Frankie's Letter

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  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.

&nb
sp; First round, commented Sir Charles grimly, to Veronica O’Bryan.

  NINE

  Later that same day, Lieutenant Michael Greenwood stepped out of the lunchtime May sunshine into the gloomy oak panelled lobby of the St George’s Hotel. In his role as the newly arrived colonial, Martin Rycroft, he had supplied himself with a Baedeker’s guide. That it was also useful to Michael Greenwood, the junior officer, was something he was young enough to conceal from himself.

  Baedeker described the St George’s accurately, if succinctly. ‘Hotels in Westminster and Belgravia’, ran the heading. ‘Convenient for the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, the government offices, Hyde Park, etc.’

  Westminster and Belgravia did not feature ‘Hotels Of The Highest Class’; they were to be found on the adjoining pages: ‘In Or Near Piccadilly’ and ‘In Or Near Charing Cross And The Strand’ and their names, to an impecunious second lieutenant, were like spells; Claridges; The Ritz; (‘sumptuous’) The Savoy; The Cecil; The Waldorf. With ‘restaurant, ballrooms, palm courts etc.’ (and what ‘etcs.’ there could be was anyone’s guess) their prices matched their status. ‘Room 21s, with bathroom from 35s.’

  Thirty-five shillings for a room with a tub! By jingo, reflected Michael, that was a dickens of a lot, far more than he could ever afford.

  The St George’s rates were more modest. ‘Room 9s., with bathroom 15s.’ His Majesty’s Government did not run to private bathrooms, but the ‘charge for a hot bath was noted as ‘1s. Gratuities (‘tips’),’ Michael had read, thankful for the information, ‘should amount to 10-15% of the bill and be divided between the head waiter, the waiter who has specially attended to the traveller, the chambermaid, the “boots” etc.’ A prudent note was sounded; ‘to produce the best results they should be distributed weekly.’ This, Michael, happily aware that it wasn’t his own money he was distributing, proposed to do.

  One other piece of worldly wisdom he owed to Baedeker. ‘Money and valuables should be securely locked up in the visitor’s own trunk, as the drawers and cupboards of hotels are not always inviolable receptacles.’

  True, ‘objects of great value had better be entrusted to the keeping of the manager in exchange for a receipt’, but as the sole object of his stay in the St George’s was to be robbed, he wanted to make it credibly difficult for any prospective thief, not downright impossible.

  The wash-leather bag of diamonds was securely in his pocket, but the maps of the waters of Mount Erok, all beautifully coloured by John Rycroft to show the location of the supposed diamond find, were kept, as Baedeker had suggested, in his trunk. An ordinary thief wouldn’t touch them, but if the plan worked, they should draw a German agent like a magnet.

  As he crossed the lobby the clerk looked up from the reception desk. ‘Mr Rycroft?’ He coughed apologetically. ‘I’m afraid we’ve had a small problem.’

  ‘Oh yes? What is it?’

  ‘One of our porters found a man trying to force the lock on your door. Don’t worry,’ he added hastily, ‘the porter saw the man off before any damage was done. Unfortunately O’Dwyer, the porter, suffers from a stiff knee, so although he gave chase, the man escaped.’

  ‘Did he get a look at the chap?’ asked Michael.

  The clerk shrugged. ‘Not really, I’m afraid, sir. O’Dwyer says he was a little nothing of a man with a moustache, but that’s all. Naturally, if anything had been taken, we would insist O’Dwyer make a full statement to the police, but in the circumstances . . .’ the clerk broke off.

  ‘In the circumstances it doesn’t seem worth making a fuss,’ Michael said.

  The clerk looked relieved. ‘Thank you, sir. No hotel likes having the police called in. It doesn’t do us any good, sir. The guests don’t like it.’

  Michael shook his head. ‘There seems precious little you could tell them anyway. Thanks for letting me know and –’ he reached in his wallet for a ten shilling note ‘– if you could let the porter have this. Tell him I appreciate what he did.’

  The clerk took the note. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much indeed.’

  Michael walked up the stairs with a frown. It looked as if things were starting to happen. He could wish that O’Dwyer hadn’t been so assiduous in his protection of the hotel property, but he could hardly explain that to the clerk.

  Maybe Bertram Farlow and Peter Warren could add to the porter’s description. They should have seen what happened from their vantage point across the corridor. He just hoped that the man hadn’t been scared off completely. Unless the thief went for the maps in his trunk, any burglary could be nothing more than coincidence.

