Frankie's Letter

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘Cut it out, Diana,’ he said, laughing. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  But nobody believed him.

  That the article was to have another and unwelcome consequence was brought home the next morning.

  Bertram Farlow called with a note from Sir Charles asking him to call at five o’clock. Anthony, who was just off to lunch, invited Farlow for a bite to eat in Simpsons. As they walked down the Strand, Anthony felt an indefinable prickle at the back of his neck. He knew someone was watching him.

  He walked on a few steps before stopping by a newspaper vendor. He bought a paper, then turned casually, looking at the crowds on the pavement. Nobody. He stepped into the shelter of a shop doorway and, beside a curved glass window, stopped and glancing in idle interest at the packets of tea and granulated sugar displayed in the window.

  There he was! Reflected in the curved glass was a man in a dark overcoat and bowler hat. He had a split-second glimpse of startled eyes, distorted in the glass, then the man disappeared into the crowd. Damn! Anthony waited a few more minutes, apparently intent on the headlines, but, although at least five bowler-hatted, dark-coated men walked past, Anthony knew his watcher wasn’t amongst them. He folded up the paper, tucked it under his arm, and mounted the steps into Simpsons.

  ‘I’m being followed,’ he said to Farlow in a low voice, once they were inside and had been shown to a table.

  ‘Indeed, Colonel?’ asked Farlow in a voice that sounded as if he was about to announce the next hymn. ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Apart from the fact he’s average height with a dark overcoat and bowler hat, no. I saw him reflected in the tea shop window. He knows his stuff. He knew exactly what I was up to and scarpered before I could get a proper look.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll be there when we leave,’ suggested Farlow. ‘Let me go first. I’ll cross over to the other side of the road, to March and Weeks, the umbrella shop. I’ll see if I can spot anyone taking an interest in you.’

  However, when Anthony joined Farlow outside March and Weeks, Farlow, peering into the window, shook his head as if gravely dissatisfied with the sticks and umbrellas on display. ‘Not a trace of him, Colonel.’

  Anthony nodded. The prickle at the back of his neck had disappeared. He kept a careful lookout as he walked back to his club, but could see nothing out of the way. Then, as always, doubts crept in. Had he been mistaken? Perhaps he was simply being overly sensitive.

  A succession of late nights had made him tired and, although it was only quarter to three in the afternoon, he curled up in an armchair with a book. It was a long-winded Victorian thing he’d picked up in the library downstairs and could induce sleep after a couple of pages. He wouldn’t mind a rest before he went to see Sir Charles.

  He was halfway down the page before he realized he’d read the account of tiger hunting in Garhwal before. That was odd. His bookmark was in the wrong place. He couldn’t be bothered to find the right page and let the book drop to the floor. Although tired, he was unable to settle. His suspicions were pretty nebulous but even a nebulous impression was probably worth reporting. He got up and went to the desk, intending to jot down exactly what he had seen.

  His pen had been moved. It was at that point his senses flared. The few papers in his desk had been searched, he was sure of it. He sat rigidly still. Very faintly from the next room, his bedroom, came a tiny succession of noises.

  He got up and crept to the door, resting his hand on the handle. There it was again. Tensing himself, he flung back the door and erupted into the room.

  Anthony felt a complete fool. Standing by the bed, duster in hand, brush and pan beside him, was a club servant, dressed in the standard uniform of black trousers and striped waistcoat, covered by a khaki apron. He looked up with justified astonishment.

  ‘What the devil are you doing in here?’ Anthony snapped.

  The man fingered his wisp of a moustache, nervously avoiding Anthony’s gaze. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said in deferential Cockney. ‘I was just finishing your room. I didn’t hear you come in. I’m sorry if I disturbed you. We got behindhand this morning and Mr Baxter told me to catch up while you were out.’ He was the picture of aggrieved innocence.

  Baxter was the chief caretaker and his name was reassuring. Anthony relaxed and stood away from the door. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you. I heard someone creeping about and wondered who on earth it was.’

  ‘Not at all, sir,’ he said, obsequiously, picking up the brush and pan. ‘It’s all done now. Terribly sorry, sir.’

