The door was locked but, to his surprise, the key was in the lock. He wouldn’t need the bunch of picklocks in his dressing-gown pocket.
The moonlight shining through the study window was very bright, making deep pools of sharp-edged blackness. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for but hoped that somewhere in this room would be a note, a message, some record of contact between Sherston and the enemy.
Sherston was, Anthony knew, a methodical man and, at a guess, would keep his notes at home rather than his office in Sherston House. It was probably safer here than in his London office. As far as he knew, Sherston and his secretary were the only people who came in the study.
The walls of the study were lined with box files. A whole section concerned the house and estate but the ones which interested him were the press files, each labelled with a name of a newspaper or magazine.
The Sentinel, Sherston’s flagship paper, had four boxes, which were, according to the notes on the spine of the files, split between a record of contributors and their specialities, a note of special features the paper had run, circulation figures arranged by region and an account of money paid and received. Anthony guessed these papers would be duplicated at Sherston House together with more extensive records. He was looking at information Sherston needed at his fingertips. It was a digest of his entire business.
Anthony flicked his torch along the shelves, looking for the Beau Monde. There it was. He pulled it down and opened it on the desk. Here, separated into Manila folders, was information classified as it had been on the Sentinel. In the record of contributors was Frankie.
Frustratingly, that was the only name she appeared under. Anthony spread the papers out, looking for a note of payment, but there wasn’t any. He wanted some evidence that Patrick Sherston knew who Frankie was and how she was using the ‘Letters’.
He put the papers back in the file and returned it to the shelf, and, sitting on the chair at Sherston’s desk, forced himself to look methodically round the room. He needed something out of place, something that didn’t seem right. He used the picklocks to open the desk drawer. The right-hand side contained a cash box and chequebooks. The left-hand side drawer was unlocked and contained stationery.
He really needed to examine every piece of paper in the place but he couldn’t see Sherston letting him do— Bloody hell!
It was there. Anthony put the torch down on the desk beside the typewriter and a wedge of light shone on the papers beside the machine. The top sheet had a neatly typed title. ‘Frankie’s Letter’.
He picked up the typed sheet and read it through. ‘Frankie’s Letter’. Frivolous, inconsequential and apparently trivial. And new.
He stared at the piece of paper. Veronica O’Bryan had written ‘Frankie’s Letter’. Veronica O’Bryan was dead. This was a new ‘Letter’ so Veronica couldn’t be Frankie. They’d been wrong.
His name was in the ‘Letter’. Anthony couldn’t read the code, but there was a reference to ‘babbling brooks’. He’d eat the damn thing if that didn’t mean him. Sir Charles had to see this right away. He picked up a pencil and turned to find a piece of blank paper so he could copy it out.
Anthony froze. The window was outlined in moonlight on the floor and, cast in clear silhouette, was the shape of a man’s head and shoulders.
He kept very still, leaving the torch on the desk. Although the man could see there was a light. Anthony didn’t think the man could see him. He slid off the chair and crept into the shadows, working his way round the walls, out of the study and into the hallway. The garden door, he knew, would bring him out onto the terrace. As quietly as he could, Anthony unlocked the door and stole round the corner of the house.
The man was crouched by the window. Anthony had no weapon apart from his fist, but he knew that one sharp blow in the right place was as effective as a cosh.
He was at arms’ length before the man realized he was there. Anthony’s fist was raised when he turned – and he very nearly hit Bedford.
Bedford gave a little yelp of surprise. Anthony let out his breath in a gasp and jerked his thumb behind him to indicate they should move away from the house.
‘What the devil,’ he demanded in a whisper when they were far enough away from the house and the shadow of some bushes, ‘are you doing here?’
Bedford was still recovering from Anthony’s near-miss. ‘I had no idea you were there, sir,’ he said admiringly. ‘I thought I was pretty good, but that takes the biscuit.’
‘Never mind that,’ Anthony broke in impatiently. ‘Answer the question.’
‘Mr Monk’s orders are to keep watch, sir. I saw torchlight in that room and was trying to make out what was going on.’
