
He dropped back into the woods and made a wide circle round the cottage, coming round to the back. A tumbledown wall with a broken gate enclosed what had been the yard. The windows were unlit and the back door stood half-open. Judging from the heap of leaves that had blown against it, it had been that way for years. Anthony looked up. There was a light from an upper window. He crept forward cautiously.
Through the back door he could see into the deserted room. He stepped over the leaves and into the cottage.
This had been the kitchen. The door to the front room was ajar, framed in the light from the chauffeur and Keegan’s lamp. He heard their voices and the chink of coins from their game of cards.
An old sink was against the wall and, on the draining board, were two new wooden boxes. A spirit stove and a kettle stood on one and the other contained a few groceries from, incongruously enough, Fortnum and Masons.
Anthony’s heart sank. He’d hoped at the very best to find some sort of weapon but all he had was one good hand. It would have to be enough.
The stairs led upstairs from the kitchen, a black, enclosed pit of darkness. Anthony paused, listening intently. He could hear voices upstairs. Frustratingly, he couldn’t distinguish either the words or the speakers. As quietly as he could he slipped up the stairs. Despite his caution they creaked horribly.
At the top of the stairs was a tiny landing with three doors. He heard someone in one of the rooms stand up and their footsteps crossing the floor. Anthony flattened himself against the wall beside the door, hoping to avoid being seen.
The door opened and Josette, holding an oil-lamp high, looked out. She called back to someone in the room. ‘There’s no one here.’ She took a couple of steps forward to look down the stairs, turned back and gasped as she saw Anthony.
Anthony, spread against the wall, put a finger to his lips, begging her to keep quiet.
Without saying a word, she opened the bedroom door again and stood in the entrance. ‘He’s here,’ she said to the person in the room. ‘Colonel Brooke’s here.’ She turned to Anthony with a delighted smile. ‘Come in, Colonel. We’ve been waiting for you.’
Anthony had no choice. With a stomach like lead he followed her into the room, blinking in the lamplight.
Josette shut the door behind him and stood in front of it, barring his way.
There was a man in the room, a fair-haired man whose eyes burned with triumph.
‘Well, well,’ said the man. ‘Colonel Brooke. At last.’
Anthony gaped at him.
This was Warren’s murderer and Chapman’s killer. The gent, the toff, the boss. James Smith.
And James Smith was the same man who Anthony had cheated and humiliated in Kiel: Oberstleutnant von Hagen. And he had a gun pointed at Anthony’s chest.
Von Hagen waved the gun towards a chair. There was furniture in the room, cheap wicker picnic chairs and a tray with a coffee pot and cups beside the empty fireplace.
‘Please sit down, Colonel,’ he said in German. ‘I have been to some trouble to prepare this cottage for you.’
Anthony didn’t have any choice but to obey. ‘For me?’ he repeated stupidly.
‘Oh yes. Haven’t you realized?’ Von Hagen laughed. ‘Yes, I moved from my comfortable hotel to prepare this cottage expressly for your benefit.’
He picked up a cup. ‘I would offer you a drink, but I remember what you did once before when you had coffee.’
His eyes gleamed and in that split second Anthony realized just how deep von Hagen’s hatred for him was. ‘I have been looking forward to this,’ he said. ‘I requested to be sent to England solely to hunt you down.’ He gestured towards Josette. ‘Once I had the missing lady, I knew you would follow.’
Josette, her head on one side, could obviously follow something of what was being said.
‘I wanted to write to you,’ Josette said. ‘I wanted to tell you where I was, but Mr Smith said you’d find us. What’s happened to your arm?’
Von Hagen smiled icily. ‘His arm, my dear,’ he said in heavily-accented English, ‘is the least of his worries. You took a great deal longer than I expected, Colonel Brooke.’
Anthony wasn’t going to be drawn. Not by him. Instead he looked at Josette. ‘What are you doing here?’ Anthony could hardly credit her manner.
She seemed so completely at home and in control of herself that it beggared belief. She smiled as happily as if she had been in the drawing room at Starhanger.
‘Please, Colonel, don’t be angry with me.’ She clasped her hands together in a childish gesture of apology. ‘After Patrick was arrested I had to do something. I knew Mr Smith could help poor Patrick.’
Stupefied, Anthony went to draw his cigarette case from his pocket. Von Hagen stopped him with a gesture of his gun.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Anthony. He knew he was being absurdly polite but he couldn’t help himself. Josette seemed so bewilderingly at home that it was easier to take his tone from her, rather than the brutal fact that a cold-blooded killer was pointing a gun at him. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ He instinctively looked towards Josette for permission as if she was his hostess and he was her guest.
