Frankie's Letter

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Table of Contents

  The Jack Haldean Mysteries by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Historical Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Jack Haldean Mysteries

  by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  A FETE WORSE THAN DEATH

  MAD ABOUT THE BOY?

  AS IF BY MAGIC

  A HUNDRED THOUSAND DRAGONS *

  OFF THE RECORD *

  TROUBLE BREWING *

  * available from Severn House

  FRANKIE’S LETTER

  Dolores Gordon-Smith

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2012 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.

  Copyright © 2012 by Dolores Gordon-Smith.

  The right of Dolores Gordon-Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Gordon-Smith, Dolores.

  Frankie’s letter.

  1. World War, 1914-1918–Secret service–Fiction.

  2. Country life–England–Fiction. 3. Spy stories.

  I. Title

  823.9'2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-343-3 (epub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8217-2 (cased)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  Dedicated to Jessica

  With love

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Frankie’s Letter is, of course, fiction, but one of its chief characters, Sir Charles Talbot, is based upon a real person.

  William Melville, the man who would become the Secret Service’s ‘M’, was an Irishman, born in poverty in County Kerry in 1850. He ran away from home and in 1872 joined the London police. He made a name for himself as a quick-witted and capable officer, who, among other things, arrested Fenians and anarchists, was involved in the search for Jack the Ripper and was appointed as the royal bodyguard. He retired, at the peak of his career, in 1903, with the rank of superintendent.

  The retirement was fictional; what Melville actually did was to set up a small office near Scotland Yard under the name and title of W. Morgan, General Agent. As W. Morgan, he looked after both espionage and counter-espionage. His job was entirely hands-on. That not only suited Melville’s character, it was necessary. As he had agents but no staff, he had little choice.

  In 1909, the service expanded, taking on Captain Vernon Kell, of the South Staffordshire Regiment, and the flamboyant, swordstick-wielding ex-Naval officer, Mansfield Smith-Cunningham (‘C’) to run various sections of the infant service. All three men, in their separate offices strung out along the Thames, were unofficially supported and officially unacknowledged by the government – a state of affairs which suited the modest William Melville very well indeed.

  If anyone is interested in finding out more about this fascinating man, I can recommend Andrew Cook’s M: M15’s First Spymaster as a reliable and thoroughly absorbing account.

  ONE

  Kiel, Germany, April 1915

  Terence Cavanaugh steadied himself against the rain-sheened wall. The pain in his chest, where the bullet had struck home, flared into agony as he tried to move. He had to get to Anthony Brooke. He just had to get to Anthony Brooke.

  He scrunched his fist against the wound, steeling himself to walk. For virtually the first time in his life, he felt helpless. He had always been tough, a fifty-year-old fighter of a man. Now his eyes blurred and he felt his way along the wall, sensing the rough, uneven bricks under his fingers. A few steps more . . .

  Jagged fingers of pain clutched his heart in an intense, serrated grip and he whimpered out loud, forcing himself to stay upright by willpower alone. He had to get to Brooke. The rain slashed down, a vicious icy squall from the Baltic. The violence of the rain cleared his head and he saw the steps of the house. He grasped the railing and climbed. One, two, three – my God, that third step was a long way – and through the front door.

  He leant against the door in the hall, gathering himself for a final effort. Brooke had lodgings here, on the first floor, and he had to climb the stairs. The hall, with its shiny oilcloth and its solid dark furniture, was deathly quiet but, from a room close by, he could hear voices. He looked at the staircase with its polished wooden banister and, calling up the last remnants of his strength, with his fist clenched against the white fire in his chest, staggered across the hall.

  Dr Conrad Etriech hurried up the steps, opened the door and stepped into the hall with relief. It was a miserable day. It was April, but the rain, driving in from the sea in ill-tempered gusts, was very far from springlike. It was a relief to be home. Not, he thought, as he put his wet umbrella in the stand, peeled off his gloves, unbuttoned his coat and took off his hat, that this was exactly home.

  He was one of four tenants who lived in this tall, thin and quietly respectable house in the Wilhelminenstrasse, together with their tall, thin and quietly respectable landlady, Frau Kappelhoff.

  It suited his purposes. The house was in the centre of Kiel, close enough to the docks for the mournful sound of the ships’ sirens to be heard but near enough to be in walking distance of the university where he worked. And he was comfortable, as comfortable as Frau Kappelhoff could make him.

  Frau Kappelhoff thought the world of him. She was a widow with two sons in the merchant fleet. She was proud of her sons but the person she loved best in the world was her eleven-year-old daughter, Lottie. Dr Etriech hadn’t been in the house a month when Lottie was taken gravely ill with pneumonia.

  It was a tough struggle, but the little girl pulled through. Dr Etriech’s speciality wasn’t respiratory diseases but he saved her. Any doctor, he said, to the tearful Frau Kappelhoff, would have done the same, but from then on, Frau Kappelhoff treated him with awestruck devotion.