‘That was me. How about earlier? Did you follow the chauffeur?’
Bedford shook his head. ‘No, sir. We tried to follow the bike-tracks but the main road was too hard to take a print. The bike had a sidecar, so I don’t know if he was alone or not.’
‘He could have been,’ said Anthony. ‘It depends if he was planning to kill me or abduct me.’ He sucked in his cheeks thoughtfully. ‘Never mind that now. We know they’re here and they know I’m guarded. Quits. Are you in touch with Mr Monks?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’ Anthony pointed to where the boathouse stood dark against the moonlit lake. ‘You see the boathouse?’
‘Yes, sir. I know that’s our letter box.’
‘Good. I’ll have a message for Mr Monks inside it within an hour. There’s another thing. Sherston is planning to go to London tomorrow. Have him followed.’
‘Will do, sir.’
They parted, Bedford to God knows where, Anthony back to Sherston’s study. He took ‘Frankie’s Letter’ up to his room to copy out and, rather to his surprise, was able to return the original and deliver the copy to the boathouse without further ado.
The next day, Sherston, with apologies to his guest, left for London.
Anthony picked up a heap of magazines from the hall table and took them into the garden. The other magazines were camouflage. The first time he’d seen ‘Frankie’s Letter’, he’d been too stunned to take in anything more than the fact that he’d found it and last night his emotions had been much the same.
Frankie’s literary style was a matter he hadn’t considered but now he wanted to read the ‘Letters’ themselves. He didn’t expect to find anything that the code breakers hadn’t seen, but hoped for an insight into Frankie by reading the words around the messages.
Veronica O’Bryan certainly hadn’t written the ‘Letter’ he’d found last night, but that wasn’t to say she hadn’t written the others. Somebody else – Sherston, at a guess – could easily have written the latest one. And really, with such an excellent method of communication to hand, it made sense to keep ‘Frankie’s Letter’ going.
He didn’t have the last ‘Letter’ but, having copied it out only hours earlier, knew exactly what was in it. Was there any difference in style between it and the earlier ‘Letters’?
If there was, he couldn’t see it. Frankie’s gossipy, trivial style seemed consistent throughout. It wouldn’t, he thought, be a difficult style to mimic but if the last ‘Letter’ was written by another person they’d done it very well.
Annoyed, he lit his pipe and looked yet again at the light-hearted sentences.
‘Good heavens! What on earth are you reading, Colonel?’
Anthony started. It was Tara O’Bryan. Her feet had made no noise on the grass as she crossed the lawn behind him. She was looking at the magazine over his shoulder. She came round the bench, picked up the magazines, put them on the lawn and sat down beside him.
‘I found you reading Uncle Patrick’s magazines once before,’ she said chattily, ‘but I never expected to find you with your nose in the Beau Monde. I wouldn’t have thought it was your sort of thing.’
Anthony summoned up a smile. ‘I’m just passing the time, really. Seeing how the other half lives and all that.’
&
nbsp; ‘The other half being the mysterious female sex?’ For some reason that seemed to amuse her. ‘You won’t find many clues by reading magazines, you know. Especially,’ she added, looking at the magazine on his knee, ‘“Frankie’s Letter”.’
‘Why not?’ Tara didn’t answer and Anthony carried on. ‘After all, it’s about things girls do talk about, isn’t it? Fashion and gossip and so on.’
‘Not all the time,’ she said in a pained voice.
He pulled at his pipe and plunged in. ‘As a matter of fact, I wondered who actually did write it. I know it’s a secret . . .’
‘A very closely guarded secret.’
‘But I wondered if Frankie was your mother. Sorry to mention it, but I did.’
The humour vanished from her face. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? You’re wrong.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Absolutely.’
Anthony sat back. ‘Why?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘After all, if you don’t know who wrote “Frankie’s Letter”, why shouldn’t it have been your mother?’
‘Because . . .’ She stopped, biting her lip. Anthony felt a sudden conviction. She knew! ‘She couldn’t,’ she finished, avoiding his eyes.
‘You know who Frankie is,’ he stated. It wasn’t a question.