‘Please do,’ said Josette.
Von Hagen nodded warily. ‘No tricks, Colonel Brooke. I understand English very well.’
Anthony lit a cigarette, glad of the few seconds respite while his mind readjusted itself. He looked from von Hagen to Josette. ‘Mrs Sherston, does your husband know anything about your association with this man?’
She clasped her hands eagerly once more. ‘Not a thing. You’ve got to believe me.’
‘Oh, I do,’ said Anthony slowly. ‘I’m coming to believe quite a few things, as a matter of fact. There’s a lot Mr Sherston doesn’t know, isn’t there? I’m surprised I haven’t tumbled to a good many of them before. “Frankie’s Letter”, for instance. It’s bright and lively and contains all sorts of gossip about fashion and fashionable people. You wrote it, didn’t you?’
Josette’s smile faded. ‘I don’t understand, Colonel. Why are you talking to me like this? You’ve always been so nice before and you’re not being at all nice now. Why? I haven’t done anything wrong. Not really wrong.’
Anthony looked at her steadily. Incredible as it seemed, she believed what she said. ‘Writing “Frankie’s Letter” was wrong. Letting Patrick Sherston take the blame for writing “Frankie’s Letter” was wrong.’
Her eyes widened. ‘But it was Patrick’s idea. He asked me to write “Frankie’s Letter”.’
‘Did he ask you to use it to send information to the enemy?’
She wriggled uncomfortably. ‘Of course he didn’t. He’d have been horrified, so I never told him. I didn’t want to upset him. Patrick doesn’t like being upset. I had to do it, you know. I didn’t have any choice. If you’re looking for someone to blame, blame Veronica. She told me what to put in the “Letters”. She’d have written it herself if she had any talent for writing but she didn’t. You don’t understand.’
Her lip trembled. ‘Veronica threatened . . . Well, I had to do what Veronica said. Besides that, it wasn’t wrong. It was only trivial gossip. It wasn’t really wrong. It was all a joke.’
She meant it. ‘A joke?’ he repeated. ‘It might have started as a joke.’
‘But that’s all it was,’ she said eagerly. ‘Patrick said it was a joke. He suggested the title and it seemed so funny. He called it “Frankie’s Letter” because that was his middle name. But that’s all it was. A joke.’
Anthony stared at her. ‘For God’s sake, Mrs Sherston, it’s no joke. After all,’ he said acutely, ‘you knew enough to burn the drafts of “Frankie’s Letter” in Veronica O’Bryan’s grate, didn’t you?’
She swallowed. ‘So what if I did? If she’d been capable of writing it, she would have. It doesn’t matter, I tell you. It was only a joke.’
Anthony’s voice was very quiet. ‘That joke, as you called it, killed Terence Cavanaugh.’
Her head jerked up. ‘That wasn’t my fault!’ Anthony said nothing. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she added desperately. ‘I wouldn’t have harmed Terry.’
‘You told the Germans where he was.’
‘I didn’t know it was Terry.’ She looked at Anthony with an expression that caught his heart. ‘Terry told me he was a journalist. Veronica asked me to write about a spy. I didn’t know it was Terry. When Patrick told us Terry had died, Veronica laughed and said it was my fault, but it wasn’t.’ She swallowed. ‘I would never have harmed Terry.’
Anthony looked at her wonderingly. She was utterly convinced of what she said. ‘You loved him, didn’t you?’ he asked, wondering once again how he could have been so slow.
Her sudden intake of breath told him he was correct. ‘You told me it was Veronica who was in love with Cavanaugh but it was you, wasn’t it? Terry Cavanaugh was in love with you and your husband found out. That’s why Patrick Sherston disliked him. That’s why Cavanaugh was forbidden in the house.’
‘I didn’t do anything wrong!’ she said desperately. ‘I couldn’t help Terry falling in love with me.’
For his own sake Anthony had to know the answer to the next question. ‘Did you love him?’ he asked quietly.
Josette dropped her eyes. ‘Yes.’ Her voice was a whisper. She looked up, her eyes bright with defiance. ‘How can you blame me?’ she said savagely. ‘After all, you . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished but her eyes seemed to lance through him.
Anthony writhed inside. Yes, she was right. He had loved her. Her face had filled his dreams and, given any encouragement, God alone knew what he would have been capable of.
