flicker in and out.
Driving with his good arm, he nursed what had become a brute of a car along. He turned up Horse Guards Avenue and onto Whitehall. By the time he got to the War Office he was surviving by willpower alone.
Two startled soldiers, on guard outside the main entrance, watched him shudder to an unsteady halt. By the time the car stopped, one had run towards him.
Anthony slumped over the driver’s door. ‘I’m Colonel Brooke,’ he managed to say. ‘Intelligence.’
Even as he spoke, part of him wondered why the man was gazing at him in such a bewildered way. He only realized afterwards what he looked like, with his shoulder soaked with blood, a deep gash across his temple and his forehead scarred by glass. He felt in his pocket and pulled out his cigarette case with the picture of St Michael inside and thrust it into the man’s hand.
‘I need Mr Monks. I need an angel.’ He pointed at the building. ‘Now.’
Anthony didn’t really lose consciousness, but he seemed to be only half-aware of what was happening around him. The next thing he clearly knew was an intelligent-looking elderly man shaking him awake.
‘You’re Colonel Brooke? You need an angel?’
Anthony blinked to try and bring him into focus. Fighting to talk, he gasped out his story.
‘Get to the mews. It’s off the Embankment. Something like Lamb? Lamb Street? Find who owns the garage in the mews. German agents. Tried to kill me. Arrest them.’ Anthony tried to get out of the car but the man restrained him.
‘Easy does it.’
‘It’s urgent,’ Anthony said, slurring his words. ‘Urgent.’
‘We’ll take care of it. Don’t you worry.’
He heard the sound of running feet as if from a long way off, knew he was going to be horribly sick, then, as all the light seemed to retreat to the end of a deep black tunnel, passed out completely.
Anthony awoke in a white-sheeted institutional bed in a hospital with rain running down the windowpanes. The rain was such a pleasant sound that he lay quietly for a few moments, listening, before the sound made him realize how thirsty he was. He turned his head and saw a nurse smiling at him.
She helped him sit up in bed, poured out a glass of water for him and helped him drink it. At that moment, no woman, not even Josette, had ever seemed as beautiful.
‘Good morning, Colonel,’ she said, taking his pulse. ‘You’re doing very well,’ she added, after a pause in which she counted out the beats. ‘The doctor said you’d wake up about now.’
‘I need to see Mr Monks.’
‘He’s with the doctor.’
Anthony relaxed. ‘Where am I? How long have I been out of action?’
‘You’re in the King Edward the Seventh and you’ve been unconscious for about three hours.’ She walked to the door. ‘I’ll get Dr Gibbs.’
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.