Frankie's Letter

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Dr Gibb’s examination was cheerful and professional. ‘I guessed you’d been chloroformed, old man,’ he said. ‘The blisters round your mouth are very distinctive. Don’t worry about the head wound. You’ll probably need a couple of aspirin for headaches, but it was a nice, clean graze. Your arm will be sore for a few days, I imagine. I understand from Mr Monks that you’re a brother medico, so you know the drill.’ He stepped back from the bed. ‘Mr Monks is outside. I’ll show him in.’

  Sir Charles looked downright worried when Dr Gibbs ushered him into the room. ‘What’s the problem?’ asked Anthony anxiously.

  Sir Charles grinned and pulled a chair up to the bed. ‘You, Brooke. Believe it or not, I was concerned about you. I must say you look a damn sight better than you did this morning. Symonds, one of the code people, spoke to you. He was on his way home after spending all night wrestling with a cipher. I don’t know how much you remember, but you gave him some very clear instructions, considering the circumstances, then passed out. You gave him your cigarette case and he knew what the picture of St Michael meant. He called his angel, who called me. I got the police and we went in search of your captors.’

  ‘Did you find them?’

  Sir Charles hitched himself forward. ‘At first I thought we’d missed the bus. By the time we found which house the garage belonged to, the owners had scarpered. The house, or rather flat, in question is 57, Lamb Row. It had been let to a Mr James Smith, who’d lived there with two menservants for the last fortnight. The car came from a commercial garage on Fenton Street.’

  Anthony reached out a hand for the water. ‘James Smith sounds like an alias. Is he our fair-haired man? The toff?’

  Sir Charles pursed his lips. ‘I think so. I couldn’t find out much about him, worse luck. You clearly put the cat very much among the pigeons, though. From the condition of the flat, he and the servants left in a tearing hurry.’

  He leaned forward. ‘It was the car which brought the biggest prize. There was a notebook in the glove compartment, giving a description of one Günther Hedtke or John Robinson, comparing him to one Colonel Anthony Brooke.’

  Anthony winced. ‘I suppose that’s predictable. I should’ve been on my guard. I thought I saw our fair-haired friend at the inquest. Presumably he smelt a rat when Robinson arrived out of the blue.’

  Sir Charles nodded agreement. ‘It’s probably these damned articles in the Sentinel that’s done it, but James Smith wants you very badly. There were detailed instructions in the notebook for your capture. They know you’re a doctor with an interest in tropical medicine, but, what’s perhaps more interesting, is what was going to happen to you after you were safely nabbed.’

  Anthony looked at Sir Charles suspiciously. ‘What was going to happen? You look very smug all of a sudden. You’ve got an ace up your sleeve. Go on.’

  Sir Charles smiled expansively. ‘You were going to be picked up by U-boat.’

  ‘I don’t see why you’re so happy about it.’

  Sir Charles held up a finger. ‘Listen. Between midnight and two o’clock tonight, a U-boat will be inside the Goodwin Sands, off the coast between Sandwich and Deal. I’ve got the map reference. The U-boat will flash a signal, Mr Smith will reply and the U-boat lands a boat and takes you off to dear old Germany. Brilliant, eh?’

  ‘I still don’t see why you’re so thrilled about it.’

  ‘There’s more in the notebook. One of the purposes of the U-boat was to deliver a radio transmitter to Mr Smith. The inference is that he hasn’t got one, which makes our job all the easier. And, knowing how bulky they are, I’m not surprised. We’ve captured three since the beginning of the war and they’ll be the devil’s own job to replace. I think Mr Smith is out of touch with home.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right.’ Anthony looked at Sir Charles suspiciously. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

  Sir Charles nodded. ‘I saved the best till last. The U-boat is going to give Mr Smith his final instructions for the twenty-ninth.’

  ‘What!’ Anthony thrust the bedclothes back in his agitation. ‘The twenty-ninth!’

  Sir Charles rubbed his hands together and grinned broadly. ‘Stay where you are, man,’ he added. ‘At long last, we’ve got a chance. And not before time, too,’ he added, sobering.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’

  Sir Charles pushed back his chair and walked round the room. ‘We do what James Smith would have done. We flash the signal and, hey presto! We’ve got a U-boat that’ll come meekly in, like a dog to heel. James Smith can’t do a thing about it.’

