EIGHT
Tara twisted her head to look at the page open on his knee. ‘Oh, “Frankie’s Letter”. That’s one of Uncle Patrick’s best stunts. Frankie goes everywhere and sees everyone. It’s a real coup to be mentioned in the “Letter”. It’s such a simple idea and yet it’s pushed the circulation past Vogue a few times.’
‘Who writes it?’ asked Anthony. ‘You don’t, I suppose?’ It looked innocent, so innocent. There was no reason why she should deny it . . .
She laughed. ‘I wish I did.’ Anthony let his breath out quietly. She looked at him enquiringly. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of it? It’s very well-known. Mind you, I suppose men wouldn’t be interested but most women are. I thought everyone knew about “Frankie’s Letter”.’
Anthony laughed. He couldn’t help it. The irony of the situation struck him as almost unbelievable. Here was Sir Charles and himself, the Big Cheese of Intelligence plus one of his agents, tearing their hair out chasing the mysterious Frankie, and so far from trying to evade them, Frankie published a monthly column in a magazine with the name in red letters an inch high. So much for the secret service, Whitehall, and all the King’s horses and all the King’s men. A King’s woman, he thought, would have been much more to the point. An empty-headed, gossipy, fashionable woman at that.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Tara, curiously.
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Anthony. ‘Nothing important, that is. Something just struck me, that’s all. So come on then. If you don’t write “Frankie’s Letter”, who does?’ His tone held nothing but light-hearted bantering and her cheeks dimpled.
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Come on,’ said Anthony coaxingly. ‘I won’t split.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I really can’t. All London’s been on fire to know who Frankie is for the last couple of years. No one knows who Frankie is, you see, not even Uncle Patrick.’
Anthony gazed at her in frank disbelief. That struck him as overwhelmingly unlikely. ‘You must be joking. Surely Mr Sherston knows who his authors are?’
‘Of course he does,’ she said. ‘All except Frankie. It’s part of the mystique. You see, Frankie – whoever Frankie is – obviously knows everyone who’s anyone and she’s awfully funny about them. It’s a real cachet to be mentioned in “Frankie’s Letter”, you know. She doesn’t use anyone’s full name, of course, it’s all initials, but we know who she means. She’s awfully daring sometimes. I’ve been in it more than once. All nice comments, I’m glad to say. I’d love to know who she is. “Who’s Frankie?” is a regular topic of conversation.’
Anthony tried again. ‘Mr Sherston must know who Frankie is. He could tell you, I’m sure.’
‘He really can’t, you know. Even if he could, he wouldn’t say. It’d spoil the fun. Everyone wants to know who she is. Ever so many people have asked me. Even Terry talked about it.’
Anthony swallowed. Of course Cavanaugh talked about it. He should have seen that one coming.
‘He took a real interest in Uncle Patrick’s papers,’ continued Tara. ‘Mind you, he was a journalist, so he was bound to be interested in a stunt like “Frankie’s Letter”.’
‘Yes, yes, he would,’ said Anthony absently. He forced himself to stretch and conceal a pretended yawn, radiating idle good humour. He picked up the pile of papers. ‘I think I’ll take these back into the house. I really had better look through them properly.’ He grinned. ‘I got the impression I was going to be quizzed later on.’
He strolled across the lawn, up onto the terrace and into the house. He could still hear voices from the study but the rest of the house was, as Tara had said, deserted. He only hoped Sir Charles hadn’t joined the general exodus.
He was in luck.
Sir Charles was in his room, deep in discussion with his valet, Sedgley, about a dress waistcoat. He looked up as Anthony entered. ‘Come in, my dear fellow. Close the door, won’t you? I’ve had quite an interesting morning in some ways . . .’ He broke off as he saw Anthony’s expression. ‘But you really must tell me what you’ve been up to,’ he continued, in the same tone. He turned to Sedgley. ‘That’s all for now, Sedgley. I quite agree with you about the waistcoat. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.’
As Sedgley left the room, Sir Charles turned to Anthony with a smile. ‘Valuable feller, that. First-rate at his job. The buckle on my waistcoat is working loose, which is a damn scandal when you think what the tailor charges.’
As he spoke, Sir Charles followed the valet to the door, waited a few moments, then pressed against the door, making sure it was shut tight.
‘D’you know,’ he added, ‘I think I’ll close the window. Draughts and so on. I have to be careful of my chest.’ He pulled down the sash window then looked at Anthony, his face alive with expectation. ‘What is it?’
Anthony put the pile of magazines on the bed and pulled out the Beau Monde. ‘Look at this.’ He opened the magazine at ‘Frankie’s Letter’.
