Frankie's Letter - By Dolores Gordon-Smith Page 0,25
an investigation into Cavanaugh’s journalism proved fruitless. He had written pieces for the American press, but had published nothing in England. And the quest, as Anthony quickly realized, was urgent.
Cavanaugh had died because a gentleman in England had betrayed him. What else that gentleman could pick up was deeply worrying. Anthony was stunned by the facts which were freely floated round London drawing rooms and not so much whispered, as openly discussed after the port.
Some of the talk was harmless chit-chat, such as Tom receiving his commission in the Blues and Royals, Dick getting the MC and Harry being sent to Gallipoli. That went with the discussions about which rifle it was best for an officer to carry, now rifles had replaced the traditional swords, and if a soldier who threw a hand grenade should be called a grenadier or a bomber, but he could, with very little effort, have written a fairly detailed report on the situation in the Dardanelles, given the inside story of Aubers Ridge and Festubert and found out about the new bombsight being developed by the Central Flying School. He learnt Italy was about to declare war, who was likely to be who in the forthcoming coalition government, how the army had first won, then lost, then drawn the battle of Neuve Chapelle and the vicious infighting between Field Marshall Sir John French and virtually everyone else.
It mainly came, as most information does, in bits and, naturally enough, Anthony couldn’t know if it was accurate but anyone with their eyes open would know where to go and who to ask to check their facts.
Sir Charles wasn’t remotely surprised. ‘You can’t stop people talking,’ was his comment when Anthony called to see him. ‘We’re convinced that anyone we meet over dinner, who speaks as we do and knows the same crowd is fundamentally safe. For instance, who told you about the new bombsight?’
‘That was Kenneth Bourne after dinner two nights ago but a fair few people knew about it. Shelia Matherson mentioned it too. I’ve known them both for years.’
‘So it wouldn’t cross their minds it was something they shouldn’t talk about. The more I think about it, the more worried I am. To be totally accepted in English society must be one of the most casual and yet one of the most difficult tricks in the world. We don’t ask for a man’s credentials or ask to see his papers. We know that sort of thing by instinct.’
‘Well, so we do,’ Anthony replied. ‘Either you know someone or you know someone who knows someone or you know what school they went to or where they come from. It’d be difficult for a foreigner or an outsider, however plausible, to break in to that circle, unless you’re suggesting a disguise or a false identity.’
‘I can’t see it working like that. I’m convinced Cavanaugh was on the right lines. Our man’s working on the inside. He’s doesn’t need a disguise or a false name. This is much more subtle.’ He shook his head with an anxious frown. ‘He’s one of us. Damn it, Brooke, Cavanaugh must have talked to someone. We have to find who.’
Anthony had been in London for over a week when he got a break. He’d bumped into an old friend, Jerry Ross, in the Savoy. Over the second whisky-and-splash he pitched in with his standard gambit. He’d run through the usual list of friends and their doings before casually asking, ‘Do you remember that American chap who was here before the war? Terence Cavanaugh. Quite a character.’
To his delight, Jerry frowned. ‘Was he the bloke who’d been a cowboy or something?’
‘That’s the one,’ said Anthony, keeping the raging urgency out of his voice.
‘I don’t know how many of his tales I believed, but yes, I knew him. A friend of my sister’s introduced him. He was a real tough egg, I’d have said, but pleasant enough.’
With painful carelessness and another one for the tonsils, Anthony elicited the information that Ross’s sister’s friend was a Miss Tara O’Bryan. And that, the sum total of Jerry Ross’s knowledge, was to prove priceless.
Next morning Anthony had a visit from Sir Charles’s assistant, the elegant Farlow. ‘Colonel Brooke?’ he murmured in inaudibly cultured tones. Anthony had to smother a grin. He was sure MacIntyre, the porter, who was watching them from his desk in the hall, thought he was entertaining a duke or an earl, at least. Farlow leaned forward confidentially. ‘I’ve come from Mr Monks.’