Frankie's Letter - By Dolores Gordon-Smith Page 0,1

up the stairs. ‘We could be being robbed.’

Dr Etriech smiled reassuringly. ‘That’s unlikely. A burglar wouldn’t be carrying something in, would they?’

‘Someone’s up there,’ she insisted with another glance at the staircase. ‘It could be a spy. We’re told to look out for English spies. This dreadful war . . .’

He laughed. ‘You needn’t worry about spies, mein liebe Frau,’ he said in what he thought of as a ‘there, there’ voice. ‘There’s nothing to spy on in your house.’

He hung up his coat and put his things on the hallstand. ‘I’ll go upstairs and have a good look round. If I see any spies, I’ll send them back to England, yes?’ She smiled at what Etriech privately thought of as rather heavy-handed humour, clearly relieved that the good doctor was taking care of her.

She looked at him curiously. ‘Doktor? Herr Doktor?’ Dr Etriech had paused, looking intently at the stairs. ‘What is it?’

Dr Etriech turned. ‘Nothing, mein liebe Frau,’ he said carelessly, but there was something. The light in the hall was dim but it gleamed on the polished wood of the banister. Where it struck the rail as it bent round to the first floor, the wood was dull and stained.

He took out his handkerchief and pretended to cough, wetting the corner of it with his tongue. He ran the damp handkerchief over the stain as he walked up the stairs. With Frau Kappelhoff watching him, he couldn’t examine it closely, but the cloth came away a deep rusty red. She was right. There was someone upstairs. His stomach knotted as he rounded the corner.

It sounded as if they were dragging something . . . A man dragging himself upstairs? English spies. Yes, Frau Kappelhoff would think of that. Kiel was full of posters warning all good Germans to be on their guard. Frau Kappelhoff was frightened of spies, knowing they were alien, vicious creatures. That’s why she’d asked Dr Conrad Etriech to go and hunt for them. She trusted Dr Etriech, who lived in her house, asked after her family and ate her stew and dumplings. It would never occur to her that, while the title was real enough, the name was borrowed.

The doctor couldn’t be a spy. He was someone she knew. But his name wasn’t Conrad Etriech, it was Anthony Brooke and, with that bloodstained handkerchief in his pocket, he was a worried man.

The door to his room was open. With a sick feeling he noticed that the brass handle was stained. He had to get Frau Kappelhoff out of the hall. He stamped his foot, gave as good an impression of a cat’s meow as he could, and laughed. ‘It’s all right, mein liebe Frau,’ he called down. ‘It’s a stray cat, that’s all. It’s gone into my room. I’ll chase it out.’

There was a cluck of annoyance. ‘Shall I help you, Herr Doktor?’

‘No, it’s nothing to trouble about.’

He heard the rustle of her dress and the sound of the door from the hall to the kitchen closing. Anthony took a deep breath and walked into his room.

He bolted the door behind him. His sitting room looked, at first sight, undisturbed, but the rug was crumpled and there were two rusty splashes on the oilcloth.

‘Hallo?’ he called softly in German. From somewhere he heard a faint gurgling sound, the sound of a desperately fought-for breath. He went into the bedroom and his heart sank.

Terence Cavanaugh lay sprawled on the floor, the bedspread tumbled round him. His strength had failed as he tried to reach the bed. Anthony knelt down beside him and turned his face to the light. Cavanaugh’s eyes flickered open. With a huge effort, he focused his eyes on Anthony’s face. When he spoke his voice was a breaking whisper.

‘Brooke? I’m for it.’ He started to cough, a harsh, racking sound. Anthony cushioned his head on his knee, holding Cavanaugh’s cold hand. His fair hair was wet with either rain or sweat and a streak of blood creased his forehead. From the way he was breathing, Anthony guessed he had a chest injury.

‘Let me see,’ said Anthony quietly. The blood didn’t show on Cavanaugh’s dark coat or jacket, but they were sticky to the touch. He unbuttoned his coat and drew his breath in sharply.

Cavanaugh’s shirt was soaked an ugly reddish-brown and the bullet hole was rimmed in black. He’d been shot through the lungs. With compressed lips, Anthony twisted up his handkerchief and pressed it against the wound. There was nothing