SIX
Sir Charles stood up and, with his hands clasped behind his back, walked to the window, gazing unseeingly at the traffic on Cockspur Street. He turned, looking at Anthony wryly. ‘I’ve put you in danger. If you want to join the Medical Corps, I won’t stand in your way.’
Anthony jerked his head up sharply. ‘What about Frankie?’
‘Damn Frankie,’ muttered Sir Charles. ‘The Germans know who you are.’
Looking at Sir Charles’s crestfallen face, Anthony felt torn. He wanted to join the Medical Corps but he had a huge reluctance to leave a job undone. He seemed to hear once again the desperation in Terry Cavanaugh’s voice as he died. Gentleman. He must be a gentleman.
There was a gentleman in England and Cavanaugh thought he was at Starhanger. Tara O’Bryan was at Starhanger . . .
‘No, Talbot,’ he said firmly.
Sir Charles’s eyes widened. ‘No?’
‘No, damnit. I said I’d find Frankie and I will. The Germans must think I’m a complete dud. I wouldn’t think much of an enemy agent who boasted in the newspapers and was fooled by that cringing little weasel who searched my room. Good. I won’t be caught napping a second time, by the Weasel or anyone else. They think they’ve got away with it. Let them. Don’t forget, I can recognize at least one German agent. That might prove very valuable.’
‘It might,’ conceded Sir Charles. He cocked his head to one side, raising his eyebrows. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain,’ said Anthony firmly. ‘After all, what have we lost? We think our gentleman might be Sherston and we’re fairly sure he’s associated with Starhanger. Sherston is the one person in the one house in England where I can’t pretend to be anyone but myself.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Sir Charles. ‘Well, I’m not going to argue. You’re a sight too valuable for that.’
‘Besides, I want to go to Starhanger.’ Anthony leaned forward. ‘You were looking for a plan, weren’t you? Some information so choice the Germans simply won’t be able to resist it. I’ve got an idea.’
Sir Charles listened as Anthony ran through his scheme. ‘That’s exactly the sort of thing I wanted,’ he said enthusiastically when Anthony had finished. ‘Would you mind if I worked on the details?’
‘Feel free.’
Sir Charles clicked his tongue. ‘Thanks to that article, you can’t take the principal part. If they use the Weasel again, he’ll know you’re a fake. Never mind. I’ll get somebody else. Leave it with me, Brooke.’
The following morning the ineffable Farlow called on Anthony with a note signed ‘Yr affectionate Aunt, Emily’.
Anthony’s Uncle Albert, it appeared, was as well as could be expected. Aunt Emily enquired after his health, but Aunt Emily’s heart wasn’t with her nephew but in her garden. She mentioned her three plum trees were in blossom but her budding roses were afflicted with greenfly. She’d sprayed them four times with soap solution and was going to try two applications of a nicotine spray before seeking advice from Mr Thornbury – Anthony remembered Mr Thornbury who’d been such a help to Mrs Rycroft – who had done so well with his roses at the Chelsea flower show.
Anthony had an Aunt Constance and an Aunt Cicely but no Aunt Emily, or, come to that, no Uncle Albert either. These relatives were convenient fictions. Anthony thought they appealed to Sir Charles’s sense of humour.
The innocent-sounding message, when read properly, told him to ask for a Mr Rycroft at 42, Thornbury Road, Chelsea at three o’clock that afternoon. That Sir Charles had written in code, even when the note was delivered by his own messenger, told him how much the Weasel had rattled him.
‘Tell Mr Monks I’ll meet him in Aunt Emily’s garden,’ Anthony said to the waiting Farlow.
42, Thornbury Road was a neat Georgian house, a few streets away from the Embankment. As the chimes of the clock from the Old Church sounded the hour, Anthony was shown into the sitting room where Sir Charles was waiting, accompanied by two men.
Sir Charles introduced the first man as John Rycroft, the owner of the house, and the second as Michael Greenwood. Greenwood, an open-faced, bright-looking lad with a shock of ginger hair, wore the uniform of the Intelligence Corps. ‘Greenwood’s our stalking horse, Colonel, if I can put it like that.’
‘It sounds like a very easy assignment,’ said Greenwood cheerfully.
‘I hope so,’ said Anthony, accepting the chair Rycroft offered. ‘Incidentally,’ he added, ‘I’ve been followed. It wasn’t the Weasel but there was a man on the tube. I managed to lose him.’
‘Was he carrying a bag of workman’s tools?’ queried Sir Charles, then continued in response to Anthony’s nod. ‘He’s one of ours. He was watching for anyone interested in you. Incidentally, I want you to make sure you’re seen with Greenwood this evening. Dinner at the Savoy should do it.’
