Frankie's Letter - By Dolores Gordon-Smith Page 0,13
he’d had quite enough to be going on with.
He was looking for the General and Commercial Steam Navigation Company Ltd., or, to be exact, the office above it. He plunged down Angel Alley, a narrow cobbled passage that ran between the shipping office and the Westminster Coke Company, and came to an unobtrusive green painted door marked by a brass plate.
W. Gabriel Monks. Export Agent.
He smiled in recognition. W. Gabriel Monks, strictly speaking, didn’t exist. When Sir Charles Talbot, Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, had retired from his post five years ago, the newspapers had reported his farewell dinner and the gift of a handsomely inscribed gold watch, and noted that Sir Charles would be taking up a position in what was vaguely described as either Whitehall or the Home Office to administer police pensions. The dinner and the watch were correct, but Sir Charles’s subsequent career had nothing to do with pensions.
He pulled the bell. There was the clatter of feet on the stairs and the door was opened, not, as Anthony had expected, by Sir Charles, but an extraordinarily elegant middle-aged man with silver-grey hair, high cheekbones, piercing blue eyes and perfectly tailored clothes, who looked as if he might be an archbishop or a cabinet minister.
Anthony blinked at this vision. His first impression was immediately overlaid by a second. Although the man looked all right, there was something artificial about him. He was so perfect he was like an archbishop on the stage, rather than a clergyman in real life.
The archbishop, taking in Anthony’s dirty, ill-fitting clothes, greasy cap and grimy, unshaven face, regarded him coldly. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I want to see Mr Monks,’ said Anthony, then, before the man could protest, added, ‘I’ve got a cargo for him.’
The man’s eyebrows rose. ‘I see.’ He smoothed back his hair and added in beautifully modulated but reluctant tones, ‘I suppose you’d better come upstairs.’
He stepped aside to let Anthony enter the tiny hall. Anthony was prepared to bet the words, ‘Wipe your feet!’ were trembling on his lips. With a disdainful glance, the archbishop led the way up the narrow staircase into a lobby on the landing and through a door.
Granted the modesty of the entrance, the office was large and very well appointed. The window, protected by bars, looked out onto Cockspur Street, letting in the fitful spring sunshine and the rumble of noise from the traffic below. Two men, evidently clerks, were working at a big oak desk which filled the middle of the room. The bookcases that covered three walls were lined with files and leather-bound volumes. A large safe stood beside the fireplace and on the desk were piles of papers, blotting pads, pens, inkwells and – surprisingly – no less than three telephones.
‘I’ll tell Mr Monks you’re here,’ said the archbishop, crossing the room to another door. ‘What name shall I give?’
‘Brooke. Dr Anthony Brooke.’
He didn’t have to knock at the door. Sir Charles Talbot – or, as he was known here, Mr Monks – could evidently hear what was being said in the outer office, flung the door open and hurried into the room.
‘Brooke!’ he said, his hand outstretched. ‘My dear fellow, what on earth are you doing here? We knew something had gone badly wrong, but we’ve been starved of news.’
Anthony took his hand, moved by the other man’s obvious pleasure. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the archbishop’s discomfiture at the warmth of Sir Charles’s greeting. ‘I thought it best not to say too much before I actually got here.’
‘I see.’ Sir Charles turned to the elegant clerk. ‘Farlow, Dr Brooke and I have a lot to discuss. I don’t want any interruptions unless it’s really urgent. Use your judgement. Unless . . .’ He paused, taking in Anthony’s battered clothes. ‘Have you eaten? You look a bit worse for wear.’
It was typical, Anthony thought, of him to be concerned first about the man rather than the mission. ‘I feel a bit second-hand,’ he said with a rueful smile, ‘but I had some breakfast on the boat. I arrived at Tilbury this morning. I could do with a bath and a shave, but that can wait.’
‘Are you certain about breakfast? Well, well, I’ll let you be the judge of that.’ Sir Charles led the way into his office and closed the door behind them. ‘Now,’ he said, pulling out a chair for Anthony. ‘Sit down and tell me what you’ve been up to.’