THREE
Anthony 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.’
Sir Charles looked puzzled. ‘The 28th? That’s over a fortnight ago. Why didn’t you let us know? We could have had you home in half the time.’
Anthony tapped his cigarette on the brass ashtray. ‘I’ll tell you what Cavanaugh said before he died. Then you’ll understand why I didn’t warn you I was on my way.’
Sir Charles heard him out, writing down the odd note, prompting Anthony with occasional questions. When he heard of the fate of von Hagen, he looked up with a broad grin. ‘Do you know, it really is remarkable how the Prussians venerate an army uniform. How did you go on after you got on the boat at Kiel?’
Anthony returned the grin and lit another cigarette. ‘I had a talk to the captain, who was a patriotic German, thank goodness. He appreciated how it could be necessary for a German officer to get in and out of Denmark without being seen. He provided a change of clothes and kindly offered to keep my uniform for me until I could reclaim it. He understood how Korsor might be watched and how careful I had to be, as there were spies everywhere. I mean, look at that business on the quayside as we left.’
He laughed. ‘My word, I was lucky to get away with it. It really was funny, you know. I suppose poor old von Hagen managed to explain things eventually, but I’d prepared the major to believe that everything he said was a pack of lies. The only thing I was worried about was that they might send a fast boat after us but, if they did, it was too late. I left the ship near Skjelskor in the south of Zealand, got across to Copenhagen without too much trouble, and headed for home.’
Sir Charles frowned. ‘We had no word from anyone in Copenhagen.’
Anthony leaned forward. ‘That was deliberate. In light of what Cavanaugh said, I was wary of approaching anyone. I picked up some false papers in Copenhagen and came back as a passenger on a Dutch cargo boat shipping margarine and candles. It was long-winded but I was safe enough. However, it does mean I’ve been out of touch for a while.’
Sir Charles’s eyes widened. ‘You’ve heard the news, though? About the Lusitania, I mean?’
Anthony shook his head, puzzled. ‘No. What about the Lusitania?’
‘It was torpedoed and sunk by a U-boat off the coast of Ireland,’ said Sir Charles quietly. ‘There’s thought to be well over a thousand passengers and crew dead.’
Anthony stared at him. ‘They attacked a passenger ship?’ Sir Charles nodded. ‘But they can’t do that.’
He felt sick. He’d sailed on the Lusitania. She was far more than just a name to him. She was a wonderful ship, a vast, elegant Cunarder who had won the Blue Ribbon for the fastest Atlantic crossing, a ship it was a delight to sail on and whose crew felt proud to be on board. He’d been in attendance on Molly Benham’s father at the time and had sat beside the old man in the lounge with its ornate plasterwork under the stained-glass skylight, while families, mothers, nursemaids and well-drilled children came and went.
A little girl had jogged his arm and Anthony spilled his whisky, marking the table top. The steward had wiped it up and next morning the table had been lovingly polished so no stain remained. And now sea water covered the polish and the green curtains were a sodden mass of slimy velvet.
In a sudden, vivid moment, Anthony could virtually see the mass of pent-up water, swamping the decks, pouring down the darkened hatchways and forcing its way through the cabin doors, through to the terrified children held by their mothers. A thousand people dead.
Sir Charles looked at Anthony’s shocked face. ‘Yes, they got the Lusitania,’ he repeated quietly. He looked down at the notes he’d taken. ‘And Cavanaugh said, “There’s a ship in danger. A big ship. Passengers.” He obviously knew what he was talking about.’
‘But why?’ demanded Anthony in horrified disbelief. ‘It’s barbaric. Those people were civilians. Why on earth did they do it? Apart from anything else, the Americans will be up in arms about it.’
‘Only if we’re very lucky,’ said Sir Charles, grimly. ‘There were Americans killed all right but, as I see it, President Wilson will send the Germans a stiff note and everything will be as before.’
‘But it doesn’t make sense,’ protested Anthony in bewilderment. ‘The Lusitania wasn’t a threat to anyone. This sort of thing’s unprecedented.’