‘That’s fine with me,’ said Greenwood so enthusiastically Anthony had to hide a smile. Dinners at the Savoy were obviously not an everyday occurrence to this particular young officer.
‘Now,’ said Sir Charles, ‘to business.’
He unlocked an attaché case and drew out a small wash-leather bag. He opened the bag and spilled lumps of soapy-coloured pebbles of various sizes onto the table. ‘These, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘are uncut diamonds.’
Anthony’s eyebrows shot up. Michael Greenwood gave a low whistle of surprise.
Sir Charles smiled. ‘I’m glad you like them. There’s half for you, Brooke, and half for Mr Greenwood.’
Anthony picked up a handful of stones, rubbing them between his fingers. ‘This is very generous of you,’ he said with a smile. ‘I didn’t expect you to take my grumbles about pay to heart quite so radically.’
‘Unfortunately they’re just on loan. I’d be obliged if you didn’t lose them. His Majesty’s Government has promised to make good any loss but, between ourselves, His Majesty’s Government would rather not. Our plan is to catch an enemy agent by giving them some irresistible information. Colonel Brooke will pass on this information to a select few and if it’s acted on, we’ll know that our agent is one of the people he’s told.’
He looked at Greenwood. ‘Mr Greenwood, your part is to play the role of a prospector, a miner, who’s just arrived in London.’
‘I see,’ said Greenwood doubtfully. ‘Do I have to dress up? I don’t fancy going round London with a pickaxe or what-have-you.’
Rycroft laughed. He was a stocky man with the faintly yellow complexion of someone who’d spent a lot of time in strong sun. ‘I’m a prospector, young man, and I don’t have to carry a spade to let people know I’m good at digging. All you have to do is stay in a hotel and act the part.’
Greenwood looked moderately reassured. ‘I see,’ he said once more.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Rycroft. ‘You’ll be fine. If, by any chance you do run into anyone who knows their onions, say that you’re onto something but you don’t want to talk about it. I’ll teach you some of the jargon and there’s a couple of books you can read to get into the spirit of the thing. Now then, to details.’
Rycroft took a folded map from a case on the bookshelf and opened it out on the table. It was a large-scale map of the African Central Highlands, showing the border between British East Africa, Kenya and German East. ‘Your story, Mr Greenwood,’ he said, lighting a thin black cigar, ‘is that you’ve found a diamantiferous area.’
‘I’ve found a what?’
Anthony was glad Greenwood asked. He wanted to know as well.
‘A diamantiferous area,’ said Rycroft patiently, ‘is an area which produces diamonds.’
‘That’s a diamond pipe, isn’t it?’ put in Greenwood intelligently. ‘Blue clay and all that.’
Rycroft shook his head. ‘You’re thinking about Kimberly.’
‘Am I?’
Anthony felt himself warming to the young man. Greenwood’s knowledge of diamonds was obviously about as profound as his own and he didn’t mind asking obvious questions.
Rycroft smiled. ‘I think you found your diamonds in a river, Mr Greenwood. River gravels and sandstones can be very productive. That’s where the majority of diamond finds are made in India and Brazil and in some parts of Africa, too. As I said, I’ll give you the technical knowledge you need. Now the region I suggest for your find is here –’ he tapped the map with a stubby forefinger – ‘in the waters coming down from Mount Erok. That’s in Ukambaland, just over the border from German East.’
Anthony nodded in satisfaction. When he’d sketched out his ideas to Sir Charles, what he had in mind was something hugely valuable, like a gold mine, but diamonds, which a lone prospector could apparently find tumbling about in a river seemed to fit the bill better.
Sir Charles nodded. ‘Mount Erok it is.’ He looked at Greenwood. ‘The idea is that if the Germans hear you’re in an unguarded hotel bedroom with maps of a valuable diamond find, especially one so close to the borders of German East, they’re more or less bound to try and steal them. Your cache of diamonds will add a bit of substance to the maps. I can’t see them failing to take the bait. Like the rest of us, they’re desperate for diamonds.’
Anthony was surprised by the word desperate. He wouldn’t say no to a few diamonds himself but he’d never been desperate for them. Greenwood was about to speak but thought better of it, so Anthony was forced to display his ignorance. ‘Why? Does the Kaiser want a new necklace or something?’
Sir Charles swapped a long-suffering look with Rycroft. ‘It’s industry, man. The Germans don’t want diamonds for jewellery, they need them for industry.’