She saw his expression and gave a slow nod of recognition. ‘We can’t always choose, can we?’ she said softly. ‘And then . . .’ she shrugged. ‘Veronica found out. She told Patrick and he was furious. He threw Terry out of the house. I told Patrick that I didn’t love Terry. Perhaps that was wrong, but I wouldn’t leave Patrick, even though Terry begged me to. I didn’t want to hurt Patrick and I didn’t want to hurt Terry.’ Her face grew puzzled. ‘Even now I can’t see how what I wrote could have harmed Terry. I only asked for him to be taken care of. There’s nothing wrong in that, is there?’
Anthony swallowed. Yes, maybe the irony of the phrase had been lost on her. ‘He was taken care of, sure enough.’
She looked at him, bewildered. ‘So how can I be responsible? I don’t understand. “Frankie’s Letter” was just a joke. Patrick was the one who wanted it kept secret.’
Anthony sighed heavily. ‘Patrick Sherston wanted it kept secret because he thought it really was a joke. A newspaper joke. He kept Frankie’s identity secret because it was one of his best stunts. He even went to the lengths of telling Tara O’Bryan he’d written it to put her off the scent.’
‘I know,’ she said vigorously. ‘Patrick told me. Tara came into his study when he was typing it out. Tara was so pleased with herself that Patrick played along.’ Josette’s eyes narrowed. ‘She promised she’d keep it a secret. She lied. She told you and poor Patrick was arrested. It’s all Tara’s fault. She shouldn’t have told you.’
This was staggering. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Sherston, but compared to High Treason, breaking an unimportant promise isn’t serious.’
She wrinkled her nose and shuddered. ‘Don’t say things like High Treason. I don’t want to think of it like that.’
‘No matter how you want to think of it, your husband has confessed rather than incriminate you and he’ll be executed.’
She gave a little shriek. ‘He won’t! Mr Smith’s going to help. They can’t hang Patrick for doing something he didn’t do.’ She sunk her head in her hands for a few moments. ‘I suppose you think I’m horrible,’ she said eventually, ‘but you don’t know why I did it.’
Anthony dropped his cigarette end to the bare boards of the floor and ground it out. Ideas and half-guessed truths were chasing round in his mind. Josette had been forced to write ‘Frankie’s Letter’ by Veronica O’Bryan. How had Veronica forced her? If Cavanaugh had had an affair with Josette, that would explain it, but Sherston knew about Cavanaugh. No, there was something else, something far more important than a passing love affair.
He looked at von Hagen. ‘Excuse me, Oberstleutnant. Can I show Mrs Sherston a photograph?’
Von Hagen glanced at his watch. ‘Be my guest,’ he said, again speaking in German. ‘I can understand you wanting to satisfy your curiosity, Colonel.’ He grinned wolfishly. ‘Even though your pleasure is likely to be short-lived.’ He brought the gun up to the ready. ‘Once again, I warn you. No tricks.’
Anthony gave a little bow of thanks. ‘No tricks,’ he agreed. Moving slowly, he took a little cardboard envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Josette. ‘That’s the reason, isn’t it?’
She opened the envelope and took out the photograph, the picture of the child with solemn eyes. The colour drained out of her face and she stood holding it for a few moments. Then, with a little dry sob, she clutched the photograph to her bosom in a useless, instinctive, gesture of protection.
‘She’s your daughter,’ said Anthony. ‘She’s your child.’
Josette didn’t answer but nodded agreement, her eyes wide.
‘Your husband doesn’t know you had a child, does he?’
Again, Josette nodded. ‘It’s Milly,’ she broke out desperately. ‘Her name’s Milly. Her father and I should have married, but he died.’ She looked imploringly at Anthony. ‘Please understand, Colonel. It was when I was in France. I put Milly in the charge of some good people – some nuns – and paid for her to be looked after. I loved Milly. Then Patrick came to Paris.’
Her face changed, softening as she remembered the past. ‘I knew who he was, of course. He was a rich man, the owner of the magazine and the owner of the Sherston Press. He was lonely, Colonel, and I felt sorry for him. I liked him. He was kind and he was good but he was very, very respectable.’
She made a frustrated gesture with her hands. ‘I knew he wanted to marry me. What could I do? I wanted to marry him. I wanted to leave France, to have a home in England once more, to stop writing about pretty clothes and actually have the money to buy them. Patrick offered me all that. If I’d told him about Milly I’d have been ruined.’
‘So you married Patrick for what he could provide?’
‘How dare you?’ she snapped. ‘Have you ever scraped and struggled? I was surrounded by rich women with beautiful things. I wanted those things. I wanted to be happy and secure and not worry about stupid things like food and paying the rent. I was fond of Patrick. I’ve been a good wife. I could never have told Patrick I had a child.’
‘But didn’t he guess? After you were married, I mean?’