  Anthony’s eyes widened. ‘I see what you mean. He can’t get a message to Germany.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Sir Charles with satisfaction. ‘Thank God you brought us that car, Brooke. I think our luck’s finally turned.’

  THIRTEEN

  Dr Gibb wanted his patient to stay in bed. Eventually he compromised and allowed Anthony to leave hospital on the understanding he’d go quietly back to his club and rest. Anthony agreed to rest during the day – he was quite willing to obey Dr Gibb to that extent – and tactfully said nothing about what he intended to do that evening.

  Sir Charles decided that the simplest plan was probably the best. The U-boat expected James Smith and a prisoner, and Sir Charles didn’t see any reason to disappoint them. Anthony took the part of James Smith with Sir Charles as his captive, and now the two men, their collars turned up against the cold, waited.

  The beach, a long foreshore of sand that stretched darkly for miles in either direction, seemed deserted. The moon was in the first quarter and its fleeting light, hidden behind scudding clouds, showed the black expanse of the North Sea with only the occasional curling tip of white as the quiet waves lapped onto the shore. Out there, Anthony knew, were the Goodwin Sands, a treacherous graveyard for ships. Out there, Anthony knew, was a German U-boat.

  A surge of triumph tingled through him as, from the dark sea, a light pierced the night.

  The light flashed three times, a single, brilliant beam. Anthony thought he could just make out the bulk of a conning tower, solid black against the rippling darkness of the sea. Using the torch from James Smith’s Daimler, he flashed the signal back.

  For a while nothing seemed to happen, then came the distant chink of chains followed by a splash and, from far away, the creak of oars in rowlocks. Before the boat landed, a voice hailed him in German. He replied in the same language.

  He waited until the keel of the boat grounded onto the beach before saying, ‘Come ashore, all of you. I need some help with the prisoner.’

  The boat crew shipped oars and, splashing through the shallows, hauled the boat half out of the water. The captain of the boat, a young lieutenant, waded towards him and saluted. He looked at Sir Charles, sitting disconsolately on the sand, a little way up the beach, hunched over as if his hands and feet were tied. ‘That is the prisoner?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Anthony briskly. ‘All trussed up and ready for transport. Tell your crew to carry him into the boat. He’s a tricky devil. It’s better that his feet remain tied.’

  The lieutenant gave a brief order to the crew and they all walked up the beach.

  ‘You have some orders for me, I believe?’ asked Anthony as they trudged up the sand.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the lieutenant. ‘And a radio transmitter. The transmitter is in the boat but I have your orders here.’ He felt in the pocket of his jacket and drew out an envelope sealed with a double-headed eagle. It was addressed, prosaically enough, to James Smith.

  Anthony took the envelope and put it away carefully in his inside coat pocket as they reached Sir Charles.

  Anthony looked at the lieutenant apologetically. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said in German, then, in a carrying voice, added in English, ‘It’s all yours, Captain.’

  From the dark sand rose up a party of Royal Navy sailors, guns at the ready.

  The boat crew stood frozen in shock but the lieutenant lashed out. Three s
ailors leapt at him, bearing him to the ground. The lieutenant, scrabbling fiercely in the sand, managed to draw his revolver from its holster. Yelling a warning to the U-boat, he fired the pistol before a sailor kicked it away. He was hauled breathlessly to his feet, his arms securely held.

  His eyes blazed at Anthony. ‘Traitor!’

  ‘No,’ said Anthony quietly. ‘No, I’m not. I’m English.’

  The lieutenant’s shoulders sank, looking at the grinning sailors and their dejected prisoners. ‘We are all betrayed.’ A gleam of hope came into his eyes. ‘The U-boat will escape.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Anthony once more. ‘Take a look for yourself.’ Behind the U-boat, dark against the moonlight, two British submarines had surfaced. ‘It’s over, I’m afraid.’

  Leaving the German boat crew and the U-boat to the Royal Navy, Sir Charles and Anthony walked back up to the car. The car, with its official driver, was parked by the side of the sea road.

  Anthony and Sir Charles climbed into the back and, as Sir Charles held the torch, Anthony ripped open the envelope.

