Frankie's Letter - By Dolores Gordon-Smith Page 0,30

natural that he would say it in that way.

‘Sir Charles said you’d been in Germany, Colonel,’ said Sherston.

Anthony winced. He couldn’t help it. He knew he was there to play a part but it still seemed wrong to blurt out the facts so openly. He saw Sherston register his discomfort. ‘People ought to be more careful,’ he said, playing the stiff-upper-lipped hero. It was a useful pretence. He couldn’t think what the devil to say. Sherston looked at him inquisitively. ‘Stories get about,’ continued Anthony. ‘You never know who’s listening.’

‘Oh, you’re amongst friends,’ said Sir Charles breezily. ‘There’s too much of this secrecy nonsense if you ask me. Damnit, there’s no Germans here. We ought to be proud of what we’ve achieved.’ The waiter showed them to a table. ‘It’s a great shame,’ he continued, picking up the menu, ‘that the really thrilling stories of the war can’t be told. When I think what Brooke’s been up to . . .’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘Shall we have a bottle of the ’98 claret? My doctor wouldn’t approve, but a little indulgence never did a man any harm.’

Once again, Anthony mentally congratulated him. Without overdoing it, Sir Charles managed to convey the exact impression of a man who had had slightly too much to drink. He saw Sherston’s smile of understanding.

‘An excellent choice, Talbot. Colonel, were you really in Germany?’

Anthony nodded reluctantly.

Sherston pursed his lips in a silent whistle. ‘How long for?’

‘Since last September.’

The expression on Sherston’s face was, Anthony had to admit, flattering.

‘But that’s wonderful!’

His admiration was so sincere Anthony had to get a grip on himself. Even if it was only a stunt for the press, he could see the role as a raconteur of My Thrilling Life being a damn sight easier than he’d anticipated.

Sherston picked up his napkin and sat with it held loosely in his hand. ‘Where did you get to?’

There was an almost imperceptible nod from Sir Charles. Anthony took a deep breath and plunged in. ‘I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but I know it won’t go any further. I started off in Berlin and ended up in Kiel.’

Sherston froze, his gaze drilling into Anthony. ‘The headquarters of the Imperial Fleet? My word, Colonel, you’re a hero.’

‘I’m no hero,’ said Anthony deprecatingly, deploying the stiff upper lip once more.

‘How on earth did you land up in Germany?’

‘I’d studied there before the war. That helped.’ Talking of help, Anthony felt in need of some from Sir Charles, but he seemed to be concentrating solely on the menu.

‘I’m going to have soup and lamb cutlets,’ said Sir Charles fussily. ‘I recommend the thick soup. They do it rather well. Look here, Brooke, it’s all very well saying you’re not a hero but we stay-at-home types have got to have someone to look up to, you know. From what I’ve heard if you aren’t a hero, you’re next door to it.’

‘But I’m not,’ protested Anthony. So Sir Charles had come to his aid after all. He tried hard. ‘I had the occasional close shave, but that’s all part of the job. I’ll have the soup and steak and kidney pie.’

‘What sort of close shave?’ asked Sherston. He waved a dismissive hand at the menu. ‘I’ll have anything you recommend.’

‘You got on a U-boat, didn’t you?’ said Sir Charles, seeing Anthony’s hesitation. ‘And didn’t you dress up as a guard and join the hunt for yourself at one point?’ He gave the order to the waiter. ‘This is the real stuff, Sherston. Brooke had to escape over the rooftops to shake off the Germans. Wasn’t that after that newspaper chap you were telling me about died, Brooke?’

‘Terence Cavanaugh?’ Anthony asked, picking up the fairly obvious cue. This was the story they had agreed earlier. They could hardly tell the truth about Cavanaugh. It would spark off far too many questions to say Cavanaugh, a neutral, had been shot, so, as far as the outside world was concerned, Cavanaugh was a journalist who’d died in an accident.

Anthony saw Sherston twitch at the name.

‘I know a Terence Cavanaugh,’ said Sherston. ‘You say he’s dead?’

‘I don’t suppose it’s the same chap,’ said Anthony with a light-hearted laugh. ‘My Cavanaugh was an American. He must have been about fifty-odd or so. He was quite a character. He’d been everything from a ranch-hand to a prizefighter and threw in a bit of journalism to go with it.’

Sherston looked at Anthony, then dropped his gaze. There was an odd pause.