Now Anthony was really puzzled. ‘Industry?’ Admittedly, what he knew about diamonds could have been comfortably written on a stamp, but he associated them with expensively dressed women, not smoky factories.
‘Industry. Drilling, engraving, making scales and meters, turning metal and so on, to say nothing of wire making.’
‘We’re using a fair bit of wire in France,’ put in Greenwood.
‘As you say.’ Sir Charles interlocked his fingers and braced his hands in a satisfied way. ‘Yes, that all hangs together. Mr Greenwood, I’ve arranged a false identity for you. Mr Rycroft has kindly offered to take you on as his nephew, so I want you to rid yourself of your uniform and reappear as Martin Rycroft. Once that’s taken care of, you need to book into a hotel. The St George’s in Cheshire Place will suit our purposes very well.’
‘Right-ho, sir.’
‘As well as the maps, you’ll have various documents to support your story of a find, but the principal prop is your cache of diamonds.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I think that’s all I need to say at this stage. Thank you very much for your help, Mr Rycroft. Brooke and I will leave you in peace to give a few pointers to Mr Greenwood.’
That evening Anthony dined with Michael Greenwood who, enthusiastically throwing himself into the part of Martin Rycroft, seemed to have picked up an extraordinary amount of miner’s slang in his session with ‘Uncle John’.
The following afternoon he departed with Sir Charles and his valet, Sedgley, for Starhanger.
The train, as was commonplace in the war, was delayed, re-routed and shunted into sidings on what seemed to Anthony to be nothing more than a whim. They had the compartment to themselves, Sir Charles’s valet travelling in another part of the train.
Sir Charles hoped to get the ball rolling that evening. Bertram Farlow and another assistant, Peter Warren, were in a room in the St George’s, across the corridor from Greenwood, with instructions that one of them should be on watch all the time. Greenwood, for his part, was to leave his room locked but empty for reasonable periods of time.
Farlow and Warren had instructions not to interfere. What Sir Charles wanted wasn’t some wretched agent of the Weasel variety but confirmation that the gentleman was at Starhanger. Naturally enough, Farlow and Warren were ignorant of what lay behind their assignment; all they had to do was watch.
As they dawdled through Kent, the conversation lapsed. Sir Charles buried himself in the Morning Post and Anthony, an unread newspaper on his knee, sat in the corner of the carriage, sightlessly looking at the rain-sheened patchwork of fleeting woods and fields, savouring his thoughts. Every rumble, every bump, brought him closer to Tara O’Bryan, the woman in blue.
It was crazy, he thought. He was a doctor. He knew that hearts didn’t really stop – not without grave consequences, at any rate – but in those seconds outside Swan and Edgars, with those wretched white feather women clutching at his coat, he could have sworn his had.
Why on earth the sight of her face should have had such an affect, he’d didn’t know. She wasn’t the first pretty girl he’d ever seen or the first he’d ever been attracted to. Pretty? That was the wrong word. She was beautiful, the sort of beauty that took your breath away, like dawn behind the mountains or a silver path of moonlight over a shifting sea. In those few seconds his life had changed beyond all calculation. What the future held he didn’t know. For the moment he was content it held her.
They were met at the tiny station of Swayling Halt by Sherston’s head groom, Kindred, driving a pony and trap. Their luggage was loaded onto the back. The rain had stopped, the clouds cleared away and they clip-clopped through the lengthening evening shadows through the village towards Starhanger.
As the trap turned into the drive, the bulk of Starhanger appeared in the distance. It was an ancient black-and-white timber framed house with what Anthony guessed was the original great hall, flanked by two sympathetically constructed wings, complete with tall Tudor chimneys and leaded windows, sparkling gold in the western sun.
‘I hope the plumbing’s up to scratch,’ muttered Sir Charles softly. ‘I’ve suffered before in these historic gems.’
The door was opened to them by a butler whose name, Anthony later learned, was Vyse. There was, it seemed, a dinner party that evening, and the guests should be arriving soon. Mr Sherston and the rest of the household were, said Vyse, with an air of deep regret, dressing for dinner. Their late arrival was unavoidable, with the trains in their current parlous state, but if the gentlemen would care to be shown to their rooms . . .?
Anthony washed, shaved and scrambled into his dress uniform at breakneck speed, crammed the diamonds into his pocket and made it, together with Sir Charles, down to the hall before the dinner gong rang.
He squared his shoulders as he walked into the crowded room, eagerly scanning the faces. With a twist of disappointment, he saw the woman in blue wasn’t among them.