  It took him a little time to make sense of the closely-written German text as the writer assumed knowledge Anthony didn’t have. He grunted in frustration. ‘I’ll say this for James Smith. He’s fluent in German if he’s meant to make sense of this. In fact, I bet he is a German. I wonder if the U-boat crew know anything about him?’

  ‘We’ll ask them, of course,’ said Sir Charles, ‘but I doubt it. What do the orders say?’

  ‘Wait a moment.’ Anthony waved him quiet and read on. As he reached the end, his face altered and, with a noise in the back of his throat, he put down the document and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Sir Charles again.

  ‘They’re going to kill the King and Queen,’ said Anthony quietly.

  ‘What?’ Sir Charles’s voice was incredulous. ‘How?’

  ‘There’s going to be a bomb at the Marriotvale munitions works.’ His voice was very even. ‘There’s an official visit planned – a secret official visit.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘That’s court gossip, isn’t it? That’s exactly the sort of thing Frankie would know.’

  ‘Never mind about that,’ said Sir Charles impatiently. ‘What are the details?’

  ‘They plan to blow up the works, taking with it the King and Queen, the factory itself and all the munitions.’ Anthony clamped down on his cigarette with trembling fingers. ‘And all the people who work there.’

  Sir Charles swallowed hard. He tried to speak, failed, and took a cigarette from his case. It took him a couple of attempts to light it. ‘Marriotvale,’ he muttered. ‘Do you know Marriotvale, Brooke?’

  Anthony did. It was a densely populated labyrinth, hugging the south side of the Thames, a maze of docks, wharves, workshops, factories and slums between Rotherhithe and Bermondsey.

  ‘There’s thousands of people,’ said Sir Charles with a catch in his voice. ‘Thousands.’ He was silent for a few moments then asked wearily. ‘When’s it going to happen?’

  ‘At ten o’clock this morning.’

  ‘Ten o’clock?’ Sir Charles swallowed. ‘We’ll never evacuate the area in time. We can save the King and Queen, but we’ll never save the poor beggars who live there. Dear God, this is worse than I ever imagined.’

  Anthony sucked at his cigarette. ‘There’s a chance, Talbot.’ He tapped the document, his mind racing. ‘These are James Smith’s instructions. Berlin sees the munitions factory as a legitimate military target. They refer to the huge propaganda coup they can make out it, but they’re not keen on making hay about the death of the Royal couple. Berlin wants the credit for that to go to the Sons of Hibernia.’

  Sir Charles rubbed his chin with his hands. ‘The King and the Kaiser are cousins, after all,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, I can see there’d be some reluctance. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Kaiser’s been bullied into this.’

  Anthony shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Anyway, it’s been agreed but the bombers don’t know that yet. James Smith’s instructions are to go to an address in Marriotvale and inspect the arrangements. Then, after a successful outcome, Smith’s authorized to pay a credit note for six thousand pounds’ worth of German arms to be shipped to Ireland.’ He looked up. ‘That means it’s all right, doesn’t it? After all, James Smith hasn’t got this letter. We have.’

  Sir Charles swallowed once more and drummed his fingers on the car seat. ‘I don’t like to leave it to chance. It’s an Irish plan, is it?’

  Anthony nodded. ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘They might decide to go ahead anyway, with or without Smith. I can’t gamble on it. Not when the stakes are so high. There’s far too many lives at risk. We’ll have to evacuate the area, God help us.’ His face twisted. ‘Even so, if that damn bomb goes off, there’s bound to be casualties. I don’t see how it can be helped.’

  Anthony smoked his cigarette down to the butt and pitched the end out of the car onto the hummocky grass. ‘What if I go?’ he suggested. ‘What if I take James Smith’s part?’

  Sir Charles stared at him. ‘You can’t do that. What if they know him?’

  ‘All right, I’ll be someone acting on James Smith’s behalf. I can say he’s had an accident or something but it’s a chance, Talbot. I can be a German again.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the sea. ‘I could have arrived on that submarine. We’ve got the address, after all. I can say that Berlin refused permission to explode the bomb. They can’t argue with that.’

  ‘I bet they can,’ muttered Sir Charles.