‘No.’ Josette looked at him wonderingly. ‘Why should he have done?’
Anthony left it. As a doctor he could have easily guessed if a woman was a mother, but what even the closest married couples didn’t know about each other had long since ceased to surprise him. ‘Go on,’ he said heavily. ‘Tell me what happened to Milly.’
She gave a ragged sigh. ‘The war started and the convent Milly lived in was in an area occupied by the Germans. I was desperate for news and wrote to the convent, asking what had become of her.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Veronica gave me the answer. She’d found out. She knew everything. She could ruin me and . . . and I was worried about Milly.’
Anthony flicked a glance of deep contempt towards von Hagen. ‘So you’re part of a scheme which uses a desperate woman and a helpless child, eh? You can be proud of a country which fights with such weapons.’
Von Hagen shrugged. ‘We will fight with any weapon we have. Germany’s survival is threatened. We didn’t harm the child,’ he added in English.
‘No, they didn’t,’ said Josette eagerly. ‘She was safe as long as I cooperated and what harm did I do? I had to protect Milly, so I wrote what Veronica told me to and she gave me news and photographs of Milly. I had to earn them. She had a picture in her room, a picture of Milly, but she wouldn’t give it to me. That was wrong. Milly’s my child. You see why I had to do it, don’t you? And it was all right. Everything was all right until you came. You showed us those diamonds. Veronica was excited about them. I don’t know why. She never cared for pretty things, but she was excited about those diamonds. When she went out I thought she was going to meet someone to tell them about the diamonds.’
‘You’re right,’ said Anthony. ‘She went to meet Chapman.’
Josette shuddered. ‘He was a horrid little man. Veronica met him in Ticker’s Wood. I followed her—’
‘You took Tara’s jacket from the stables,’ said Anthony, illumination dawning.
‘What does it matter?’ said Josette impatiently. ‘I had to follow Veronica quickly, otherwise I’d lose her. I saw Veronica talking to a man and I wanted to hear what he said. I thought he was telling her about Milly. Veronica had to get her news from somewhere and it wasn’t right. He should have told me, not Veronica. Milly’s my daughter.’
She swallowed convulsively. ‘I crept as close as I could.’ She glanced at the photograph in her hand and looked at Anthony indignantly. ‘They talked about the diamonds but he did have a photograph of Milly. He showed Veronica the envelope and she said – her voice was horrible – “We’ll keep that for later”. I wanted it then. I must have made a noise because Veronica saw me.’
She blinked rapidly. ‘She dragged me out of the bushes and I fought back. She was vicious. She gave me a real bruise. I had to cover it up with make-up for days. I was so angry I didn’t know she’d hurt me. How dare they talk about my daughter? That little man, Chapman, tried to stop us. He had a gun. Veronica grabbed it from him and Chapman tried to get it back. He dropped it and I picked it up and it went off. I didn’t mean it to. Veronica’s face went all stiff and twisted and she crumpled up. She was dead. I asked Chapman what I should do and he told me to say nothing and it’d be all right. If I said nothing Milly would be all right. He dragged the body into the bushes and told me to go home.’
Josette looked at him appealingly. ‘Please understand. He told me it’d be all right if I did what he said. So . . . so I went home and it was all right. He wouldn’t take the gun. He didn’t want to touch it. I didn’t want to keep it, so I threw it into the lake. Veronica was dead and I was glad.’
‘I imagine you were,’ said Anthony wearily. ‘What happened then?’ he asked. He looked towards von Hagen. ‘Where does our friend here fit in?’
‘Mr Smith?’ asked Josette, brightening. ‘Mr Smith met me in London and said he’d look after me. All I had to do was write the “Letter”.’
‘I think he was interested in me as well, wasn’t he?’ asked Anthony.
Josette looked uncomfortable. ‘What if he was? I told him you’d be at the inquest. Mr Smith wanted to see you. He didn’t mean you any harm. Then, after he’d seen you, he wanted to ask you a few questions, but it was difficult. I knew Patrick was puzzled about Veronica. He thought you were clever enough to work out what had happened. I couldn’t see how you’d guess the truth, but I suggested Patrick ask you to stay and then Mr Smith could talk to you, and it would all be all right. And then . . . it wasn’t all right at all. Patrick was arrested. I thought Mr Smith would know what to do, so I telephoned him and he sent the car for me and then we came here and waited for you. That’s all.’
Anthony sank back in his chair, his head in his hands. Terence Cavanaugh had been wrong. Sir Charles had been wrong. He had been wrong.