Sir Charles raised his eyebrow. ‘Is it?’ He rubbed a hand across his forehead. ‘I wish it were. You’ve been out of touch, Brooke, so you won’t know, but the Lusitania is only their largest victim so far. The gloves are off, right enough. The Germans have declared unrestricted submarine warfare and no ship is safe. A hospital ship, brilliantly lit and showing the red cross, was attacked outside Le Havre in February. In March, three steamers were destroyed off the Scillies in one day. The ships were sunk but the passengers and crew were safe. They were allowed into lifeboats and then the submarine turned her guns on them.’
‘They did what?’
Sir Charles nodded. ‘They fired on the lifeboats. It’s nothing less than murder. The list goes on. The Falaba was forced to stop by a German submarine. It surrendered, the ship was stationary, the crew and passengers were getting into lifeboats, when the submarine torpedoed the Falaba. Over a hundred people were drowned.’
Anthony felt stunned. To attack the ships, yes. That was war, but to fire on the defenceless crew and passengers was against every rule of war, the sea and humanity.
Sir Charles saw his expression. ‘Grim, isn’t it? Germany’s fighting a blockade and she’s using fear as a weapon.’ He tapped his notes. ‘Cavanaugh’s warning indicates that the attack on the Lusitania was planned. Do you know that doesn’t surprise me? The German Embassy in Washington issued a notice to the New York press that any vessel – any vessel at all – was liable to destruction. We’re fighting a ruthless enemy who doesn’t recognize rules.’
He pushed his chair away from the desk and walked to the window. ‘I remember you were shocked at the idea of going into Germany to gather information. I had to persuade you to break the rules, as you saw it. You didn’t –’ he turned and looked at Anthony ‘– think it was a pukka thing to do. How do you feel now?’
Anthony shrugged helplessly. ‘How on earth can I recall how it felt before the war? It seems a lifetime away. I still don’t like it.’ He avoided Sir Charles’s eyes. ‘I’d far rather follow my original notion and join the Medical Corps. I don’t know how much use I was in Germany but I know I’d be worth my salt in an army hospital. Besides that, it’d be a relief to be known by my own name and not be on my guard all the time. I made mistakes, Talbot, plenty of them. I covered them up, but you can only get away with it for so long.’
Sir Charles hitched himself onto the window sill and leaned against the frame. He looked at Anthony appraisingly. ‘How old are you, Brooke?’
Anthony was puzzled. ‘How old? I’m thirty-two. Why?’
Sir Charles nodded. ‘You seem older. You’ve been through it, haven’t you? There’s more grey in your hair than I remember and you look tired. But we need you, Brooke. You don’t just speak the language. You can pass for a native without question.’
‘So what?’ countered Anthony. ‘Yes, I’m a good mimic. You know that.’ He looked at Sir Charles, willing him to understand. ‘But this is more than a game. It’s horribly real. I want . . .’ With a stab of shame he heard his voice crack and he forced himself to continue. ‘God knows what I want, Talbot, but there are men dying in France, men I can help. Surely that’s more important than picking up crumbs of information.’ Mortified, he heard his voice nearly break once more. ‘It’s not worth it.’
Sir Charles walked to the sideboard, took out a bottle and two glasses and poured a small measure of whisky into both. ‘Here, drink that,’ he said and waited until Anthony, wincing slightly, drank the neat spirit.
Sir Charles splashed some soda water into his whisky and sat down at the desk, looking at Anthony thoughtfully. ‘Now the immediate danger’s over you’re suffering from reaction, and no wonder,’ he said quietly. ‘You asked if it was worth it.’
He caught Anthony’s expression of dissent and held his hand up. ‘It’s just beginning to dawn on everyone, politicians and people alike, exactly what we’re up against. Lord Kitchener never believed the war would be over by Christmas and made no bones about saying so. We’re in for a long haul and there are no short cuts to victory.’ His voice grew urgent. ‘But as that sinks in, as the casualties grow and the restrictions begin to bite, there’ll be cries for peace at any price. A quick fight with soldiers to cheer off onto the troopships is what the public loves. For a time it’s more fun than football and cricket and people enjoy reading about distant acts of bravery in places with funny foreign names. But this?’
He walked to the desk and stood with his hands braced on the table. ‘This is different. You’ll hear a lot of talk in the coming months to the effect that the government are senseless warmongers, that all we need to do is to sit down and talk nicely to the Germans with a little sweet reason and everything will be fine.’