  Anthony nearly smiled. ‘Even if they do, if I can just get to see this ruddy bomb, maybe I can disarm it. I can even ask them to rendezvous with me somewhere else to plan out another operation, which means you and the police can pick up the swine. In the meantime, you can evacuate the area.’

  Sir Charles shook his head. ‘Not while you’re in the house. They’ll smell a rat at once.’ He chewed his lip. ‘I like the idea of catching the bombers. If you can nip it in the bud, that’s their precious propaganda triumph gone west.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Damnit, they still win, even if we do catch them. If we do manage to evacuate Marriotvale, they’ve still brought an entire area of London to a standstill.’

  He raised his hands and let them fall helplessly. ‘We’re sunk, Brooke. They’ve won, whatever happens. If the bomb goes off, they’ve won. If it doesn’t and we evacuate the area, all they have to do in the future is say there’s going to be a bomb. We can’t ignore it. It’ll cause endless amounts of disruption and thousands of pounds worth of manufacturing time.’

  ‘Unless I give it a go.’

  Sir Charles sucked his cheeks in, then leaned forward and tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder. ‘London,’ he said, giving an address in Albemarle Row, Westminster. ‘We’re going to see the Home Secretary,’ he said, turning back to Anthony. ‘This is too big a decision for me to take alone.’

  Anthony knocked softly at the door of 17, Nightingale Street, Marriotvale. A nightingale had never sung here. Nightingale Street was a smoke-blackened terrace among a series of smoke-blackened terraces, hunched against the looming factory wall of the Marriotvale Munitions Company.

  Nightingale Street probably referred to the Crimea War, he thought, turning his collar up against the chill of the early morning. The date was about right. He felt nothing but sympathy for people who were forced to live in these jerry-built, two-up and two-down filthy slums.

  He had been touched by the sight of a little street shrine, at the corner of the road. A jam jar of wilting flowers stood in front of a handwritten notice listing the names of dead soldiers from the surrounding streets. Marriotvale had very little to give, but it had been given.

  He glanced at his watch and knocked once more. This time there was a sound of movement in the house, a few muffled swear-words and, after a short interval, the creak of a window being raised. Anthony looked up as an unshaven jowly face peered down at him.

  ‘What time do you call this?’
the man called in a carrying whisper. By his voice, he was from Belfast.

  ‘Five o’clock,’ answered Anthony in the precise tones of a German speaker. ‘I have a message from James Smith.’

  ‘Christ, I thought you were never coming. Wait there.’

  The window was pulled down and, a few moments later, came the noise of feet on the stairs.

  Anthony braced himself. He had an hour before the evacuation began. That was the scheme worked out with the Home Secretary and the Chief Commissioner of Scotland Yard. The Home Secretary had wanted to evacuate Marriotvale right away, but the Chief Commissioner was keen to give Anthony a chance. It would take, he argued, at least that amount of time to have enough men in the right place and, while they were being assembled, Anthony might as well try to bluff the bombers.

  The door opened a crack. ‘Come in.’

  Anthony stepped into the front room of the house. It was, predictably, dark, squalid and very dirty. A ragged curtain was pinned across the window and the furniture was a collection of packing cases.

  The jowly man, who was barefooted and dressed in a long-sleeved vest tucked into serge trousers, took him into the kitchen, the only other downstairs room, where there was a table and two chairs. Here, with no curtain, there was daylight from the kitchen window which gave onto a tiny yard at the side of the house. The back wall of the yard was the factory wall.

  ‘My name’s Joseph,’ said the man. ‘My God, you’re an early bird. Sit down, why don’t you?’

  Anthony gave a fastidious shudder that wasn’t entirely assumed. ‘Thank you, no. I will stand.’

  Joseph laughed. ‘You bloody Germans. You’re all the same. You are German, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, that is so. I arrived on the U-boat last night. My English name is Robert Jones. James Smith had business in Germany.’

  There was a clatter of feet on the stairs and another man, dressed in workman’s clothes of heavy cloth, came into the kitchen. He looked, thought Anthony, a cut above Joseph. ‘This is Kevin,’ said Joseph. ‘He’s in charge here. Kevin, this is Mr Robert Jones, as he wants to be called. He came on the boat last night.’