They thought they were on the trail of a ruthless mastermind of a spy and all the time what they had to deal with was a woman; a beautiful woman, admittedly, but not a femme fatale, not a mysterious temptress, not even a woman who was particularly clever, but simply a mother protecting her child.
Josette looked at von Hagen. ‘It’s all going to be all right, isn’t it? After all, Colonel Brooke’s here now so you can say whatever it is you want to say and you can help Patrick, as you promised, and we can all go home.’
Von Hagen drained his coffee and rose to his feet. ‘Yes, Mrs Sherston. It is going to be all right.’ He gestured with the gun towards Anthony. ‘I think, Colonel Brooke, it is about time we left.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘You can think of it as home if you prefer.’
Anthony looked bleakly at Josette. ‘Did you really believe the Oberstleutnant – Mr Smith, I mean – when he said all he wanted was to talk to me?’
She nodded. Anthony could see her fighting down her anxiety.
‘Let me tell you what’s going to happen, Mrs Sherston.’ Anthony cocked an eyebrow at von Hagen. ‘I imagine I’ll be drugged. When I’m helpless, I’ll be smuggled to Germany or the occupied territories and I’ll be questioned. I don’t know if I’ll say anything of any use, but I’ll be questioned. And, after that, I’ll be killed.’
She drew her breath in sharply. ‘Don’t say that!’
‘I do say that, Mrs Sherston. We’re at war. Do you know what that means? It’s not brass bands and patriotic songs and saving waste paper and planting extra vegetables, it’s war. You want to save your daughter. There’s other people’s children fighting and dying as we speak. This man, Mr Smith, the Oberstleutnant von Hagen, isn’t concerned about Patrick Sherston or you or your child. He’s fighting with any weapon he can get to help his country. I stood in his way, so he’s going to have me killed. Chapman might have been a horrid little man, as you say, but he stood in von Hagen’s way too. Von Hagen murdered him in broad daylight, as he’d murder anyone else who inconvenienced him.’
‘Enough!’ said von Hagen sharply.
Anthony looked at him steadily, ignoring the gun. ‘Tell Mrs Sherston the truth. Tell her that you’re going to let her husband die. With me gone, who will be left to speak for him? Tell her how you killed Warren at the hotel when you stole the diamonds and how you gunned down Chapman on the tram platform.’
Von Hagen smiled contemptuously. ‘You think she cares about Chapman? He attempted to double-cross me. What did he expect? As for the rest, as you so eloquently said, Colonel Brooke, we are at war.’
Josette gulped, her fingers playing nervously with the lace trimming at her neck. ‘You are going to help Patrick?’ Von Hagen’s smile grew. ‘And Colonel Brooke? I . . . I won’t let you harm Colonel Brooke.’
Without taking his eyes from Anthony, von Hagen strode to the door and flung it open. ‘Wait downstairs.’
Josette didn’t move. ‘It’s true, what Colonel Brooke said, isn’t it? You aren’t going to help. You did shoot Chapman, didn’t you? I read about it. You were the mysterious man on the platform. Even if he was a horrid little man, you shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Enough, I say,’ repeated von Hagen. ‘Go downstairs.’
Josette shook her head. ‘I trusted you. You said that you wanted to talk to Colonel Brooke. You said you’d protect Milly if I brought the colonel to you. You said you’d help Patrick if I brought the colonel to you.’
She went to stand beside Anthony, putting her hand protectively on his shoulder. Anthony covered her hand with his, feeling her emotions trembling through her. ‘You’re going to kill him,’ she said wonderingly. ‘I can’t let you do that.’
Very deliberately, she dropped her hands, squared her shoulders and walked towards von Hagen. ‘I can’t let you do it.’
The gun came up. Von Hagen’s eyes were like chips of ice.
Anthony saw his finger twitch on the trigger. ‘Josette!’ he shouted. ‘Get back!’
Her hand reached out and took hold of the muzzle of the gun. She turned her head. ‘Anthony,’ she said, very quietly. ‘Go downstairs.’
Anthony saw von Hagen’s finger tighten and, as if time had slowed to a crawl, the hammer on the gun go back. He flung himself across the room to pull her away.
In a deafening blast the gun went off.
Anthony crunched into von Hagen, the weight of his charge knocking von Hagen off his feet. They rolled over on the filthy floorboards together, the gun flying out of von Hagen’s hand. Anthony scrambled for it desperately as von Hagen’s hands closed round his throat. He found the muzzle, grasped it, and cracked it down hard on the side of von Hagen’s head. Von Hagen’s eyes rolled back and his body went limp. Anthony lay still for a moment, then painfully shook off the other man’s dead weight.
