‘We can’t risk an actual ship,’ objected Sir Charles. ‘We don’t want another Lusitania. On the other hand, we need a real ship to observe the action. Maybe if we could have a dummy of some sort . . .’ He shook his head impatiently. ‘We’d still need some crew on board, even if it’s only two or three men, to make it look alive. If it was just a hulk, a U-boat wouldn’t attack and if there is something there, any U-boat attack might be nothing more than coincidence. Besides that, it means involving the Admiralty. They might not cooperate and, as I said, the fewer people who know about our idea the better.’
He stroked his chin, thinking out the flaws. ‘I could do with something on a much smaller scale,’ he said eventually. ‘Something we can control from beginning to end. And something, as well, where it’s not obvious afterwards that the Germans have failed. If it’s clearly a fake then they’ll know we’re on to them and I don’t want to give our gentleman and his friends any more warning than I can help.’
This was going to be more difficult than Anthony had anticipated. ‘Let me think it over,’ he said. ‘I might be able to come up with something.’
Sir Charles nodded. ‘Good man.’ He glanced at his watch as the waiter approached. ‘It’s after one. I imagine Sherston’s here. Don’t worry about the invitation. Follow my lead and with any luck it’ll all come quite naturally. You’re a club acquaintance of mine, by the way and I’ve been impressed by your adventures. Pitch it strong.’
‘All right,’ said Anthony, with a feeling of distinctly modified rapture.
‘Mr Sherston’s in the lobby, sir,’ said the waiter.
Sir Charles put his glass on the table. ‘In that case, let’s go and meet him, Colonel Brooke.’
FIVE
Patrick Sherston was standing by the fireplace in the lobby. He looked up as they entered, smiling as he saw Sir Charles. ‘Hello, Talbot. I’m sorry I’m late. I was held up by a minor crisis at the Sentinel. I hope it hasn’t put you out.’
‘Don’t apologize’ said Sir Charles heartily. ‘This is the man I wanted you to meet, Sherston. Colonel Brooke, allow me to introduce Mr Patrick Sherston.’
Anthony remembered Sherston immediately. As they shook hands, he wondered how such a vigorous personality could have ever slipped his mind, even if, when he had seen him outside Swan and Edgars, his attention had been entirely taken up by the woman in blue. (Tara O’Bryan? Tara was a lovely name.)
Vigorous was a very good word to describe Sherston. He must have been, thought Anthony, in his early fifties, a strong, broad-shouldered man with a healthy, outdoor complexion, grizzled dark hair and piercing brown eyes with a commanding, let-me-mould-your-future expression in them. He spoke in a soft Irish brogue but the softness was deceptive.
Sherston was a man who was always going to amount to something. Anthony had seen the same look of authority in various ships’ captains, a headmistress of a girls’ school and assorted Prussian officers. Mr Sherston, thought Anthony warily, was a man who was accustomed to have people jump when he said so. Patrick Francis Sherston. Patrick Frankie Sherston?
‘Brooke told me he’d met you before, Sherston,’ added Sir Charles, chattily.
Sherston drew back. ‘You’ll excuse me, Colonel, if I say I can’t quite recall it.’
‘Don’t apologize,’ said Anthony easily. ‘It was some time ago now. I was one of the hosts at a dinner given by the School of Tropical Medicine. You gave a speech about life in the Congo and so on, and we swapped notes about Africa afterwards.’
Sherston’s face cleared. ‘Of course.’ He looked at Anthony’s uniform, his gaze resting on the green tabs of the Intelligence Corps. ‘Excuse me, Colonel, weren’t you a doctor? I seem to remember you were engaged in research.’
Anthony appreciated the cleverness of the remark. Virtually everyone at that dinner had been a doctor engaged in research, but it made it seem as if Sherston really did remember him. ‘That was before the war,’ he agreed. ‘I’d been to Lake Victoria, tracking down tsetse flies and their distribution.’
‘Ah yes. You were one of the experts I was wary of. I remember feeling quite intimidated by the audience I was facing.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I’m hardly an expert on Africa or tropical diseases. I was glad to get through it without being heckled.’
That, thought Anthony, was pure flannel. If a man was going to give a large amount of money to an impoverished university – all universities were impoverished in Anthony’s experience – it would be sheer folly to find fault with even the most lacklustre speaker. ‘I thought you carried it off in great style.’