Sir Charles took it from him with a soundless whistle. ‘Good grief!’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Right under our ruddy noses. “Frankie’s Letter”.’
He sat down on the bed and quickly read it through. ‘Genius,’ he muttered. ‘Absolute genius.’
He quickly skimmed through the rest of the magazine. ‘This is extraordinary. If it wasn’t for Cavanaugh, I could have read this from cover to cover and never suspected a thing. By jingo, I’ll have to get this decoded and as quickly as possible.’
He shook his head in reluctant admiration. ‘Women’s clothes, weddings, card problems, dog shows – there’s nothing here to make the censor stop this leaving the country.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Anthony. ‘It could be freely shipped to Holland and be in Berlin a couple of days after publication.’
‘And none of us any the wiser,’ agreed Sir Charles. He put the magazine down beside him. ‘The question is, who is Frankie? And does Sherston know his magazine is being used?’
‘Exactly. I’ve been talking to Miss O’Bryan. Sherston gave me an armful of magazines to look at. I took them into the garden and she joined me, rather surprised by my choice of reading matter.’
‘How surprised?’ asked Sir Charles quickly.
‘I told her Sherston had given me them to read and she thought it hilarious. Anyway, I was able to ask her about “Frankie’s Letter” without it seeming odd. Frankie is a newspaper stunt. According to Miss O’Bryan it sells the magazine. No one knows who Frankie is, but she – or he – goes everywhere and knows everyone in the fashionable world. Who Frankie is, is a much talked-about mystery. According to Miss O’Bryan not even Patrick Sherston himself knows Frankie’s identity.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Sir Charles promptly. ‘Presumably Frankie doesn’t work for free. Someone must get paid to write this stuff.’ He picked up the magazine once more. ‘Sherston himself could write it.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Anthony doubtfully. ‘D’you think that’s really on the cards? I mean, look at it. It’s all about shopping and so on. Would Sherston know enough to write it convincingly?’
‘Damn it, Brooke, it’s chit-chat, not War and Peace.’ Sir Charles stood up and walked across the room to the fireplace.
Leaning on the mantelpiece, he took a cigarette and pushed the box towards Anthony. ‘Why shouldn’t Sherston write it? After all, he’s worked in newspapers all his life. If he’s Frankie, it’s no wonder it’s such a well-kept secret. Mrs Sherston was a journalist, too,’ he added significantly.
Anthony felt his mouth dry up. ‘So Tara O’Bryan told me.’
Sir Charles jerked his thumb at the door. ‘Sedgley was bringing me up to date before you came in. He’s a perfect marvel for finding out who’s who. Mrs Sherston,’ he repeated. ‘“Frankie’s Letter” is probably more her style.’
‘We don’t know Frankie is a member of the household at all,’ objected Anthony.
‘True,’ Sir Charles acknowledged. ‘But if they are, it accounts for the secrecy, doesn’t it? Mrs Sherston was Sherston’s Paris correspondent. She could very easily write a “Frankie’s Letter”. She lived in Paris for about four years.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘Apparently she started off as a dressmaker, but found writing about it rather more rewarding. Sherston went off to Paris about three years ago and returned with a wife.’
‘What about Veronica O’Bryan? She could be Frankie just as easily as Mrs Sherston. She certainly knew something about it. I found that out last night.’ Anthony walked to the bed and opened the magazine at ‘Frankie’s Letter’ once more. ‘She could pick up all this gossip about weddings and fashion and what-have-you without any effort. I imagine any reasonably well-educated person could churn this out. Why, Miss O’Bryan writes for one of Sherston’s motoring magazines. I don’t suppose she’s—’
He broke off. From outside the door came the creak of a floorboard. Anthony and Sir Charles swapped looks with each other.
‘. . . an expert in motoring,’ continued Anthony, making his voice just that little bit louder. He crept towards the door.
‘You can never tell, my dear chap,’ said Sir Charles from beside the fireplace.
Anthony stood with his ear against the hinged side of the door. He could hear very faint sounds from the other side of the woodwork. He motioned to Sir Charles to carry on.
‘I must say, I’d rather take the train. At least if a train breaks down, I’m not expected to crawl about underneath it and get covered in oil into the bargain. Tyres, now, they’re a problem. The wretched things always seem to be going pop for one reason or another.’
The sound of the lunch gong boomed up the stairs. There was a startled hiss from outside. The board creaked once more and there was the rustle of a dress followed by the sound of footsteps as if someone was walking away very quietly.