He could hear shouts and footsteps on the stairs, but they seemed to be in another world. All he could think of was Josette sprawled on the floor, her dress stained with blood. ‘Josette?’ Anthony knelt beside her and reached for her hand. ‘Josette?’
Her eyes flickered open. They were glazed and sightless. Her lips moved as she tried to speak, then her head fell back and she died.
The door opened and he knew someone had come into the room. He tore his gaze away from Josette and, still kneeling beside her and holding her lifeless hand, looked at the chauffeur and Keegan.
‘Jesus,’ said Keegan softly.
‘Watch him!’ warned the chauffeur as Keegan walked across the room, but Anthony didn’t have the strength to resist. Keegan hauled him to his feet and Anthony slumped into one of the flimsy chairs.
Keegan picked up the gun and covered Anthony with it.
‘Tie him up,’ said the chauffeur. ‘Use your belt if you have to. I want the swine safe and sound.’
Anthony made no resistance. He couldn’t have moved to save his life, but Keegan pulled his hands behind his back and tied them at the wrists. His injured arm screamed a protest. Dimly, Anthony knew it was hurting like hell, but even the pain seemed far away.
The chauffeur stooped over von Hagen, shaking him awake. Von Hagen stirred and groaned.
Von Hagen lifted himself up and, with the chauffeur’s help, got to his feet. He steadied himself for a moment, looking first at Josette and then at Anthony. He flexed his muscles, walked across to the chair, drew back his hand and walloped Anthony across the face.
Anthony’s head crashed back and the chair went over. Again, it hurt, but he was so numb he hardly felt it. Anthony knew von Hagen was barking instructions, but he couldn’t make out what he said. His whole world centred on Josette and that ghastly stain on the front of her dress.
Anthony was made to stand up and the gun was thrust in his back. His legs trembled with the effort of walking and he nearly fell down the stairs. He was led outside and, with the gun in his back, he stumbled across to a tree and sank onto the ground.
It was dark now and the chauffeur brought the paraffin lamp from the sitting room, resting it on the old wall.
‘Keep watch,’ said von Hagen to Keegan. ‘I’ll go and take care of things inside.’ He turned to the chauffeur. ‘Start the car.’
Anthony slowly started to put coherent thoughts together. Why had they left his ankles free? Of course. He was going to get in the car.
Von Hagen paused before he went into the house, looking at Anthony in the dim light. ‘You will pay for what you have done,’ he said quietly.
Anthony didn’t answer.
Leaving Keegan to keep watch, the chauffeur went to the car. Even though Anthony felt utterly beaten and wearily detached, he couldn’t help notice what was going on.
The first was that the chauffeur started the car.
The second was that he felt a hand touch the back of his wrist.
It was utterly unexpected. The hand squeezed his tightly and it was as if strength flowed into him from that touch. With the touch came back sensation. First, pain from his arm and his face and then a slow, steadily growing anger.
He felt the cold metal of a knife work through the leather belt and, feeling the warning pat of the unknown hand, stayed exactly as he was, as if his hands were still tied. He felt the knife being put into his hands and, as he grasped the handle, another pat of approval came from the hand behind him.
Anthony tensed himself to creep away but he was brought up short by a commotion from the cottage.
There was the sound of running feet and von Hagen stormed out of the house in a towering fury. ‘She’s gone!’ he shouted. ‘The woman’s gone!’
Keegan snapped his head round and the chauffeur got out of the car. ‘She can’t have gone, boss,’ he stammered.
‘She has,’ ground out von Hagen. He marched up to Anthony and stood, hands on hips, glaring at him. ‘Where is she?’
A deep fear gripped Anthony. She could only be one person. ‘I don’t know,’ he said with as much conviction as he could muster.
Von Hagen started forward. Anthony readied himself, bunching the muscles in his legs. Then once again, von Hagen raised his hand and struck out in a stunning blow.
He’d made a mistake. This time Anthony wasn’t tied up.
Anthony launched himself away from the blow and flung himself at von Hagen, knife at the ready. Keegan, taken by surprise, fumbled the gun, dropped it and tried to knock the knife out of Anthony’s hand. Von Hagen jumped back but Anthony felt the knife dig into something solid.
Keegan kicked out, Anthony staggered back, crashed into von Hagen and they all went down together. Anthony felt a knee on his chest and hit out wildly. Someone crunched into his wounded arm and Anthony, mad with pain, hit blindly at the body in front of him.