Sherston smiled complacently. Anthony had obviously given the expected response. ‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’ He glanced at Sir Charles. ‘Shall we go into lunch, Talbot?’
‘By all means,’ agreed Sir Charles, leading the way across the lobby into the dining room. ‘I’m looking forward to this,’ he added with a hint of civilized excitement. He put a hand on Sherston’s arm. ‘Wait till you hear Brooke’s exploits, my dear fellow.’
Anthony had to hand it to Sir Charles. He seemed subtly changed, not a leader anymore but a follower and of very much less account. ‘Much more exciting indeed,’ Sir Charles added, consciously basking in reflected glory. It seemed perfectly natural that he would say it in that way.
‘Sir Charles said you’d been in Germany, Colonel,’ said Sherston.
Anthony winced. He couldn’t help it. He knew he was there to play a part but it still seemed wrong to blurt out the facts so openly. He saw Sherston register his discomfort. ‘People ought to be more careful,’ he said, playing the stiff-upper-lipped hero. It was a useful pretence. He couldn’t think what the devil to say. Sherston looked at him inquisitively. ‘Stories get about,’ continued Anthony. ‘You never know who’s listening.’
‘Oh, you’re amongst friends,’ said Sir Charles breezily. ‘There’s too much of this secrecy nonsense if you ask me. Damnit, there’s no Germans here. We ought to be proud of what we’ve achieved.’ The waiter showed them to a table. ‘It’s a great shame,’ he continued, picking up the menu, ‘that the really thrilling stories of the war can’t be told. When I think what Brooke’s been up to . . .’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘Shall we have a bottle of the ’98 claret? My doctor wouldn’t approve, but a little indulgence never did a man any harm.’
Once again, Anthony mentally congratulated him. Without overdoing it, Sir Charles managed to convey the exact impression of a man who had had slightly too much to drink. He saw Sherston’s smile of understanding.
‘An excellent choice, Talbot. Colonel, were you really in Germany?’
Anthony nodded reluctantly.
Sherston pursed his lips in a silent whistle. ‘How long for?’
‘Since last September.’
The expression on Sherston’s face was, Anthony had to admit, flattering.
‘But that’s wonderful!’
His admiration was so sincere Anthony had to get a grip on himself. Even if it was only a stunt for the press, he could see the role as a raconteur of My Thrilling Life being a damn sight easier than he’d anticipated.
Sherston picked up his napkin and sat with it held loosely in his hand. ‘Where did you get to?’
There was an almost imperceptible nod from Sir Charles. Anthony took a deep breath and plunged in. ‘I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but I know it won’t go any further. I started off in Berlin and ended up in Kiel.’
Sherston froze, his gaze drilling into Anthony. ‘The headquarters of the Imperial Fleet? My word, Colonel, you’re a hero.’
‘I’m no hero,’ said Anthony deprecatingly, deploying the stiff upper lip once more.
‘How on earth did you land up in Germany?’
‘I’d studied there before the war. That helped.’ Talking of help, Anthony felt in need of some from Sir Charles, but he seemed to be concentrating solely on the menu.
‘I’m going to have soup and lamb cutlets,’ said Sir Charles fussily. ‘I re
commend the thick soup. They do it rather well. Look here, Brooke, it’s all very well saying you’re not a hero but we stay-at-home types have got to have someone to look up to, you know. From what I’ve heard if you aren’t a hero, you’re next door to it.’
‘But I’m not,’ protested Anthony. So Sir Charles had come to his aid after all. He tried hard. ‘I had the occasional close shave, but that’s all part of the job. I’ll have the soup and steak and kidney pie.’
‘What sort of close shave?’ asked Sherston. He waved a dismissive hand at the menu. ‘I’ll have anything you recommend.’
‘You got on a U-boat, didn’t you?’ said Sir Charles, seeing Anthony’s hesitation. ‘And didn’t you dress up as a guard and join the hunt for yourself at one point?’ He gave the order to the waiter. ‘This is the real stuff, Sherston. Brooke had to escape over the rooftops to shake off the Germans. Wasn’t that after that newspaper chap you were telling me about died, Brooke?’