Again, she avoided his eyes. ‘So what if I do? After all, it’s just a newspaper stunt. It doesn’t matter.’
‘If your mother wrote it, it does. And, as Mr Sherston has asked me to investigate what happened to your mother, if she did write “Frankie’s Letter”, I need to know. There has to be some link between her and Cedric Chapman. This could be it.’
A line creased her forehead. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Chapman was a criminal.’
‘A blackmailer, perhaps? If your mother was Frankie, she’d have to do some digging around. She could easily have found out something disreputable about someone. Maybe Chapman was acting on their behalf.’
She threw her hands up impatiently. ‘For heaven’s sake! Colonel, this is idiotic. You’re barking up the wrong tree.’ She looked round, saw they were alone and drew closer. ‘I’m only telling you because I can’t let you waste your time.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Frankie isn’t a woman at all. It’s Uncle Patrick.’
Time seemed to stand still. Anthony looked at Tara. She had recovered her poise and her eyes met his in an amused challenge. He forced himself to laugh. ‘What? Patrick Sherston writes “Frankie’s Letter”?’
‘Shush!’ She raised a hand. ‘Uncle Patrick would have a fit if he knew I’d told you. But you can see why I said you won’t find out much about women from “Frankie’s Letter”.’
‘But . . .’ Anthony pretended to be bewildered. Perhaps he wasn’t pretending. He’d suspected Sherston right enough, but to have it confirmed was stunning. ‘How do you know?’
Tara became confidential. ‘It was ages ago. I wanted to see Uncle Patrick and went into the study. He wasn’t there, but on the typewriter was “Frankie’s Letter”. He was halfway though it. When he came back I said, It’s you! You’re Frankie! He swore me to secrecy. He said that “Frankie’s Letter” was shaping up to being one of his best stunts. It had pushed the circulation of the Beau Monde past Vogue for the first time ever.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t say anything, will you? It’s only a joke but it’d be ruined if the truth got out. Promise?’
Anthony looked at her bright eyes. ‘Promise,’ he said, lying with a heavy heart. Yes, the joke would be ruined.
Not only that, he thought, half an hour later as he left his message inside the canoe, Patrick Sherston would be ruined. He knew ‘Frankie’s Letter’ – that joke – had killed Terence Cavanaugh, but he hated the part he had to play.
FIFTEEN
Josette expected Sherston at seven. When eight o’clock arrived and he still hadn’t returned, Josette ordered dinner to be served in his absence. ‘I do apologize, Colonel,’ she said, taking her seat at the table. ‘It’s too bad of Patrick.’
‘He’ll bustle in soon saying he was unavoidably detained,’ said Tara, cheerfully. She cocked her head as the telephone rang in the hall. ‘Hello, this is probably him now.’
Anthony, who knew only too well who was detaining Sherston and how unavoidable it was, found it difficult to play his allotted part of easy unconcern as Vyse, the butler, went to answer the call. Josette looked up as Vyse came into the dining room.
‘Mr Elswick, the solicitor, would be obliged if you would speak to him on the telephone, madam.’ Vyse coughed. ‘He says it’s important.’
Josette was on the telephone for a matter of minutes, some of the longest minutes Anthony had ever spent.
She came back into the dining room like someone in a trance. ‘Patrick’s been arrested,’ she said without preamble, then collapsed into tears.
Early next day, Anthony walked to the boathouse. He hadn’t seen either Josette or Tara that morning and, after the previous evening, he didn’t want to. Tara had reacted with fury, Josette with silent horror.
There was, as he had hoped, a letter in the canoe.
Dear Brooke,
Congratulations. We’ve got him. It took some doing to get the authorities to act but, after your information, I had no choice. He doesn’t suspect we had any part in it.
He was arrested at Sherston House. He was taken to Carey Street Police Station and charged. His solicitor, Elswick of Harwood, Elswick and Kendal, was in attendance. We don’t want him wriggling out on a technicality. He stormed and blustered and indignantly rejected the charge, especially when the police spelled out, and Elswick confirmed, that the only penalty for High Treason is death.