Anthony met Sir Charles’s serious eyes. ‘Wouldn’t it? Look, when I think of the Lusitania, I want revenge too, but can’t we find some common ground? There are plenty of decent Germans.’
‘I know there are, Brooke!’ said Sir Charles sharply. ‘Unfortunately those aren’t the ones we have to deal with. Do you remember sending us papers from a contact called Geiss?’
Anthony nodded. He hadn’t been able to read the papers but he remembered Geiss, a political insider from Berlin, well enough.
‘Geiss wasn’t our only source for the information but what was said was so vital that any confirmation was like gold dust. I don’t have to look it up, because I’ll never forget it. It was notes of what the German Chancellor, Bethmann-Hollweg proposes in the event of a German victory. We’re calling it the September Programme, because the notes we’ve got are dated the ninth of September, at the height of the battle of the Marne. We managed to stop them but only just. Since the Marne we’ve been holding on with our fingernails. Bethmann-Hollweg wants control of the whole of Europe. The French, the Poles, the Italians, the Swedes will all be under German domination.’
Anthony couldn’t quite believe him. ‘That’s fairly comprehensive,’ he said with an ironic twist in his voice. ‘What about the neutral countries? Holland and Denmark and so on? Are they going to be part of Greater Germany?’
‘Brooke, there won’t be any neutrals if the Germans have their way. The September Programme talks about economic control for the neutrals. All of Europe will be nothing more than a puppet state.’
Sir Charles was completely serious. Anthony felt his disbelief shifting but damnit, surely all this fight-to-the-death stuff was crazy? Surely this talk of European domination couldn’t be anything more than sabre-rattling. He asked the obvious question. ‘Where does that leave us? Britain, I mean?’
‘Your imagination can supply the obvious answer, but Bethmann-Hollweg dots the I’s and crosses the T’s. He talks about forcing France to her knees – that’s his actual phrase – so that she will accept any peace Germany sees fit to offer, which means they can impose their will on England. That, too, is a direct quote. I tell you, there won’t be a Britain if we don’t win this war.’
Anthony shifted in irritation. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘You can’t see it, can you?’ said Sir Charles. ‘Very few of us can imagine what it would be like to live in an occupied country.’ He leaned forward, his voice urgent once more. ‘Can’t you see the arrogance, the unconscious, self-assured, dangerous arrogance of that? The Germans can occupy Belgium. Why not? It’s only Belgium. France? It’s foreign. You expect odd things to happen in foreign countries, but occupy us? Never. This is England. That sort of thing doesn’t happen here. It’s been a hundred years since this country was truly affected by war and all the fighting was overseas. It’s been a thousand years since we faced a real invasion and Britain, so the thinking goes, wasn’t really Britain then. The Norman Conquest is tucked away in history books and is just a date for schoolboys to learn. Well, if we don’t win the war, there’ll be another date for schoolboys to learn.’
Anthony had to admit that Sir Charles was right. He couldn’t imagine a successful invasion. ‘What about the Empire?’
‘Which Empire?’ asked Sir Charles with a lift of his eyebrows. ‘The British Empire or the empire the Germans propose to carve out of Africa? Mittleafrikanisches Kolonialreich, they call it. If we lose the war, that’s the end of Pax Britannica. We can lose, Brooke. Believe me, we can lose. The Germans are well-armed, well-disciplined, tenacious and courageous and are horribly inventive about the weapons they’re prepared to use. For years they’ve said that a modern war would call upon every device science could provide. That was horribly proved last month. They used chlorine gas. It’s a disgusting weapon. And, just to make things worse in my opinion, the thirst for revenge is so great it’ll only be a matter of time before we use it too.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘I can’t see us not doing. I’d stop it if I could, but I can’t. Gas is a loathsome thing, but they started it. We can’t let them have the advantage. We’ve managed to hold them and we’ve managed to shake them but we haven’t managed to beat them. Considering they’ve had conscription for years and all we’ve got is our regulars, we haven’t done badly. For years we’ve managed with a small army, a contemptible little army, as the Kaiser put it. Well, that army’s swelled considerably over the last few months and we need to train it, equip it and supply it. Supplying it is probably one of the hardest things of all.’ He pulled out his chair and sat down at the desk once more. He looked, thought Anthony, very tired.