‘Lunch,’ said Sir Charles chattily from across the room. ‘I must say I’m ready for it. That was a remarkably good dinner we had last night. Mind you, it’s easier to eat well in the country, I always feel, with all the fresh eggs and home-grown vegetables and probably home-reared beef and pork as well.’
Anthony put his hand on the handle and very slowly, pulled the door open and quickly glanced out. Almost in the same movement, he drew his head back in. Then, with infinite care, he closed the door and came back into the room.
‘It was Veronica O’Bryan,’ he said quietly. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’ No, he wasn’t surprised. Most of all he was relieved.
Sir Charles nodded. ‘That’s one coincidence too many. Damn! I wonder what she heard?’ He bit his lip. ‘What now, Brooke? Even now we don’t know enough to take definite action.’
Anthony chewed the problem over. ‘We need some evidence. D’you know which is her room? If there’s anything to be found, that’s the obvious place to look.’
‘I can ask Sedgley which room she has. I think a search is a good idea but getting her out of the way may be a problem.’
‘Let’s see what turns up,’ said Anthony. ‘She’s bound to go out sometime.’
‘All right,’ Sir Charles agreed. ‘Come on. We’d better go down to lunch.’
Anthony half-expected Veronica O’Bryan to be absent from lunch but she was there, all right. What’s more, the look she gave him and Sir Charles as they came down the stairs convinced him that she’d managed to overhear enough of their conversation to get the wind up. It wouldn’t take much, he reflected. All she’d have to hear was the word Frankie and she’d know exactly which way the wind was blowing.
That being the case, he was surprised, then pleased, then deeply suspicious when, over the apple pie and cream, she announced her intention of going riding that afternoon. ‘I think I’ll take Moondancer over to Carson’s Water,’ she said. ‘She needs a gallop.’
Josette Sherston looked up. ‘You’re going out?’
‘You have no objection, I presume?’ said Veronica O’Bryan icily.
‘Carson’s Water’s a fair old way,’ said Sherston.
‘I need some fresh air, Patrick. I probably won’t be back for tea.’
‘No, you probably won’t, if you go as far as Carson’s Water,’ said Sherston mildly. ‘Incidentally, Colonel,’ he added, turning to Anthony, ‘if you fancy taking one of the horses out, please say so. You too, Talbot. You’re very welcome.’
‘I think I’d rather have a stroll round the grounds,’ said Anthony. ‘I’m feeling very lazy. I’d like to take a look round the stables though. I like horses.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Tara. ‘We’ll go after lunch.’
‘Did Mrs O’Bryan really go riding?’ asked Sir Charles.
They were in Anthony’s room. Anthony had been shown the stables by Tara, then retreated to his room, pleading an overpowering desire for an afternoon nap.
Anthony nodded. ‘Yes, I saw her leave. Mrs Sherston went out too. It’s odd, you know. I could have sworn Mrs O’Bryan heard something this morning. I’d have thought she’d be very cautious about leaving her room unguarded.’
Sir Charles shrugged. ‘She might think it’s all right. After all, you mentioned Frankie to her last night. You obviously didn’t know much about Frankie then. She might not realize you’ve tumbled to it.’
‘That’s the optimistic view,’ said Anthony dryly.
‘Yes . . . She could be meeting someone to tell them about you. I thought of following her, but it’s next door to impossible to follow someone on horseback and stay unobserved.’
‘It could be a trap of some sort.’
‘It’s possible,’ admitted Sir Charles. He opened the door and looked along the corridor. ‘Come on, Brooke,’ he said. ‘We might as well try our luck. Thanks to Sedgley, I know exactly where her room is.’
The upstairs of the house was very quiet, the sun-filled corridor wrapped in early summer silence. The only sounds were far-off snatches of conversation drifting up the stairs and the rustle of the wind in the trees through the open window at the front of the house. Most of the doors in the corridor stood ajar. Veronica O’Bryan’s was locked.
Sir Charles took a bunch of picklocks from his pocket.
‘Wait a moment,’ said Anthony and went down on one knee beside the keyhole. He drew out a piece of paper that had been stuck in the door. ‘She left that as a telltale,’ he said. ‘I’ll put it back when we leave.’ He examined the door carefully. ‘There’s nothing else.’
Sir Charles grinned in satisfaction. ‘So she was expecting a visit. That sounds promising.’
Anthony stood to one side while Sir Charles opened the door. ‘Stay outside,’ he said quietly as the door swung open. ‘I’ll feel happier knowing you’re on guard.’