  Still deep in thought, Michael turned the key in the door to his room. From the corner of his eye he saw a figure detach itself from the shadow of a pillar next to the door. He half-turned, then there was a sudden thump in the small of his back and a voice whispered close to his ear.

  ‘I have a gun. It is only a small gun and will not make much noise. It might not kill you, but it will certainly cripple you. Open the door.’

  Michael froze. He knew that Farlow and Warren were watching from across the corridor and, at the far end of the corridor, a porter was unloading bags. His instinct was to lash out, calling for help. As if the man read his thoughts, the gun jabbed painfully into his back.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  Michael swallowed and decided not to be stupid. The voice chilled him. He’d expected a thief, not an assassin. There was something horribly compelling about the man’s even, articulate, unexcited tone. Michael had no doubt that the man would leave him sprawled in helpless agony, while he walked away. Besides that, he was supposed to be burgled. Farlow and Warren must think it was all going according to plan, but it shouldn’t have happened like this. He had no idea how scared he would be.

  He heard the man’s hiss of satisfaction as the key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Then they were inside the room, the door shut behind them. Michael wanted to turn, to see his assailant, but the gun remained in the small of his back. ‘What now?’ Michael asked. There was a crack in his voice. He wished there wasn’t. ‘What’s all this about?’ he tried, and this time his voice stayed steady.

  There was a sigh close to his ear. ‘Diamonds, Mr Rycroft. Somewhere in this room are your maps charting where you discovered diamonds. Find them for me.’

  ‘Diamonds?’

  ‘Do not waste my time,’ the man said in a snarl. ‘Your government does not believe you. I do. Get the maps. And don’t turn round!’ The last words were punctuated by jabs of the gun.

  Michael’s lips were very dry. He didn’t have to act scared, he was scared, but more than that, he was angry. ‘They’re in the trunk under the bed,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘Take out the trunk.’

  Michael walked across the room, the gun still pressed against his spine, and stooping under the bed, drew out the brass-bound trunk.

  Kneeling on the floor, he could see the man’s feet and trouser legs. The shoes were long and slim, with thin soles. Expensive shoes, he thought, desperately trying to find something he could describe to Colonel Brooke later. But the shoes were just shoes. There was nothing unusual about them. He unlocked the catch on the trunk and took out his briefcase with the maps in it.

  ‘Stand up,’ said the man. ‘Slowly.’

  Michael stood up and felt the briefcase taken from his hand. There was a click as the briefcase was opened, followed by a rustle of papers and a little breath of satisfaction.

  ‘Good. Now the diamonds, Mr Rycroft.’

  More than anything in the world, Michael wanted to lash out. He restrained himself with a physical effort. This is supposed to happen, he repeated to himself. This is what we hoped would happen.

  The gun was anchored in his back. ‘The diamonds are in my pocket,’ he said.

  There was a soft, humourless chuckle. ‘Very wise. Take them out.’

  If only this wasn’t supposed to happen he could have used the bag of diamonds as a weapon to give weight t
o his fist, struck out with it, kicked backwards, risked the blasted gun. Anything rather than be robbed by this swine with his expensive shoes and clipped voice.

  Michael took the wash-leather bag from his pocket and held it to one side. A man’s hand, with fair hair on the back and neatly manicured nails, came forward and took it from his palm.

  ‘Very good.’ The triumph in the voice was almost unendurable but what he said next startled Michael.

  ‘Stand against the wall.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stand against the wall.’

  Michael stood with his face to the wall, senses tingling. The muscles in his arms tensed and his fingers bent, ready to spring. The man gave a little, quick breath. For the first time the gun left his spine. Almost immediately it was jammed against the side of his head.

  Using his fingers as a lever, Michael hurled himself backwards, smashing his fist behind him wildly as the gun exploded next to his ear.

  The man’s chin jerked back as the blow connected. Michael threw himself on him. A powerful arm swept across his windpipe, knocking him back. He cracked his head against the edge of the chest of drawers and for an instant the room went black. The man scrambled for the door.

  Michael, scarcely able to breathe, heard, through the roaring in his ears, someone knocking. The door opened and Peter Warren stood in the doorway.

  ‘Hold it,’ he shouted, then the man raised the gun and fired at point-blank range.

  Warren looked down at his ripped, bloodied, shirt front. He seemed about to speak, then he was thrust out of the way as the man leapt past him. Warren, thrown to the floor, clawed at his chest, juddered and lay still.

  Michael staggered across to Warren and shook him helplessly. The sightless eyes stared back. He got to the door, in time to see the black-coated back of the man race down the corridor. The porter who had been unloading luggage stepped forward as if to stop him. ‘No!’ yelled Michael.