Sherston looked up with a welcoming smile as they walked in. ‘There you are!’ He laid a friendly arm on Anthony’s elbow. ‘Let me introduce you to everyone. It’s quite a crowd,’ he added in an undertone, ‘but only you and Sir Charles are staying for the weekend.’
Anthony, with Sir Charles by his side, was introduced to at least five or six local worthies and their better halves.
Anthony was struck how well Sherston fitted into this milieu. Admittedly, the man was among his own guests in his own house, but county society was notoriously stiff-necked and reluctant to accept incomers. Yet Sherston, with his shrewd eyes and Irish brogue, was obviously accepted and liked by people as diverse as the fiercely moustached retired General Harker, Sir Gilbert Ward and the benignly smiling Mrs Morpeth, the doctor’s wife. ‘And this,’ said Sherston, completing the introductions, ‘is my sister, Mrs O’Bryan.’
Anthony looked at her with sharpened interest. So this was Tara O’Bryan’s mother. There wasn’t much family resemblance. She was a striking-looking woman with piercing green eyes and dark hair streaked with iron grey. For some reason she radiated disapproval.
She eyed him up warily before extending her hand. ‘So you’re the Colonel Brooke Patrick’s been so excited about.’ She, it was perfectly obvious, didn’t share her brother’s enthusiasm.
There wasn’t really any answer to that, so Anthony compromised with a conventional mutter of, ‘How d’you do.’
Sherston coughed awkwardly, aware of his sister’s antagonism. His face lightened as a young lady came down the stairs. ‘Ah,’ he said, with scarcely concealed relief. ‘This is my niece, Tara. Tara, my dear, come and meet Colonel Brooke.’
Anthony had eagerly anticipated this moment for days. The woman in blue! . . . Only she wasn’t the woman in blue but a complete stranger.
She held out her hand and Anthony took it mechanically.
‘Uncle Patrick’s told me such a lot about you,’ she said with a friendly smile.
Tara O’Bryan? This couldn’t be Tara O’Bryan. She was good looking enough, he supposed, with dark hair and green eyes, but she wasn’t Tara. She couldn’t be Tara. Only she was.
His dismay must have shown. Anthony, his world turned upside down, managed to say something – he wasn’t sure what – and Tara, puzzled by his response, put her hand on her uncle’s arm. ‘I’m not the last to arrive, am I, Uncle Patrick?’
‘No, my dear,’ he said affectionately. ‘Josette hasn’t come down yet.’
‘Josette?’ asked Anthony, numbly.
‘My wife, Colonel,’ replied Sherston briskly. There was the rustle of a dress on the stairs. ‘Here she is now.’
And there, her hand lightly poised on the banister, as she looked across the hall, was the fair-haired woman in blue. She still wore blue, a velvet gown, with sapphires and diamonds at her neck and a clasp of sapphires and diamonds in her hair. Anthony felt as if his stomach had gone down in a lift.
‘This is my wife, Josette,’ said Sherston, as if to hammer the last nail into his hopes.
My wife! What the devil was Sherston, the middle-aged Sherston, doing with such a wife? Sherston was old and she was adorably young. Far too young to be married to him.
She held her hand out to him, smiling in welcome, a smile that dimpled her cheeks. ‘You must be Colonel Brooke. We expected you and Sir Charles earlier but these trains are dreadful, aren’t they?’
Anthony took her hand, feeling as if every eye in the room was fixed on him. His whole arm was tingling at her touch. He’d been so anxious to hear her speak that the sense of what she said took him a moment to grasp. He managed a reply and inwardly cursed himself, knowing how awkward he must seem.
He looked away and saw Tara O’Bryan’s watchful, intelligent eyes fixed on him. She was someone to be reckoned with. As surely as if he’d shouted it out loud, he knew she’d guessed his secret. He felt a spot of colour flame his cheeks and then, thank God, the gong in the hall sounded and they went into dinner.
Talk about saved by the bell, thought Anthony ruefully as he took his place, and tried very hard to interest himself in his companions.
He was sitting between a Mrs Moulton and a Mrs Farraday. The meal dragged on interminably. Anthony wanted to be alone, to try and sort his thoughts into some sort of order, and all the time Josette was there, real, so real, and yet as utterly unobtainable as a saint in a stained-glass window.
She was married.
So what? demanded a voice at the back of his mind. The answer to that was that he didn’t want an affair. He didn’t have affairs. They were messy and awkward and upset his ideas of right and wrong.