He took the picklocks and went in. His real fear, that Veronica O’Bryan had somehow doubled back and was waiting for him, had been quieted by the telltale of the piece of paper. That would be impossible to arrange from the inside. He stood by the door and considered the room.
He hoped that Veronica O’Bryan would have some letters, some papers, even some drafts of ‘Frankie’s Letter’. They were very private and the presumption was she would hide them in her room. So where would she put them?
There was the bed, of course, its covers laid back to air. It couldn’t be anywhere a servant would look, so under the mattress or bed was out. The wardrobe? There was nothing on top and the inside contained only clothes and shoes. Anthony had hopes of the hat boxes, but they held nothing but hats. He pressed his hands against the back and the base of the wardrobe, looking for a hidden compartment, but it seemed solid enough.
Working very quickly, he examined the bedside table, the chairs and the small bookcase. He picked up the rug and ran his hands over the floorboards, but they were all true and well-fitting. He pulled out the drawers in the chest of drawers, rifled through their contents and reassured himself there wasn’t the space for a secret drawer. Satisfying himself the drawers looked untouched, he stood in the centre of the room.
The hiding place couldn’t be anywhere too difficult or dirty. Mrs O’Bryan needed to get at these papers – if she had any – so a loose brick up the chimney was out. Her jewellery box was on top of the chest of drawers. It was locked, of course, but the folded wire tool in his pocket made short work of that. Nothing.
He replaced the necklaces and brooches in the order he’d taken them out, aware that time was slipping away. Her writing desk was next, a mahogany affair with a sloping top and drawers. The drawers weren’t locked and an innocent array of writing paper and pens met his eyes. Again, there was no false back to the desk.
Consciously forcing down his frustration, Anthony sat back on his haunches on the rug. Was there anything to find? His eyes lit once more on the jewellery box. It was a big affair of ebony. Very big for the jewels he’d taken out and yet they’d reached the top of the box.
Impatiently he opened it up once more and took out the glittering contents, slipped his fingers into the box at diagonally opposite corners and pressed down. There was a click as the velvet-covered bottom came away.
He swore under his breath. The space contained a fine ruby brooch, obviously Veronica O’Bryan’s most valuable piece, and nothing else. And yet the box was still too big for its contents. Anthony picked it up and examined it thoroughly, then, holding the bottom securely, pushed the side of the box. It slid open, revealing a drawer a few inches deep. It was full of papers. Bingo!
‘Talbot,’ he called softly. ‘We’re in business.’
Back in the safety of Sir Charles’s room, they opened up the jewellery box.
The contents were damning. There was a series of letters from an address in The Bronx, New York, from a Sean Kennedy. They mainly concerned raising enough funds in America to buy arms in Germany to ship to Ireland, but one letter made the hairs on the back on Anthony’s neck stand up.
‘Your Terence Cavanaugh sounds like our Patrick Quinn,’ wrote Kennedy. There followed a detailed description of Cavanaugh. ‘Quinn is a British agent. He escaped from New York but needs to be taken care of as soon as possible. I’ll leave the details to you.’
And she had taken care of him, thought Anthony, remembering once more the clutch of the dying man’s hand. There were other letters, referring to the ‘London end’ and – this made Sir Charles sigh with relief – the Sons of Hibernia.
‘She’s in it up to her neck,’ said Sir Charles with deep satisfaction.
‘There’s no reference to “Frankie’s Letter”,’ though, said Anthony, skimming through the letters.
‘Why should there be?’ asked Sir Charles with a shrug. ‘After all, how Veronica O’Bryan gets information to Germany is her concern, not this Sean Kennedy’s.’
‘True enough. What’s this?’ There was a cardboard-backed envelope in the box which, unlike the other letters, had a British stamp on it. ‘The postmark’s London EC1.’
Anthony opened the envelope and frowned in surprise. There was a photograph, a studio picture, of a little girl about five years old, sitting on a stool holding a toy cat with a curtain draped artistically behind her. She was a pretty little thing with very solemn eyes and someone – an adult – had written across the bottom of the picture ‘To Mummy’.
‘Who the dickens is she, I wonder?’ said Sir Charles.
Anthony scratched his chin. The child in the picture reminded him of someone. Veronica O’Bryan? Maybe. He stared hard at the photograph and the fleeting impression of familiarity vanished. ‘Could it be Mrs O’Bryan’s child?’ he suggested tentatively.
Sir Charles whistled. ‘I suppose it could,’ he agreed. ‘It seems unlikely but it wouldn’t be impossible. No,’ he added reflectively. ‘It wouldn’t be impossible at all. After all, how old is she? Early forties at the most, I’d say.’