‘Terence Cavanaugh?’ Anthony asked, picking up the fairly obvious cue. This was the story they had agreed earlier. They could hardly tell the truth about Cavanaugh. It would spark off far too many questions to say Cavanaugh, a neutral, had been shot, so, as far as the outside world was concerned, Cavanaugh was a journalist who’d died in an accident.
Anthony saw Sherston twitch at the name.
‘I know a Terence Cavanaugh,’ said Sherston. ‘You say he’s dead?’
‘I don’t suppose it’s the same chap,’ said Anthony with a light-hearted laugh. ‘My Cavanaugh was an American. He must have been about fifty-odd or so. He was quite a character. He’d been everything from a ranch-hand to a prizefighter and threw in a bit of journalism to go with it.’
Sherston looked at Anthony, then dropped his gaze. There was an odd pause. He pulled his napkin straight, fiddling with the corners. ‘The Cavanaugh I knew was American,’ he said. ‘I imagine he called himself a journalist.’ There was a hard edge in his voice. Anthony saw Sir Charles flick a quick glance of surprise towards Sherston. ‘He was distantly related to my brother-in-law, Bernard, and made the acquaintance of my sister, Veronica. My brother-in-law has been dead for many years and my sister’s devoted to his memory. Veronica welcomed Cavanaugh into the house. Cavanaugh presumed on the relationship.’
Presumed, thought Anthony, was a fairly loaded word. The soup arrived and there was silence for a few moments. ‘So he’s dead?’ repeated Sherston. He picked up a piece of bread and crumbled it in his fingers. There was a restrained violence in the gesture. ‘Dead, eh?’ He sounded satisfied.
Anthony, intrigued by Sherston’s reaction, answered without emotion. ‘He died in Germany.’
‘How very sad.’
He didn’t sound very sad, thought Anthony. Gratified if anything.
Sir Charles finished his soup and pushed the bowl to one side. ‘Tell us how you got into Berlin, Brooke,’ he said with cheerful eagerness. ‘I bet that’s a story worth hearing.’
The look Sherston gave Anthony made him feel like a pig being prodded by a cautious farmer at a livestock market. With Sir Charles’s careful guidance he embarked upon the more lurid of his adventures. He appreciated just how good a newspaperman Sherston was. His questions were designed to draw Anthony out, and, as he spoke, Anthony could feel Sherston warming to him. He was a knowledgeable interviewer, too. Anthony guessed some of his early questions were tests, designed to show if he really knew what he was talking about.
After about quarter of an hour of thorough grilling on Sherston’s part and some solid hard work on Anthony’s, Sherston laid down his knife and fork. Anthony was sure he hadn’t noticed what he’d been eating. ‘This is truly remarkable, Colonel. I wish I could bring your story to the public. Why, what a series of articles you could write!’
‘I’ve got no hand for writing,’ said Anthony modestly. He wasn’t going to leap at the first opportunity. ‘I haven’t got the popular touch.’
‘That’s no problem,’ said Sherston encouragingly. ‘If you’d give an interview to one of my men, he can write it up.’
Anthony tried for an expression of sincere regret. ‘It’s one thing talking to you, Mr Sherston. I know you’ll treat it all in confidence. It’s quite another publishing it in the press.’
‘I think you should,’ said Sir Charles, a shade more definitely than a completely sober man would have done. ‘We all need a boost. There’s too much bad news knocking about. Why don’t you get permission, Brooke?’ he said, with an almost imperceptible wink.
Anthony pretended to chew the matter over.
‘I urge you to consider it, Colonel,’ said Sherston persuasively. ‘The public will be inspired by your exploits. No names, of course, but simple facts.’
Now this was all very well, thought Anthony, but he hadn’t been invited to Starhanger. Maybe that would follow, but he wanted to be a bit more secure, so . . .
‘I’m not sure,’ he said, after what he hoped seemed like a reasonable amount of cogitation. ‘I can’t see why, given the proper safeguards, there should be any real objection, but I was hoping to have a few days in the country. I want to have some fresh air, get some fishing in, that sort of thing and I don’t want a pack of reporters clamouring at my door.’ He nodded at Sir Charles. ‘Talbot here has offered to show me one of his favourite haunts.’