A wild hope bit at the edges of his mind. If Sherston was the spy, Sherston was guilty of High Treason. That meant the death penalty. He writhed away from the thought. That was far too like murder for comfort. Echoes of the Biblical story of David and Bathsheba occurred to him. David wanted Bathsheba. She was married to Uriah, so David had Uriah killed. David wasn’t the hero of that story.
But if Sherston was their man? Anthony tried to choke down the hope, but hope, even a forlorn hope, was like bindweed, hard to root up and nearly impossible to kill. He’s possible. Well, so he is. But granted all that – and it was a lot to grant – Josette was rich and he wasn’t. At a guess, a single stone from Josette’s necklace amounted to a year of his income.
Mrs Moulton, a stout, salt-of-the-earth type, who must have enjoyed a challenge, grilled him on the topic of diet and health in the army, amongst other conversational gambits. Although he found Mrs Moulton trying, he was grateful not to be sitting next to Tara. Those perceptive eyes had found out far too much about him than he was comfortable with. And all the time, Mrs Moulton talked to him about bully beef and plum jam for the army because he was a doctor and a decent man and ought to take a decent interest in ordinary, decent conversations.
The main course, which he ate mechanically, was mutton and artichokes. As he watched, Josette laughed, sat forward in her chair and ate a forkful of mutton. It seemed incredible that she should move, breath and eat, especially something as mundane as mutton and artichokes.
All he really wanted to do was look at Josette. At the same time he had enough wit to see that he couldn’t simply gaze at her like an urchin looking into a baker’s shop window and, predictably, overdid things the other way.
He felt ridiculously self-conscious and found it a thankless struggle to take any sensible part in the conversation. Even the redoubtable Mrs Moulton tired at last and addressed her remarks on the importance of pigswill to her other neighbour, Elstead, Sherston’s secretary, a middle-aged man of comfortable proportions, who made all the right remarks in the right places.
The ladies departed at last, the port was brought out and the room filled up with the fug of cigar smoke.
‘What the devil’s the matter?’ asked Sir Charles in an undertone when they were at the sideboard together.
So much for his powers of concealment, thought Anthony ruefully. ‘Nothing,’ he said shortly. ‘Mutton doesn’t agree with me.’ He didn’t know why strong emotion should look like indigestion but it seemed to satisfy Sir Charles.
How on earth he got through the next half-hour or so he didn’t know. He seemed to be existing on four levels. On the surface he chatted politely. He could hear himself doing it. Next, he wondered what he was going to say to Tara O’Bryan. At the same time he passionately wanted to get out into the fresh air and think but, most of all, he had the aching desire to see Josette again. Eventually, thank goodness, Sherston decided it was time to go into the drawing room. Anthony got to his feet with relief but Sir Charles called him back with an almost imperceptible flick of his eyes.
‘Have you got the diamonds?’ he asked softly.
Anthony nodded.
‘Good,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Watch for your cue and follow my lead. See what you can get out of Miss O’Bryan about Cavanaugh.’
They followed Sherston across the hall and into the drawing room.
Josette was there. He watched hungrily as she flicked a wisp of fair hair over her perfect ear-lobe. The sight of her didn’t make him happy; she seemed so utterly out of reach.
Vyse, the butler, brought in coffee and Josette busied herself with pouring it out. Standing in front of the hearth, Sherston, Sir Charles, General Harker, Dr Morpeth and the other men were discussing Gallipoli. Mrs Moulton was holding forth on the problems besetting the village sewing circle, a discussion in which Josette showed a surprising degree of technical knowledge about which fabric was suitable for what purpose and Veronica O’Bryan was buried behind a magazine.
Tara handed Anthony a cup of coffee. Mindful of his instructions, Anthony followed her to the sofa and sat down beside her. He was casting around for a way to bring up Cavanaugh’s name when she solved the problem for him.
‘Colonel,’ she said tentatively, ‘Uncle Patrick said you knew Terry Cavanaugh.’ He nodded. She ran her finger round the top of her coffee cup, obviously bracing herself. ‘How did he die?’
Anthony was prepared for this. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that although Veronica O’Bryan was still apparently deep in her magazine, her body had stiffened in attention. Although Tara was unaware of it, Veronica O’Bryan was listening keenly. ‘It was in Germany,’ he said, seeing how Mrs O’Bryan’s fingers tightened on the magazine.
Tara gave a little cry of surprise. ‘Germany? What was he doing there?’
‘He was reporting for an American paper, I think,’ said Anthony casually. This was the story he and Sir Charles had worked out. ‘He injured his foot in an accident, I believe, and died of blood poisoning. At least, that’s what I heard.’ The fingers on the magazine relaxed.