He carefully replaced the photograph in the envelope. ‘If she is Mrs O’Bryan’s child, she’s kept it very quiet. She’d have to, of course. The scandal if it got out would be terrific. She couldn’t live here if it became known.’
He looked at Anthony and read his expression. ‘If it is Mrs O’Bryan’s child, she’ll be protected. I’m not having an innocent child dragged into this, don’t worry.’ Besides,’ he added, looking at the letters, ‘we’ve got more than enough evidence to act on.’
He pursed his lips. ‘I think we’ll put these back where we found them. I don’t want to give the game away too soon. I’ll get Sedgley to wire London from the village. That’ll mean a telegram here, calling me away on urgent family business. I want “Frankie’s Letter” decoded as quickly as possible.’
‘What about Veronica O’Bryan?’ asked Anthony. ‘Do we arrest her?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I’d like to keep up my pretence as a harmless government official for as long as possible. Besides that, I want to know more. The Beau Monde is Sherston’s paper. I want to find out how deeply he’s involved and if anyone else is in on it. Granted who Sherston is, that’s going to be tricky but it shouldn’t be impossible. We’ve made massive progress, but this is just the start. No, sit tight, Brooke, and be as nice as pie to Veronica O’Bryan. I don’t want her to realize anything’s wrong.’
The telegram for Sir Charles turned up during afternoon tea which was served under the cedar tree. As Vyse, the butler, came across the grass with a salver containing a yellow envelope, they all fell silent. Even in a household like Sherston’s, thought Anthony, where telegrams were commonplace, wartime meant telegrams were greeted with apprehension. It was significant that the first thing Sherston said, as Sir Charles ripped open the envelope was, ‘Is everything all right, Talbot? Not bad news, I trust?’
Josette Sherston went pale. She’d been tired and nervy during tea, and had obviously found it an effort to keep up with the conversation. ‘Is it bad news?’ she asked, echoing Sherston’s question.
Sir Charles read the telegram quickly. ‘It’s Uncle Albert,’ he said with a deep sigh. ‘He’s been ailing for some time but he’s taken a turn for the worse.’ He tossed the telegram onto the table and looked round apologetically. ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Sherston, but I’m afraid I’ll have to return to town immediately.’
‘What a pity,’ said Josette Sherston sympathetically. She turned to Vyse. ‘Instruct Sir Charles’s valet to pack his things, Vyse, and have the car brought round. I’m not sure of the times of the trains,’ she added to Sir Charles, ‘but there’s a timetable in the library, of course.’
‘That went very smoothly,’ said Anthony quietly to Sir Charles as he accompanied him back into the house.
‘That’s the easy bit,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I just hope Veronica O’Bryan doesn’t get the wind-up when she finds I’ve gone. If she shows signs of making a run for it, you might have to stop her. We can’t risk her getting away. You’ll have to use your judgement.’
Anthony raised an eyebrow. He was a guest, after all, and apprehending the host’s sister-in-law wasn’t the sort of situation he’d ever encountered in a book of etiquette. ‘Let’s hope Mrs O’Bryan doesn’t tumble to it,’ he murmured. ‘It doesn’t sound much fun,’
In the event, Anthony needn’t have worried. At half-past seven, Tara remarked that her mother was very late. At twenty past eight Sherston wondered if she’d decided to stay with a friend somewhere. At ten to nine, Kindred, the groom, came in from the stables and reported that Moondancer, Mrs O’Bryan’s horse, had been found wandering, riderless, over the slough, a marshy stretch of rough ground between Ticker’s Wood and the village.
The slough, as Tara said, white-faced, was a treacherous area, full of tussocks, ditches and bogs. By ten to ten, Sherston, Anthony, Tara and four local policemen, armed with torches, were gingerly negotiating the paths through the swampy ground, before abandoning the search, two hours later, as useless.
The search started again at first light. After a fruitless few hours, Anthony looked wearily over the desolate marsh. In the distance, chopped into flurries by the wind, came the sound of church bells pealing for early service in the village.
He couldn’t help feeling a grudging professional respect for Veronica O’Bryan. Because of the paper telltale in her door, he had discounted the possibility she’d made a run for it. That little piece of paper had quieted his fears, persuaded him, hours after she should have returned, that she was coming back.
Perhaps it wasn’t so subtle; perhaps she had intended to return but reflected on what she’d overheard, saw her chance and took it. In any event, she had, as he said to Sir Charles, when he finally managed to slip away and telephone privately, completely disappeared.
First round, commented Sir Charles grimly, to Veronica O’Bryan.