  Dr Etriech looked up with a smile as the kitchen door opened and Frau Kappelhoff peered out hesitantly. His smile became a puzzled frown. One of the ways Frau Kappelhoff showed her gratitude was to look for his homecoming, help him off with his coat and fuss over his gloves and hat. However, just for once she didn’t rush into exclamations as to how wet it was or offer to dry his things in the kitchen. Instead she greeted him with downright relief.

  ‘Herr Doktor! I’m so glad you’ve
come home.’ She looked scared.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, shaking off his wet coat. ‘It’s not Lottie, is it?’

  ‘No.’ Her face softened. ‘Lottie’s in the kitchen. Herr Doktor, I heard someone go upstairs.’

  In a house with four lodgers, this didn’t strike Dr Etriech as odd. ‘It’s probably one of your guests,’ he said, remembering, with instinctive courtesy, that she didn’t like the word lodgers.

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘No, it isn’t. Herr Lehmann and Frau Hirsch are in and Herr Klein won’t be back till eight o’clock.’ She twisted her hands together. ‘Herr Doktor, there’s someone in the house, I know there is.’ She twisted her hands together. ‘Their footsteps were heavy and there was a noise as if they were dragging something. It could have been a sack, a heavy sack.’ She glanced anxiously up the stairs. ‘We could be being robbed.’

  Dr Etriech smiled reassuringly. ‘That’s unlikely. A burglar wouldn’t be carrying something in, would they?’

  ‘Someone’s up there,’ she insisted with another glance at the staircase. ‘It could be a spy. We’re told to look out for English spies. This dreadful war . . .’

  He laughed. ‘You needn’t worry about spies, mein liebe Frau,’ he said in what he thought of as a ‘there, there’ voice. ‘There’s nothing to spy on in your house.’

  He hung up his coat and put his things on the hallstand. ‘I’ll go upstairs and have a good look round. If I see any spies, I’ll send them back to England, yes?’ She smiled at what Etriech privately thought of as rather heavy-handed humour, clearly relieved that the good doctor was taking care of her.

  She looked at him curiously. ‘Doktor? Herr Doktor?’ Dr Etriech had paused, looking intently at the stairs. ‘What is it?’

  Dr Etriech turned. ‘Nothing, mein liebe Frau,’ he said carelessly, but there was something. The light in the hall was dim but it gleamed on the polished wood of the banister. Where it struck the rail as it bent round to the first floor, the wood was dull and stained.

  He took out his handkerchief and pretended to cough, wetting the corner of it with his tongue. He ran the damp handkerchief over the stain as he walked up the stairs. With Frau Kappelhoff watching him, he couldn’t examine it closely, but the cloth came away a deep rusty red. She was right. There was someone upstairs. His stomach knotted as he rounded the corner.

  It sounded as if they were dragging something . . . A man dragging himself upstairs? English spies. Yes, Frau Kappelhoff would think of that. Kiel was full of posters warning all good Germans to be on their guard. Frau Kappelhoff was frightened of spies, knowing they were alien, vicious creatures. That’s why she’d asked Dr Conrad Etriech to go and hunt for them. She trusted Dr Etriech, who lived in her house, asked after her family and ate her stew and dumplings. It would never occur to her that, while the title was real enough, the name was borrowed.

  The doctor couldn’t be a spy. He was someone she knew. But his name wasn’t Conrad Etriech, it was Anthony Brooke and, with that bloodstained handkerchief in his pocket, he was a worried man.

  The door to his room was open. With a sick feeling he noticed that the brass handle was stained. He had to get Frau Kappelhoff out of the hall. He stamped his foot, gave as good an impression of a cat’s meow as he could, and laughed. ‘It’s all right, mein liebe Frau,’ he called down. ‘It’s a stray cat, that’s all. It’s gone into my room. I’ll chase it out.’

  There was a cluck of annoyance. ‘Shall I help you, Herr Doktor?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing to trouble about.’

  He heard the rustle of her dress and the sound of the door from the hall to the kitchen closing. Anthony took a deep breath and walked into his room.

  He bolted the door behind him. His sitting room looked, at first sight, undisturbed, but the rug was crumpled and there were two rusty splashes on the oilcloth.

  ‘Hallo?’ he called softly in German. From somewhere he heard a faint gurgling sound, the sound of a desperately fought-for breath. He went into the bedroom and his heart sank.

  Terence Cavanaugh lay sprawled on the floor, the bedspread tumbled round him. His strength had failed as he tried to reach the bed. Anthony knelt down beside him and turned his face to the light. Cavanaugh’s eyes flickered open. With a huge effort, he focused his eyes on Anthony’s face. When he spoke his voice was a breaking whisper.

  ‘Brooke? I’m for it.’ He started to cough, a harsh, racking sound. Anthony cushioned his head on his knee, holding Cavanaugh’s cold hand. His fair hair was wet with either rain or sweat and a streak of blood creased his forehead. From the way he was breathing, Anthony guessed he had a chest injury.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Anthony quietly. The blood didn’t show on Cavanaugh’s dark coat or jacket, but they were sticky to the touch. He unbuttoned his coat and drew his breath in sharply.