Tara’s face twisted in compassion. ‘Poor Terry,’ she murmured. ‘I liked him, although . . .’ She broke off.
Anthony’s mind worked quickly. Sherston had told them that Cavanaugh was related to his sister’s family, that it was his sister who had made his acquaintance, but it wasn’t Veronica O’Bryan who wanted to know about Cavanaugh, it was Tara.
Cavanaugh had, according to Sherston presumed on the relationship. Did that mean an affair with Tara? Sherston obviously cared about Tara deeply and a fifty-odd-year-old ex-ranch-hand with no fixed income or position wouldn’t be anyone’s ideal choice for a young girl from a wealthy family.
‘How did you meet him?’ asked Anthony gently.
‘He came to stay here for a few days. My mother met him at a charity function in London and it turned out he was a relation of my father’s, so naturally he was invited to stay. My father’s been dead for years, and it was nice to meet someone from his side of the family.’
Anthony eye’s widened. A charity? This sounded promising. ‘Which one?’ he asked with what he hoped sounded like nothing but polite interest. Tara O’Bryan looked surprised. ‘I did quite a bit of work with charities, one way and another, as a doctor before the war,’ he explained. ‘I wondered if it was one I’d been involved with.’
‘I’m not sure. It was an Irish Friendly Society in Camden Town.’ She glanced at her mother who was seemingly intent on her magazine. ‘My mother does a lot of charity work with poor Irish families. My father was devoted to Irish causes and she’s picked up the torch,’ continued Tara. ‘What on earth was the name? Something Hibernia, I think, but I can’t be sure. It doesn’t matter, anyway.’
Anthony made a little noise in his throat. Something Hibernia! Bloody hell! An Irish charity? The Irish charity, more like, a front for German-Irish links.
Veronica O’Bryan was suddenly very still. Tara, her attention fixed on Anthony, was unaware of her mother’s tension but Veronica O’Bryan was as taut as a stretched bowstring.
Anthony deliberately relaxed his shoulders and sat back in an attitude of interested calm. ‘No, it doesn’t matter. I thought I might know it, that’s all.’ Out of the corner of his eye he could see the strain ebbing out of Veronica O’Bryan. ‘Are you particularly interested in Irish affairs, Miss O’Bryan?’
‘I think any intelligent person has to be concerned about Ireland, wouldn’t you say? All the news is about the war, but the Irish problem hasn’t gone away. There will be Home Rule for Ireland, but on what terms, I don’t know. My mother’s got very strong views on the subject.’
She glanced at Veronica O’Bryan, still, to all appearances, deaf to what they were saying. ‘If my father had lived, he would’ve been in any Irish government. He died when I was very small, and I can’t remember him, but my mother says he would have been a great man if he’d lived.’
Anthony, who had read a fair sample of the late Bernard O’Bryan’s works the previous evening, couldn’t agree. The man had been eaten up with hatred of the English and obsessed with honour, blood, sacrifice and death. Anthony had disliked it very much.
‘He wrote poetry,’ said Tara O’Bryan in a wary way. ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever read any?’
Anthony, torn between truth and tact, chose tact. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t read a lot of poetry.’ It might have been his imagination, but Tara O’Bryan seemed relieved.
‘Terry Cavanaugh was a great supporter of Home Rule, too,’ said Anthony, steering the conversation back on track. ‘I was surprised how well informed he was, considering he was American.’
Tara O’Bryan laughed. ‘He might have been born in New York but he was Irish and proud of it. As I said, he was one of my father’s relations.’
That wasn’t a bad idea on Cavanaugh’s part, thought Anthony. If Cavanaugh really was on to something, it would make an investigation a lot easier if he posed as a relation rather than a chance-met acquaintance.
‘Anyway,’ she added with a shrug, ‘I liked Terry. He was different from anyone else I’d ever met. My mother thought the world of him at first.’ She shrugged once more. ‘Then it all went wrong.’
Anthony wanted to ask how but that sort of question wasn’t permitted. However, if Veronica realized that Terry Cavanaugh was using her to gain an entrée to Starhanger, then it could have all gone wrong very quickly, even without an affair with Tara.
For the first time he felt a twist of distaste for Cavanaugh. Whatever he’d done and whatever the motives, Tara O’Bryan had been upset. It seemed wrong to use this girl with her bright, intelligent eyes and sensitive mouth as a mere counter in a game.
‘I’m sorry he’s dead,’ said Tara. ‘I hate to think of dying so far from home. I suppose his newspaper would have informed his family – if he had one, that is,’ she added.
Anthony seized the opportunity. ‘He never talked about any family to me. He mentioned friends occasionally. There was someone called Frankie, I believe.’
