Frankie's Letter - By Dolores Gordon-Smith Page 0,26
it?’ asked Anthony quietly.
Farlow cleared his throat. ‘Mr Monks wants you to meet him in the bar in the Melbourne at quarter past twelve. Lunch,’ he added languidly. ‘Oh, and Mr Monks said to come in uniform. Create the right impression, don’t you know?’
‘Who on earth,’ demanded Anthony when he joined Sir Charles in the bar of the Melbourne, ‘is that chap Farlow?’
Sir Charles grinned broadly and picked up his sherry. ‘Bertram Farlow? He’s one of the stars of the department. I use him to fetch and carry and do odd jobs. He’s not very bright, but he looks impressive, doesn’t he?’
‘Very.’
‘I hide behind him on occasion, so to speak. One look at Farlow and no one takes any notice of me. He used to be an actor and, despite looking as if he’s too aristocratic for words, he’s actually the son of a Lancashire millworker.’
‘Good grief. Anyway,’ said Anthony, mentally dismissing Farlow, ‘why did you want to see me? Have you got a lead?’
Sir Charles drew his chair closer. ‘We have. Incidentally,’ he said with a look at Anthony’s clothes, ‘the uniform suits you.’
‘Never mind my uniform. What about this lead?’
‘Ah, but your uniform is part of my scheme. It was your pal Ross with his sister’s friend, Miss Tara O’Bryan, who led us in the right direction. Have you ever heard of a man called Sherston? Patrick Sherston?
Anthony frowned. ‘Somewhere or other. The name rings a bell.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Hang on! I’ve got it. He was the man getting into the taxi! I couldn’t place him but I knew I’d come across him. He’s Irish, isn’t he, Talbot?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Could he be one of the Sons of Hibernia?’
‘If we suspected every Irishman of being involved with the Sons of Hibernia and their ilk, we’d have to keep an eye on half the army and most of the police,’ said Sir Charles. ‘However, he does have a link to Cavanaugh. Tell me what else you know about Sherston.’
Anthony shrugged. ‘As I recall, he’s a newspaper man and a pretty big cheese. He owns the newspaper, I mean. I met him at the university once. He was at a dinner hosted by my crowd at the School of Tropical Medicine, the neuropathology and parasitic diseases people. There was a fairly big donation in the offing. He made a speech about the Congo, Uganda and German East, setting the scene for everyone. It was a pretty good speech as these things go. I swapped notes with him afterwards. He sounded as if he knew Africa like the back of his hand, but he admitted his experience amounted to a holiday on the Cape and ten minutes with an encyclopaedia. I think I’d always treat him with care but I rather took to him.’
‘That’s the man. Well, I didn’t know you’d met him, but he’s joining us for lunch at one.’
Anthony sat up. ‘Is he, by George? What’s his association with Cavanaugh?’
‘All in good time,’ said Sir Charles with a grin. ‘To go back to Mr Sherston for a moment, it’s because we’re meeting him for lunch that I particularly wanted you to wear uniform. It commands respect, you know.’
‘And why do you want me to command Mr Sherston’s respect? Particularly, I mean.’
Sir Charles sat back in his chair. ‘Because, as you said, Patrick Sherston is a newspaper man. You said he was a big cheese. That, if anything, is an understatement. He owns the Sherston Press and is, in consequence, a very important person indeed. He owns the Examiner, the Mercury, the Sentinel and a host of others. As well as the big papers he’s got lots of little magazines with names like Modern Poultry Breeding and so on.’
‘Crikey. The Sentinel? We’re moving in elevated circles. Does he know who you are?’
Sir Charles shook his head. ‘No. He knows I work in Whitehall, but he thinks I’ve got something to do with police pensions. I’ve known him in a vague sort of way for years and would never have thought he’d had any connection with Cavanaugh if it hadn’t been for your friend Ross mentioning Miss Tara O’Bryan. Sherston is Miss O’Bryan’s uncle.’
‘Is he, by jingo?’ murmured Anthony. ‘Are they close?’
Sir Charles nodded. ‘Very. Miss O’Bryan’s father is dead and both she and her mother, Veronica O’Bryan, Sherston’s sister, live with him. You might have heard of Miss O’Bryan’s father, Bernard O’Bryan. He was a well-known poet and literary figure in Dublin twenty-odd years ago.’