‘I’ve never thought about that side of it,’ said Anthony. He was oddly unsure of himself. Sir Charles was right; it was impossible to imagine life in Britain under the victorious Germans. Arrogance? Yes, he supposed it was.
Sir Charles put a hand to his chin. ‘Supplies are the devil. We’ve had to ration shellfire down to two rounds a gun in some cases – two rounds! – and there’s nothing left in the depots. We’re supplying ammunition straight from the ships to the field and even that supply has, on occasion, dried up altogether.’ He picked up his whisky, swirled it round in his glass and finished it with a gesture of finality. ‘Revise your ideas, Brooke. We’re fighting because we have to fight and it’s a grim struggle for survival.’
Anthony raised his hands in protest. ‘All right. So we have to fight. But Talbot, wouldn’t I be more use in France than in Germany?’
Sir Charles shook his head decisively. ‘We need information. Information that only people like you and that poor devil, Cavanaugh, can provide. Without it we’re fighting blind.’ He walked to the desk and picked up the notes he had made. ‘“Spy in England. Gentleman. He must be a gentleman. Seems to know everything. Knew about me. Frankie’s letter. Read Frankie’s letter.” And then there’s this phrase you couldn’t catch. Star’s anger?’
‘I don’t know what star’s anger means,’ said Anthony. ‘I thought it was the name of the ship, but it obviously isn’t.’
‘Star’s anger doesn’t mean anything to me. What about Frankie’s letter? Who’s Frankie?’
Anthony shrugged. ‘There again, I don’t know. I’ve never heard him mention anyone called Frankie, man or woman. I thought at first Frankie was a girl, a girl he cared about, but now I’m not so sure. He said “Read Frankie’s letter”, and added, “I loved her”. I asked him if he had the letter, but he said – he died seconds later – “It’s not that sort of letter.” I’ve had plenty of time to think about it, and I think that the Frankie who wrote the letter and this girl are two separate people. What he meant by “not that sort of letter”, I don’t know.’
Sir Charles clicked his tongue. ‘Frankie’s letter . . .’ He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Let’s put that to one side for the moment and concentrate on what we do know. “Spy in England.” Well, we know there are spies. We even know who some of them are.’
‘Do we?’ asked Anthony, startled.
‘Absolutely we do,’ said Sir Charles with a smile. ‘If we want snippets of misleading information to be breakfast reading in Berlin, they’re invaluable. We have to flavour it with a salting of truth, just to keep the pot bubbling, so to speak, but I watch over the welfare of these innocents like an old mother hen. They aren’t all German, of course. Traitors are rare, thank God, but they do exist, and the Germans pay well. They go up to a thousand pounds or so for something really juicy.’
‘Good grief,’ said Anthony with a lift of his eyebrows. ‘That’s a sight more than I seem to be worth,’ he added.
‘Don’t underestimate yourself.’ Sir Charles leaned forward and tapped the paper. ‘This sounds like someone we don’t know. “Spy in England. Knew about me. He must be a gentleman.”’ Sir Charles sat back, frowning. ‘It sounds like unfinished business.’ He cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at Anthony. ‘What do you know about Cavanaugh?’
‘I know he was an Irish-American and a journalist. As a neutral and especially an American neutral, he was welcomed by the Germans. He was about fifty, but as tough as old boots. He’d been a ranch-hand and a prizefighter and a raft of other things in between. He had a pose of being anti-British.’
‘That wasn’t entirely assumed,’ said Sir Charles thoughtfully. ‘Cavanaugh wasn’t his real name, by the way. He found it necessary to change it. I took a risk with him, but it was justified. As you know, if it hadn’t been for the war, the bill granting Irish Independence would have gone through Parliament. Cavanaugh, in common with many others, was certain that independence would lead to trouble as the Nationalists and the Loyalists battled it out. As a journalist he wanted to see for himself what was going on. He joined a New York Irish group called The Hibernian Relief Fund and what he found shocked him.’
Anthony looked a question.
‘The Hibernian Relief Fund was supposed to help poor Irishmen and their families, both in New York and Ireland. What it actually did was raise money for arms. Not only was a civil war anticipated but it was being eagerly provided for.’ Sir Charles put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. ‘Now, before the war, the money raised came from the New York Irish. Guess who else has taken an interest.’