It was the sight of all the ‘Frankie’s Letters’ that got him, laid out neatly with their transcribed messages beside them. It was like pricking a balloon. All the fight went out of him. Elswick asked him to deny he was the author. Sherston admitted he’d written them. He wouldn’t say much else, despite Elswick’s promptings. So there we are. If we can nail Smith as well, we could rest easy, so stay put until you receive further instructions.
With best wishes,
W. Gabriel Monks
Anthony read the letter through again then stuck a match and set fire to it, making sure the pieces of charred ash went into the lake. They’d won. Half-won, anyway.
Smith was still out there and he was still in danger. He sat against the boathouse wall, sightlessly watching the water lapping round the piles of the wooden jetty.
It was so damn difficult to feel anything. He remembered how determined he’d been to get whoever was responsible for Terence Cavanaugh’s death but now, with Sherston safely behind bars, he couldn’t summon up any emotion but pity.
He couldn’t face the house and slipped away without fuss. He didn’t know if he was followed. He didn’t really care.
It was late that afternoon when he returned to Starhanger. He had lunched at the village pub and then sat by the river, trying to put his thoughts in order. He must leave Starhanger.
Despite Sir Charles’s instructions, he couldn’t, in all decency, continue to inflict his presence on the stricken household and, now Sherston was taken care of and the link between Starhanger and Smith broken, he had no reason to stay.
Despite the apparent solitude of the riverbank, he knew that one of his guard dogs, at least, was near at hand.
Anthony longed for an encounter with Smith. He was in the mood to relish a fight. He’d half-expected Smith to make a move, now he was alone and apparently unprotected, but Smith, frustratingly, left him unmolested.
The door to Starhanger was open. He squared his shoulders and walked up the steps and into the hall. Vyse was crossing from the morning room into the library. He stopped as Anthony walked in, evidently surprised to see him.
Anthony paused enquiringly. ‘Was there something you wanted, Vyse?’
Vyse picked up a silver salver from the hall table. ‘There’s a letter for you, sir. It was delivered by hand this morning.’
Anthony took th
e letter. Vyse cleared his throat, looking at Anthony awkwardly. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but could I enquire—’
‘Colonel!’ Tara stood at the end of the hall. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ She came a few steps into the hall. ‘That will be all, Vyse.’
‘Very good, Miss.’
Vyse gave a small bow and withdrew.
Anthony stuffed the letter into his pocket and followed Tara into the conservatory. ‘I had the idea Vyse wanted to say something to me.’
Tara shut the door behind them. ‘I’m sure he did,’ she said grimly. ‘But although Vyse is one of the best, I’m not having the servants discuss family affairs with a guest.’
She looked at him appraisingly, her face white with tension. She started to speak, swallowed hard, and tried again. ‘Colonel Brooke, where is Josette?’
Anthony stared at her. At the back of his mind, a little shoot of fear took root and started to grow. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Josette. She’s with you, isn’t she?’
‘No. I haven’t seen her today.’
Tara’s eyes widened. ‘Then where is she? She’s gone.’
Anthony looked at her, unable, for the moment, to make sense of her words. Then he grabbed hold of her arms, his face very close to hers. ‘Gone? What do you mean, gone?’
Tara’s startled eyes met his. ‘We don’t know. Her maid said she was in her room last night, but her bed’s not been slept in.’ Her voice broke. ‘I thought she’d gone with you.’
‘What!’ His grip tightened.
Tara’s lip trembled. ‘You’re hurting me.’
He let her go, then, realizing what strain she was under, helped her to a seat. ‘Tell me what this is all about.’
Tara slumped helplessly. ‘I thought you and Josette had gone off together.’ She moved her head to one side, avoiding looking at him directly. ‘I know how you feel about her. It’s obvious. It’s the way you look at her, the way your face lights up when she comes in the room. I know.’
Anthony looked at her silently.
‘It’s a nightmare,’ she added desperately. ‘First Uncle Patrick was arrested, then Josette disappeared and you couldn’t be found. I can’t understand what’s happening but it’s you, isn’t it? You’re responsible for everything.’
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