  Cavanaugh’s shirt was soaked an ugly reddish-brown and the bullet hole was rimmed in black. He’d been shot through the lungs. With compressed lips, Anthony twisted up his handkerchief and pressed it against the wound. There was nothing else he could do. Cavanaugh’s eyes had the vacant look of a man on the verge of death. It was a miracle he was still alive.

  The cold hand moved feebly in Anthony’s. ‘I’ve led them to you. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll—’

  ‘Listen!’ Cavanaugh gasped for breath once more. ‘There’s a spy in England. Gentleman. He must be a gentleman. Seems to know everything. Got to stop him, Brooke.’ The words were slow and hard to catch. ‘Knew about me. Frankie’s letter. Read Frankie’s letter.’ His eyes flickered shut and he coughed, bringing up blood. ‘I loved her . . .’

  The end was very near.

  ‘Have you got the letter?’ Anthony asked, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice.

  Cavanaugh moved with feeble impatience. ‘Not that sort of letter,’ he answered, then mumbled something Anthony couldn’t catch. It sounded like ‘star’ but there was more. Anger? Star’s Anger? Cavanaugh gave a convulsive shudder. ‘Big ship. Passengers. Americans. Stop them, Brooke. Going to kill the passengers . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  There was a knocking at the front door downstairs. In the silence it sounded like a clap of thunder.

  Anthony laid Cavanaugh’s head gently on the crumpled bedspread. In the hall below he heard Frau Kappelhoff, shrill with indignation, arguing with the deep, official voices of men. He crossed to the window, drawing back as he looked down on four soldiers in field grey. There was no escape that way. Anthony glanced at the door, then dropped down beside Cavanaugh once more. He couldn’t desert him. The poor devil didn’t have long, but that time was going to be spent with a friend.

  There was the hurried sound of feet on the stairs and a knock at the door. ‘Doktor? Herr Doktor?’ It was Frau Kappelhoff.

  Various schemes ran though Anthony’s mind. He could hide Cavanaugh under the bed and bluff it out. Cavanaugh coughed once more. Anthony reached out and in the fraction of a second it took his hand to get to Cavanaugh’s, Anthony knew that he was dead. From outside the room, Frau Kappelhoff was still calling his name.

  Anthony stood up, straightened his tie, adjusted his waistcoat and squared his shoulders. There was nothing for it, he’d have to face the woman.

  A freakish memory of years ago came to mind. He had gone through the same ritual of facing up to things as a frightened schoolboy standing outside the headmaster’s study. Even with soldiers around the house and Cavanaugh’s body on the floor, the ridiculous comparison made him smile. He realized how relaxed he must have looked when he opened the door.

  Frau Kappelhoff let out her breath in a rush of relief. ‘Herr Doktor, there are men downstairs. Stupid men, soldiers, who should know better than troubling decent people. They say there’s an English spy in your room. I said this is a respectable house and the good doctor, who is so clever, he is quietly upstairs, and then they said . . .’ She broke off, her bosom heaving with indignation.

  ‘What did they say?’ a
sked Anthony with as much supposedly casual interest as he could summon.

  Her breast swelled and she spat the words out. ‘They said you were a spy.’

  ‘Ah.’ Anthony took her arm and quietly drew her into the room, closing the door behind them. There was, he thought, nothing else for it.

  ‘Frau Kappelhoff, mein liebe Frau, I’m awfully sorry but it’s true.’ She gazed at him in blank incomprehension. He was going to have to spell this out. ‘I am a spy. An English spy.’

  ‘You’re German.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Oh yes, you are.’ She shook her head, bewildered. ‘I know you are. Don’t pretend, Doktor.’

  In all the possible scenarios Anthony had ever conjured up for what were probably his last moments of freedom, arguing the toss with a German landlady as to his nationality hadn’t occurred to him. ‘Frau Kappelhoff, I am an Englishman,’ he said sternly. That did get through.

  She shrank back against the door in terror. She tried to scream but, thankfully, no sound came.

  Anthony had to get her on his side and quickly. ‘Frau Kappelhoff! Listen to me!’ She tried to scream again and managed a little gulping hiccup. ‘I am still the man you know.’ The panic-stricken gaze didn’t alter. ‘Remember when Lottie was ill?’ The terror faded with the mention of her daughter. ‘She had pneumonia, yes?’

  Frau Kappelhoff licked her lips nervously. ‘Lottie. Little Lottie. You saved her, Herr Doktor.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Anthony could hear the men below. He was desperate to get her to act but he forced himself to radiate calm. ‘Remember how happy we were when we knew Lottie was going to get better?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I remember. You saved her, my precious Lottie.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘What shall I do? Tell me, what shall I do?’

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Anthony, his voice deliberately gentle. ‘I have to leave, mein liebe Frau.’ He could hear the tread of feet on the stairs. ‘I need to escape, yes?’