He heard a gasp. Not a big gasp, but a sound as if a heavy man had sat on a cushion. Von Hagen stared at him with wide open eyes that showed nothing but absolute astonishment. He put a hand to his white shirt-front and brought it away black with something. It seemed to take Anthony ages to work out it was blood. Still with his eyes wide open, von Hagen tried to speak, gave another gasp, and fell, the knife buried in his chest.
‘Where’s the bloody gun?’ shouted the chauffeur.
‘I dropped it,’ yelled Keegan. ‘The boss is a gonner.’
The chauffeur took one look at von Hagen’s staring eyes. ‘Bloody hell!’ he muttered, backing away. ‘Bloody hell, Keegan, let’s get out of here.’ He groped his way into the car.
‘Wait!’ shouted Keegan, over the revving of the engine. He vaulted into the car beside the chauffeur. ‘Go! Go!’
The headlights snapped on and the car lurched out of the clearing, missing the trees by inches.
Anthony slumped down against the old garden wall.
‘Tara,’ he called, raising his head. ‘You can come out now.’
She came out of the darkness to sit beside him. Anthony realized she was crying. He reached out and comforted her with his good arm, holding her close to his chest, her head on his shoulder.
With a lifting of his heart he realized what he’d always known. Tara, clever, resourceful, passionate, loyal Tara was his; had to be his. As he realized the dangers she had faced and the trials she had surmounted to be safe with him at last, he was too happy to speak. He mourned Josette, mourned her deeply, but as he sat, holding Tara close, he felt a wave of deep contentment wash over him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually, drying her eyes with her sleeve. ‘I’m sorry to cry, but I’ve been so scared. Josette was with them. Where is she?’
Anthony didn’t say anything. She looked at his face and understood. ‘She’s dead?’
‘Von Hagen killed her,’ said Anthony.
She shuddered. ‘Poor Josette.’
It seemed as good an epitaph as any.
‘What were you doing here?’ asked Anthony. ‘It seemed like a miracle when you patted my hand.’
‘They captured me,’ she said simply. ‘I’d got into the kitchen and seen them in the sitting room. I was outside when they caught me. It was the chauffeur and that other man. They argued what to do with me, then said they’d leave it up to the boss to decide.’ Anthony pulled her closer to him with a convulsive shudder. ‘They tied me up and locked me in the shed but they didn’t know I’d put the bread knife down my riding boot. I managed to get the knife out and cut myself free, then I broke the window and escaped.’
‘But why were you here in the first place?’ asked Anthony.
‘I met Matthew Stoker, the carter, on the road. He was talking to Ben Travis, which I thought was odd. Ben’s done odd-jobs for us lots of times but he’s a tramp, really. He’s usually beneath Stoker’s notice, but Stoker wanted to share a joke with him about a ditch and I imagine he thought Ben would do as well as anyone. Ben asked me if they needed any men for this film being made at Starhanger. I guessed what had happened from what Stoker told me. Then Ben said he wondered if this film was to blame for his usual sleeping-place, the old gamekeeper’s cottage, being taken over by a bunch of toffs in a car. Well, that sounded unusual, so I went to have a look. I left my horse tethered, walked to the edge of the clearing and saw Josette by the car. I knew Josette was involved, after you’d showed me that photograph of the little girl. I’d seen a similar photo in her room and I knew there was a secret about her. I didn’t say anything because it wasn’t my secret to give away.’
‘She’s Josette’s daughter,’ Anthony said.
Tara nodded. ‘I thought so. Anyway, Josette went inside and, as I listened to the men, I realized they were waiting for you. They said you were bound to turn up.’
Anthony said nothing but held her close.
It seemed like a long time before she spoke again. ‘I’m sorry the men in the car got away. They shouldn’t have done.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I stole their sugar from the kitchen and put it in the petrol. It was something I learned when I wrote the motoring pieces. I thought it would stop the car.’
Anthony threw back his head and laughed. ‘You wonderful, wonderful girl. Of course it’ll stop the car. It’ll run for a couple of miles at the most before the sugared petrol feeds through and then it’ll stop, sure enough.’ He tried to stand up. ‘Give me a hand, will you? We need to tell my people. They’ll round them up all right.’
Tara gently restrained him. ‘Stay there, Anthony.’ It was the first time she had ever called him by his name, not his title, and the sound of it thrilled him. ‘I’ll go. My horse is nearby. Who do I tell?’
Anthony reached awkwardly into his jacket pocket and handed her his notebook. Even that small movement hurt and he relapsed gratefully against the tree. ‘Look in there. There’s a list of telephone numbers. Ring Sir Charles Talbot and tell him Keegan and the chauffeur need picking up. Say we need an angel.’