  He left and Anthony flung himself back into a chair. Damnit, had his papers been moved? He looked at them again. Yes, they had. Anything else? He went back into the bedroom.

  The window was open at the bottom as well as the top. He hadn’t left it like that. The fire escape ran underneath and someone could enter that way. He pulled out the top drawer of his bedside cabinet. He knew there was something missing. He looked at the drawer for a few moments, trying to place what it was, but the memory stayed frustratingly elusive.

  He pulled down the window, locked the door, and went to hunt up the secretary, Richard Walbreck. Walbreck left Anthony in his office and was back in twenty minutes.

  ‘No one’s been in your room this afternoon, Brooke. I’ve had a word with Baxter and it was cleaned this morning. What did you say the chap looked like?’

  Anthony scratched the side of his chin. ‘A bit nondescript, really, a weedy sort of bloke in his late twenties, I’d say. He was about average height, I suppose, with sandy hair, a small moustache and a little chip of a scar on the left hand side of his chin.’

  ‘That isn’t one of the servants,’ said Walbreck with a puzzled frown. ‘Dash it all, Brooke, I don’t like the sound of this. I certainly don’t like the fact he was wearing the club uniform and knew enough to use Baxter’s name. Was anything taken?’

  Anthony clicked his tongue in dissatisfaction. ‘Nothing valuable, that’s for sure. I’ve got my money and various bits and pieces on me and there’s damn all else to take.’

  ‘I’ll warn the porters there’s a petty thief about,’ said Walbreck. ‘It sounds as if he could be a former servant, looking for easy pickings.’ He shrugged. ‘All I can do is apologize.’

  Anthony went back upstairs but he didn’t go to his room. Instead he turned into the bathroom on the corridor. The window was open and, stacked neatly in a corner, were the duster, pan, brush and apron. He nodded in understanding. Those were the man’s props. He looked out of the window. It was an easy climb to the fire escape beneath. It wouldn’t have taken much for the man to have climbed in and out that way, find the caretaker’s cupboard and rig himself out as a servant.

  Sir Charles Talbot, when Anthony told him about it an hour later, was worried. ‘What did you say he looked like?’

  Anthony shrugged. ‘He wasn’t a man you’d look at twice. He was a weaselly, insignificant little chap.’

  ‘Weaselly,’ repeated Sir Charles, drumming a tattoo on the desk. He pushed a notepad towards Anthony. ‘Write down as good a description as you can and I’ll get it checked.’ He chewed his lip anxiously. ‘It’s that blasted article that’s done it. I’m sorry, Brooke. I had to get you into Starhanger and this seemed the most obvious way. Damn it! He’s bright enough to have found out the caretaker’s name.’

  ‘That’s what made me think he was genuine,’ admitted Anthony. ‘I’m at fault. I should have hauled him down to Walbreck there and then. That would have settled his hash.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a pity you didn’t.’ Sir Charles sighed uneasily. ‘I had no idea this would happen. I should have realized the risk.’

  ‘No one can really know the article’s about me,’ said Anthony. ‘They might guess but they can’t be certain.’

  ‘They might be able to guess enough to want to be certain. Did you have anything in your room relating to your time in Germany?’

  ‘No, I . . .’ Anthony stopped. He suddenly realized what was
missing. When he’d gone to the club after arriving in London, he had emptied his pockets into his bedside drawer before going for a bath. There wasn’t much, but there were a few Danish kroner in notes and some öre coins, amounting to a few shillings in English money.

  He hadn’t considered the Danish money of any importance. After all, Denmark wasn’t an enemy country. There weren’t any kroner or öre in the drawer now.

  He felt chilled. The fact that the worthless kroner had been taken spoke for itself. That, together with that wretched article, spelt out he’d been in Germany and escaped through Denmark. So much for anonymity.

  Sir Charles listened gravely. ‘I can only apologize, Brooke,’ he said, digging bits out of his blotting pad with the nib of his pen. ‘I hope to God I haven’t put you in danger.’

  Anthony hoped so too, but the fact was that the enemy knew exactly who he was and where he was. He didn’t like it.

  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.’

&nb
sp; 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.’