Mrs O’Bryan’s fingers whitened on the magazine again. ‘Colonel Brooke,’ she said in a carrying voice. ‘If you are going to talk about my husband’s relatives, you might have the courtesy to include me. What’s all this about Cavanaugh’s friends?’
‘I wondered if they’d heard he’d died,’ replied Anthony politely.
Privately he was wondering if Frankie was a member of either the New York or London Hibernian charities. That would add up. Maybe Frankie had been a bit too free with his confidences to Cavanaugh and Veronica O’Bryan knew that. He was sure it was Frankie’s name which had prompted Veronica O’Bryan to stick her oar in. ‘I heard him mention a chap called Frankie. I wondered if Miss O’Bryan knew him.’
There was a glint of amused triumph in Mrs O’Bryan’s eyes. ‘I’m afraid we can’t help you, Colonel. Terry didn’t have many friends and I never heard of a man of that name. That’s right, isn’t it Tara?’
‘If you say so, mother,’ said Tara with a frown. ‘I don’t think he ever mentioned a Frankie.’
Anthony’s voice was casual. ‘I don’t suppose it matters,’ he said lightly as he could. Veronica O’Bryan knew something, and he was prepared to bet that one of the things she knew about was Frankie.
He got up and walked over to the coffee tray on the sideboard. He put his cup down and turned, knowing Sir Charles was watching, and gave him the very slightest of nods.
Sir Charles didn’t respond but Anthony knew he’d understood. General Harker rumbled something about forcing the Narrows – they were still talking about Gallipoli – and Sir Charles, as if struck by a sudden thought, beckoned to Anthony to join them by the hearth.
‘Here’s a man who can bear me out, General. My point is that the war won’t be won by mere military expertise, important though that is. It’s a question of industry and supplies.’
This time it was Sir Charles who gave an almost imperceptible nod. It was Anthony’s cue. ‘Now, Colonel, who would you say had the greater amount of natural resources at their beck and call? Us or the Central Powers?’
‘On the face of it, Germany,’ said Anthony. ‘However, as long as we can keep the shipping lanes open, we’ve got the resources of the whole Empire to call on, but we need to sharpen up. I’d like to see a great deal more sense of urgency in the government and powers-that-be. There are too many complacent types running the show.’
Sir Charles looked suitably shocked. ‘Complacent, Colonel? Have you got anyone in particular in mind?’
‘Not so much a particular someone but a particular something,’ Anthony answered. He took the wash-leather bag from his pocket and, reaching for a saucer from the sideboard, poured the diamonds onto the saucer in his hand.
Tara O’Bryan walked forward and looked at the soapy-coloured stones with interest. ‘What are they?’
‘Diamonds.’
Tara gave a little cry of astonishment. ‘Diamonds?’
‘Diamonds?’ echoed Josette Sherston. She and the other women in the room crowded round. ‘Are you sure, Colonel?’ she asked. She fingered her necklace absently. ‘They don’t look anything like my diamonds.’
‘Yours have been cut and polished, my dear,’ said Sherston. ‘How much are they worth, Colonel? Have you any idea?’
‘I’m not absolutely certain—’ began Anthony when General Harker cleared his throat.
‘I know a little about jewellery, Colonel. I knew a diamond-wallah in India.’ He reached out his hand. ‘May I?’
‘Please do.’
The General picked the biggest stone and held it between his thumb and forefinger. Anthony saw his eyes narrow. ‘They’re diamonds all right. Good ones, too, I’d say. My word, Colonel, you could be holding an absolute fortune in your hand.’
‘How did you get hold of them, Colonel?’ It was Tara O’Bryan.
‘I ran into a friend in London. I first came across him out in Africa. He’s a nice youngster by the name of Rycroft. His uncle’s a big noise in the mining world, I understand, and this boy, Martin Rycroft, had a bit of luck.’
Anthony picked up the diamonds and ran them through his fingers. ‘This is what I mean about resources. Rycroft’s found a rich field, or whatever you call it, that’s quite unknown. He found these in a river. It’s a bit off the beaten track, apparently, up in the mountains on the borders of German East. According to him it could do with being properly explored. It’d be different in peacetime but he got the wind-up a bit, being so close to enemy territory. There was a Dutchman, a Boer, in his party who he suspected of being pro-German. Rycroft reckoned that if he stayed, he’d have an expedition from German East around his ears in fairly short order, so he played it down and came back to London. He hopes he’s put the Boer off the scent but he’s not sure.’
