Frankie's Letter - By Dolores Gordon-Smith Page 0,14

into the armchair. The atmosphere of this inner office was that of a gentleman’s club, quiet, unhurried and rich with green leather and dark wood. One of the few touches of modernity was a telephone and even that looked as if it would never do anything as strident as actually ring. From the half-open window the traffic was muted to a background hum. ‘Thanks,’ he said. He jerked his thumb behind him. ‘All those clerks and what-have-you are new, aren’t they? When I was here last there was just you and the office cat.’

‘The cat’s still here,’ said Sir Charles, ‘but yes, we’ve expanded.’ He grinned. ‘They know me as Monks, by the way. Don’t disillusion them.’ He pushed the cigarette box towards Anthony. ‘Help yourself.’

Anthony took a cigarette. In one way it seemed impossible, in this incredibly civilized room, to convey the stomach-churning tension of Kiel, but although Sir Charles didn’t look as if he’d understand, Anthony knew he would.

Anthony had first met Sir Charles a couple of years ago when they were fellow guests at the Benhams’ house party. Anthony had taken to the plump, balding, good-natured man who always had a bounce in his step. He could imagine him as a well-to-do farmer, a cavalry general who loved his food, his horses and his troops, or a popular businessman, the sort who built ideal homes for his workers, or even, at a pinch, ‘mine host’ in an old-fashioned coaching inn. Sir Charles was, as he said with a smile, actually a retired policeman who was now ‘something in Whitehall’, and that was all Anthony knew.

They’d met at infrequent intervals afterwards and, although Anthony never thought about it, he later realized how much Sir Charles had learnt about him. He knew Anthony had been a student at Cambridge when, unexpectedly stony-broke after his father’s death, he was forced to take a position as a ship’s surgeon.

Anthony had been fascinated by the new world shipboard life opened up and tropical medicine captivated him. He worked hard, saved some money, and invested his precious capital on further studies in Berlin. He found his niche at London University, enthralled by the opportunities for research offered by the School of Tropical Medicine. Anthony couldn’t really credit Sir Charles Talbot was as spellbound as he appeared to be by the life cycle of the trypanosomes parasite, but he was a gifted listener.

Sir Charles never mentioned what the ‘something in Whitehall’ actually was. Then, on the fifth of August, 1914, with the whole country galvanized by war, Anthony was on the point of volunteering for the Royal Army Medical Corps when he received a note asking him to call on a Mr Monks of Angel Alley. To his surprise, Mr Monks turned out to be his old friend, and the nature of the ‘something in Whitehall’ was spelt out.

And now Anthony was back, sitting by the same desk he had sat at that day in August. It was, he thought, a few months and a whole lifetime away.

Anthony mentally shrugged. There wasn’t an easy way to start so he plunged right in. ‘The first thing I’ve got to tell you is that Cavanaugh’s dead.’

Sir Charles paused, then sat down slowly. ‘Terence Cavanaugh?’ he repeated. He rested his forehead on his hand for a brief moment, then looked up. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I was with him when he died.’

Sir Charles swallowed. ‘Poor devil,’ he breathed. ‘How did it happen?’

‘He was shot. I don’t know where he was attacked, but he managed to get away. He made it to my rooms in a pretty poor state and what seemed to be half the German army arrived shortly afterwards.’

Sir Charles’s eyebrows crawled upwards. ‘That must have been awkward. When was this?’

‘On the 28th April.’ Anthony’s mouth twitched in a smile. ‘As you can imagine, I had to leave Kiel in fairly short order.’

Sir Charles looked puzzled. ‘The 28th? That’s over a fortnight ago. Why didn’t you let us know? We could have had you home in half the time.’

Anthony tapped his cigarette on the brass ashtray. ‘I’ll tell you what Cavanaugh said before he died. Then you’ll understand why I didn’t warn you I was on my way.’

Sir Charles heard him out, writing down the odd note, prompting Anthony with occasional questions. When he heard of the fate of von Hagen, he looked up with a broad grin. ‘Do you know, it really is remarkable how the Prussians venerate an army uniform. How did you go on after