Anthony looked at him sharply. ‘Germany?’
Sir Charles nodded. ‘Germany. As I said, the Germans aren’t stupid. If there’s a rebellion in Ireland, we, the British, would have to do something about it. That means troops and supplies tied up in Ireland which would otherwise be used on the Western Front. Cavanaugh was all for a Free Ireland but he didn’t want a civil war and he certainly didn’t want the Germans involved. He published his story and all hell broke loose. From then on he was a marked man.’
‘You mean his life was threatened?’
Sir Charles nodded. ‘Several times. Cavanaugh changed his name, came to London and made it his business to get in touch with me. He’d learned enough in New York to realize there was an active Irish-German link in London and was stubborn enough to want to get to the bottom of it. He joined a London group called Sons of Hibernia, which, like its American counterpart, was supposed to be a Friendly Society, aiding poor Irishmen and women. It wasn’t, of course. Having learned from bitter experience, he was rather more cautious this time round and he uncovered some very valuable information. However, it was only part of the story. By his own request, he went to Germany to try and get the other end. There are Irishmen in Germany, honoured guests of the German government, and he wanted to find out exactly what they were doing.’ His mouth twisted. ‘It seems as if they got to him first.’
Once again he looked at the notes he had made. ‘“Spy in England. Gentleman. He must be a gentleman. Seems to know everything. Knew about me. Frankie’s letter. Read Frankie’s letter.”’
‘That sounds as if Frankie betrayed him.’ Anthony clicked his tongue. ‘And yet, it’s odd, isn’t it? Frankie and the Gentleman sound like two different people.’
Sir Charles nodded. ‘Yes. So we’ve got a gentleman spy and his assistant, Frankie, who’s in touch with the Germans or the Irish in Germany, which is much the same thing. So who the devil are they? A gentleman in England . . . It’s not much to go on, is it?’ he added in disgust. ‘England’s full of gentlemen, particularly if you use the term loosely.’
Anthony reached for another cigarette and lit it, smoking thoughtfully. ‘D’you know, that’s exactly what he didn’t do,’ he said after a pause. Sir Charles looked at him enquiringly. ‘Use the term loosely, I mean,’ he explained. ‘Perhaps it’s because he was American, but I’d noticed that about him before. To Cavanaugh, to call him that, an English gentleman was a fairly technical term. He never used it politely or ironically but meant the sort of bloke who mixes in fashionable society and gets invited to house parties or who is asked to come for a few days’ fishing or play a bit of country-house cricket.’
Sir Charles sat very still for a few moments. ‘A real gentleman, you mean?’ He swallowed. ‘My God, I hope not. The information a gentleman spy could pick up is frightening.’
‘What are you so worried about?’ asked Anthony, his forehead creasing in a frown. ‘Unless the gentleman’s a military type or got special information of some kind, I can’t see they’ll know anything out of the ordinary. I don’t want to be flippant, but I can’t see the Germans would be much wiser for knowing anyone’s batting average or how the trout are rising on the Cam.’
Sir Charles shook his head impatiently. ‘Of course they wouldn’t. But don’t you see, Brooke, someone who does know that sort of thing, someone who’s really in the heart of English society, could pick up all sorts of gossip. You wouldn’t believe what gets chattered about. They could have found out about Cavanaugh quite by chance.’
‘By chance? Come on. Cavanaugh’s not likely to have told anyone and anyone who did know wouldn’t go blabbing it about.’
Sir Charles bit his lip. ‘I wish I could be so sure. Anyone who was on the lookout for information could pick up a dickens of a lot, simply by listening to the conversations round him. You know how people talk.’
Anthony remained sceptical. ‘There’s bound to be a lot of chit-chat, I grant you, but something really serious, like Cavanaugh’s mission, would be kept under wraps.’
‘Would it?’ Sir Charles steepled his fingers and leaned forward. ‘Tell me, Brooke, would you say what I told you about the shortage of munitions was serious? Something the Germans would like to know?’
‘Of course I would,’ said Anthony with a short laugh. ‘They probably have an idea that things are tight but if they knew exactly how tight, they’d keep on fighting, even if it seemed hopeless.’
‘And yet I’m certain the Germans know as much as I do about our shell shortage. You won’t have seen The Times this morning but there’s a telegram from the Front spelling it out.’