‘Absolutely, my dear chap,’ agreed Sir Charles heartily. ‘I’m looking forward to our little holiday.’ He looked at Sherston. ‘I was thinking of Melton on the Bewl, Sherston, down in Kent. Do you know it? It’s a delightful spot.’
‘Indeed it is,’ agreed Sherston mechanically, his eyes abstracted. ‘It’s not far from my place. In fact . . .’ He leaned forward. ‘Perhaps, Colonel, you would agree to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak,’ he said persuasively. ‘I would be delighted if you could manage to put in a few days at my house, Starhanger. You too, Talbot. You’d both be very welcome. As far as fishing is concerned, we have a first-rate trout river on the estate and my wife is an excellent hostess. As far as the articles are concerned, all it would entail is having roughly the same conversation we’ve just enjoyed and I can guarantee you will not be troubled by pressmen.’
‘That’s a very generous offer,’ said Anthony. ‘Talbot, what do you say?’
‘I think it’s a splendid idea,’ said Talbot enthusiastically. ‘Absolutely first-rate. I’m much obliged to you, Sherston.’
‘What do you say, Colonel?’ asked Sherston.
‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Anthony, privately congratulating Sir Charles. His scheme had worked, sure enough. If Sherston had been given a doormat he would have written Welcome on it. ‘I’ll have to get permission to go ahead, but I accept with pleasure.’
Sherston folded up his napkin. ‘Good. We’ll consider it settled.’ He drew out his card case, took out a card and jotted a number on the back. ‘That’s my private number. Let me know as soon as you have permission and we’ll arrange for you to come down.’ He turned to Sir Charles. ‘You can get away from the office, can you, Talbot?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Sir Charles cheerfully. ‘Not that I’ll be missed. To be honest I don’t know why I stick at it, but someone’s got to see that form CH 123 is filled in triplicate. Now most of my young clerks have joined up, I’m left with the halt and the lame and the old. How anyone expects me to run a government department with the staff I’m left with, I don’t know. I suppose you’ve got much the same problem with your newspapers, Sherston.’
‘It’s a burden, certainly. However, talking of newspapers, Colonel, I appreciate you’ll have to consult with the powers that be, but I’d like to run an article as soon as possible. Now, what I’d like to suggest is sending one of my men round . . .’
‘What did you think of Sherston?’ asked Sir Charles as he and Anthony crossed St James’ Park after lunch. ‘D’you think he could be Cavanaugh’s Gentleman?’
Anthony scratched his ear. ‘To be honest, I don’t know if Sherston would fit Cavanaugh’s
ideas. He’s rich and powerful and wears the right clothes, but his accent’s against him. I’m not sure if an Irish-American would think another Irishman could be an English gentleman, if you see what I mean. I tell you something that I did think was odd though, and that was the way he talked about Cavanaugh.’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Sir Charles. ‘I don’t know why. It could be nothing more than some trifling love affair with his sister – you remember Sherston said Cavanaugh presumed on the relationship? – or Sherston could be our man and realized Cavanaugh was on to him. We’ll find out more at Starhanger.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Anthony agreed. ‘By the way, you know we want a scheme to sell the Jerries? I’ve got a glimmer of an idea. It was all the talk about Africa which set me off, but I need to think through the details.’
The next morning Anthony telephoned Sherston to say the necessary permissions had been granted.
He was rewarded by an invitation to Starhanger for the following Friday and a visit from a senior reporter from the Sentinel. The day after that, he had the dubious pleasure of reading about his own anonymous exploits under the title ‘Germany! The Truth! One Intrepid Briton’s Account Of Life Under The Kaiser’.
He couldn’t complain about the lack of enthusiasm shown by the writer but he wasn’t prepared for the amount of interest it stirred up.
He got his first inkling when Diana Willis sprang to her feet as he was announced. She was his cousin’s wife and he’d been invited for tea. The room seemed to be a sea of great-aunts, a sprinkling of youths in uniform and a few men too old to be in the army.
She drew him to one side, her eyes sparkling. ‘Anthony, it’s you, isn’t it? The man in the paper, the One Intrepid Briton? I knew you’d done something frightfully brave but I had no idea what. Listen everyone!’ she said, addressing the room. ‘You’ve all got to be most fearfully respectful. This is Anthony Brooke, the man in the paper, the one who’s just got back from Germany.’
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