She took the book. ‘Sir Charles Talbot? I thought he was more than he seemed.’ She paused for a brief moment and smiled, her eyes lighting up. ‘That sounds like top-secret information. Should you have told me?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Go on, Tara. It’s urgent.’
She walked away quickly, then, just before she plunged into the trees, turned round. ‘Why doesn’t it matter?’
Anthony raised his head. ‘Because I’m going to marry you. If you’ll have me.’
She grinned. ‘I hoped that was it.’
‘I seem,’ said Sir Charles, ‘to spend far too much of my time visiting you in hospital.’
It was the next day. Anthony had been taken to a private ward in a hospital in Canterbury. Sir Charles had called last night and Anthony had wearily told him the truth about Josette Sherston. With his mind buzzing, Anthony thought he would never sleep, but nature had taken its eventual toll on his exhausted body. This morning he’d been allowed to get up and, now that his arm and an array of cuts and bruises had been attended to, he’d been told he could leave that day.
‘However,’ continued Sir Charles, ‘you can be very pleased with yourself. With Keegan and Gallagher safe in custody . . .’
‘Gallagher?’ Anthony questioned.
‘The chauffeur. His name’s Gallagher. He’s a key member of the Sons of Hibernia and a very dangerous man. He’s wanted both here and in New York for a string of crimes.’ He coughed and cleared his throat. ‘It’s a pity about Mrs Sherston.’
Yes, thought Anthony with a twist of compassion. He thought it was a pity about Mrs Sherston.
‘We released Patrick Sherston this morning. I don’t know how the poor devil will put his life back together after something like this. He knew his wife was guilty, of course, after we’d arrested him. I admire him for what he did, even though it confused matters. It was a noble thing to carry the can like that. He was devastated to hear she was dead.’
Sir Charles sighed. ‘I can’t help feeling it’s for the best, though. I know it was Veronica O’Bryan’s doing, but there’s no doubt Josette Sherston was up to her neck in it, no matter how compelling the motive was. The main thing is Tara O’Bryan’s all right. I spoke to her earlier. She’s someone I admire, Brooke. She’s a very tough-minded girl.’
‘That’s just as well,’ said Anthony with the beginnings of a smile. ‘She’s going to marry me.’
Sir Charles raised his eyebrows. ‘Is she, by jingo? I always thought she was fond of you. Congratulations. She didn’t mention that. Well, that’s one good thing to come out of it all, to say nothing of “Frankie’s Letter” being finally dead. I told Miss O’Bryan about “Frankie’s Letter”, by the way, and the truth about her mother’s involvement.’
‘Did you?’ said Anthony, startled. ‘Blimey, Talbot, how did she take it?’
‘She wasn’t happy but she wanted the truth. If you’re going to marry her, I’d recommend the truth. She’s incredibly sharp.’
‘She’s simply incredible,’ murmured Anthony. ‘Talbot, I know I’ve mentioned this before, but this time I mean it. If I’m going to be a sober married man, I can’t carry on working for you. I’m going to join the Medical Corps.’
Sir Charles looked at him ruefully. ‘I thought you might.’ He saw the determination in Anthony’s face and shrugged. ‘I’ll be sorry to see you go. You might be safer staying in the Service. Being an army doctor is no picnic.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ said Anthony firmly. ‘Having said that, there’s one more mission I want to do off my own bat.’
‘Which is?’ asked Sir Charles sharply.
‘I want to go France. That kid Milly – I want to bring her home. Ever since I saw her picture her face has got to me.’
‘Take it up with your future wife,’ said Sir Charles after a few moments thought. ‘France, eh? D’you know, I might have a job for you in France.’
Anthony put down the letter from Patrick Sherston and looked through the open French windows into the garden. The war had been over for three years. Life – his life, Tara’s life, everyone’s life – had been altered out of all recognition by the war. For a moment, a deep longing for that happy, settled time before the war engulfed him, then he heard Tara laugh as she played with the children on the lawn. He sat back, lit his pipe, and let contentment wash over him.
Patrick Sherston had gone to Australia, leaving Britain for good. The letter said he was marrying again. Poor beggar, he deserved some happiness at last. Anthony thought of taking Sherston’s letter into the garden, but treated himself to a few more minutes of quiet reflection, looking through the windows.
Tara was engrossed in the children’s game. She had worked all morning, busy on her new novel. Her last book was a success. She was a far better writer than her father had ever been.
Milly, very much in charge, was laying out toys on the grass for a game of shop. Milly; exactly how he’d got into France and brought her home would make a book in itself. Perhaps Tara would write it one of these days, but that, added Anthony to himself, as he picked up the letter and walked outside, was quite another story.