Sir Charles looked at Anthony with puzzled, innocent eyes. ‘This is all very interesting, Colonel, but you complained about complacency. You’ll excuse me if I say I can’t see the connection between that and your diamonds.’
Anthony laughed dismissively. ‘It’s because of complacency that Rycroft lent me some of his haul. When he got back to London he went straight to the Foreign Office to report his find. He’s been shunted from pillar to post. That’s why he roped me in. He’s got it into his head that I know all sorts of people and might be able to galvanize someone into taking action.’
Tara looked at the saucer with her head on one side. ‘Why should the Foreign Office be interested in diamonds?’
‘Don’t be a fool, Tara,’ snapped her mother. ‘You might think of them as pretty stones but to the government they mean guns. That’s right, isn’t it, Colonel?’ she added defiantly.
‘Well, not absolutely, no,’ said Anthony. ‘I mean, I’m sure you’re right, Mrs O’Bryan, but there’s more to it than that. You see, industry needs diamonds, even diamonds which would be no good as jewels.’
Mrs O’Bryan’s eyes narrowed. ‘How?’
‘They’re used extensively in manufacturing,’ said Sherston. ‘They’re the hardest mineral we know.’
Mrs O’Bryan looked at the soapy-coloured heap in the saucer with more respect. ‘That’s interesting,’ she said quietly. ‘Very interesting.’
‘Anyway,’ said Anthony, ‘you see what I mean about complacency. As my friend Rycroft sees it, there’s thousands of pounds worth of diamonds lying around, and the Germans could invade across the border at any time. We probably wouldn’t even know they were there. As I said, it’s pretty wild country. Poor Rycroft’s driving himself nuts trying to get some proper action out of the stuffed shirts that run these things. As far as I can make out, he’s kicking his heels while a lot of mandarins decide which department he should apply to.’
Sir Charles, in his role as mandarin, tutted and shook his head gravely. ‘I’m afraid that story rings only too true, Colonel. Still, even African diamond kings have to follow the proper procedures.’
Anthony gave what he hoped was an ironic laugh. ‘Diamond king! He will be, if there’s any justice in the world. After all, he found the blessed things. It’s ridiculous to think he’s stuck in a third-rate hotel in Cheshire Place while he knows where enough diamonds are to buy the Ritz and take an option on the Savoy while he’s about it.’
Sir Charles looked affronted. He did it very well. ‘I appreciate your feelings on the matter, Colonel, but Whitehall has its own way of doing things and the proper procedures need to be followed. You can hardly expect His Majesty’s Government to rush an expedition into the wilds of Africa on some boy’s say-so.’
‘He might be young but he’s knocked about a bit and his family name should command some respect. Besides that, he’s got some impressive paperwork. I’ve seen it. Maps, geology, the lot, to say nothing of a couple of handfuls of diamonds.’
‘I could run a piece on him in the Examiner,’ said Sherston. ‘Rycroft, you say he’s called? How Fortune Favoured The Brave. That would make a nice headline. There’s a few angles I could use with a story like this. That would shake things up.’
‘I’m afraid that would never do,’ said Sir Charles quickly. Sherston looked rebellious. ‘I’m sorry, Sherston, but if the facts are as the colonel has related, then absolute secrecy and discretion must be our watchwords.’
He glanced round the group surrounding the table. ‘I must ask you all to keep this to yourselves. I imagine that the enemy would love to get hold of the location of an untapped diamond field. Now you’ve brought the matter to my attention, Colonel, I will try to expedite this young man’s cause in the proper quarters. After all, even as we speak, the Germans may be advancing and the opportunity could be lost.’
Josette came forward and reached out her hand for the saucer. ‘May I?’
Anthony gave it to her and she tipped the diamonds into the palm of her hand. ‘They look so dull at the moment. A rough diamond. I’ve said that lots of times but I’ve never thought about what it meant.’
She picked up the largest with a wondering smile and held it up to the light. ‘I wonder what this will be like when it’s cut and polished?’
Her smile became wistful. ‘I love jewels,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘They’re beautiful. There aren’t enough things which exist simply because they’re beautiful.’ She looked at Anthony, a tiny smile curving the corner of her mouth. ‘To see them like this is exciting.’
She put the stones back into the saucer and handed it back. With a jolt, Anthony felt her hand touch his.
Perhaps it was his imagination, but her fingers seem to linger on his outstretched palm for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.
‘They’re like people, you know? Some have all the glitter on the outside and some need drawing out and polishing to show what’s hidden.’
Anthony glanced away. It could be nothing more than imagination, but he thought she was referring to him. That little weed of hope started to grow.