Anthony gaped at him. ‘It’s printed in The Times?’
‘Not only that,’ continued Sir Charles, ‘but I’m prepared to bet the information came from none other than Field Marshall, Sir John French. He’s extremely friendly with Repington, their chief correspondent.’
‘What?’ Anthony was utterly bewildered. Not only did it seem to fly in the face of common sense but coming, as he was, fresh from Germany, it seemed akin to treachery. He couldn’t imagine what they’d do to a German general who broke ranks in that spectacular way. Nothing very friendly, he thought, and you definitely wouldn’t read about it afterwards in the newspapers. ‘Doesn’t the fool realize that this will be meat and drink to the enemy?’
‘That’s the price of having a free press.’ Sir Charles shrugged. ‘The trouble is, that as far as the shell shortage goes, Sir John French isn’t fighting the enemy, he’s fighting Lord Kitchener. We’ve got a whole new front opened up in the Dardanelles, and to have any chance of success, ammunition has to be diverted from France. The generals are at each other’s throats about it. The fact that the Germans will be a fascinated third in the quarrel doesn’t seem to have impinged on anyone. For all the British reputation for having a stiff upper lip, we must be the most garrulous society on earth.’ He leaned his elbows on the desk and shook his head wearily. ‘Good God, Brooke, when I think of what I’ve heard casually chatted about over dinner, my blood runs cold. As an American in England, Cavanaugh would stand out. He could easily have been one of the subjects for discussion.’
‘I suppose he could,’ said Anthony soberly. ‘Yes, in light of what you’ve told me, I suppose he could.’
‘I’ll tell you something else, too,’ said Sir Charles earnestly. ‘If there really is a gentleman spy on the loose, then we’re in trouble. Big trouble. I understated it when I said things were chatted about over dinner. I’ve heard whole plans of campaigns discussed, for heaven’s sake. There aren’t, thank God, rules about who can be in and out of society. It’s all more subtle and elusive than that, but once you’re in, you’re in. If there really was someone who was accepted, then they could hear virtually the whole of our war plans without much effort. All they’d have to do is talk to the right people and keep their ears open.’ Sir Charles got up and strode to the window. ‘My God . . . The more I think about it, the more horrifying it is. We’re so sure of ourselves, so willing to take people on trust.’ He clasped his hands together, looking at the palms. ‘Will you do it, Brooke?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Do what?’ asked Anthony, startled. He wasn’t aware of having been asked to do anything.
Sir Charles rounded on him impatiently. ‘Investigate. Find the spy, if there is a spy. Find Cavanaugh’s gentleman. This could be nothing more than a nightmare, but we need to know if it’s true.’
Anthony drew his breath in. ‘You want me to be a spy in England?’ he said slowly. He knew he was being squeamish, but the idea repelled him. It seemed so underhand.
‘That’s right.’ Sir Charles saw his expression and became urgent. ‘Don’t you see, man, we have to get to the bottom of this. If there really is a spy – a gentleman – we have to know. Otherwise many more lives besides Cavanaugh’s will be endangered.’
‘That’s true.’ It was true, but Anthony still winced from the idea of poking into people’s private lives. He thought, not to put too fine a point on it, it was rotten.
And that was arrogance, he said ruefully to himself. He was suffering from what Sir Charles had called arrogance. Although Cavanaugh’s use of the word gentleman had to mean someone inside society, he didn’t know if he really believed it. True enough, there were all sorts at the average dinner and many a hostess would sponsor a guest who was deliberately provocative, to throw some sparks into a dull gathering. But that wasn’t the kind of man he’d be looking for. Once he’d discounted the brilliant gentlemen of foreign extraction, the tamed anarchist and the ruck of wastrel sons and ne’er do wells – types which surely even the dimmest port-encrusted general would feel shy of confiding in – that left the Sound Chaps, Salt Of The Earth, Trust ’Em Anywhere, Good Man In A Tight Spot and all other clichés which added up to the sort of person who really was trustworthy. Or, at least, appeared to be.
He smoked his cigarette down to the butt and crushed it out. When he’d agreed to work for W. Gabriel Monks, he’d agreed to obey orders, whatever his private feelings may be.
‘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 . . .’