Frankie's Letter - By Dolores Gordon-Smith Page 0,32
will not be troubled by pressmen.’
‘That’s a very generous offer,’ said Anthony. ‘Talbot, what do you say?’
‘I think it’s a splendid idea,’ said Talbot enthusiastically. ‘Absolutely first-rate. I’m much obliged to you, Sherston.’
‘What do you say, Colonel?’ asked Sherston.
‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Anthony, privately congratulating Sir Charles. His scheme had worked, sure enough. If Sherston had been given a doormat he would have written Welcome on it. ‘I’ll have to get permission to go ahead, but I accept with pleasure.’
Sherston folded up his napkin. ‘Good. We’ll consider it settled.’ He drew out his card case, took out a card and jotted a number on the back. ‘That’s my private number. Let me know as soon as you have permission and we’ll arrange for you to come down.’ He turned to Sir Charles. ‘You can get away from the office, can you, Talbot?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Sir Charles cheerfully. ‘Not that I’ll be missed. To be honest I don’t know why I stick at it, but someone’s got to see that form CH 123 is filled in triplicate. Now most of my young clerks have joined up, I’m left with the halt and the lame and the old. How anyone expects me to run a government department with the staff I’m left with, I don’t know. I suppose you’ve got much the same problem with your newspapers, Sherston.’
‘It’s a burden, certainly. However, talking of newspapers, Colonel, I appreciate you’ll have to consult with the powers that be, but I’d like to run an article as soon as possible. Now, what I’d like to suggest is sending one of my men round . . .’
‘What did you think of Sherston?’ asked Sir Charles as he and Anthony crossed St James’ Park after lunch. ‘D’you think he could be Cavanaugh’s Gentleman?’
Anthony scratched his ear. ‘To be honest, I don’t know if Sherston would fit Cavanaugh’s ideas. He’s rich and powerful and wears the right clothes, but his accent’s against him. I’m not sure if an Irish-American would think another Irishman could be an English gentleman, if you see what I mean. I tell you something that I did think was odd though, and that was the way he talked about Cavanaugh.’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Sir Charles. ‘I don’t know why. It could be nothing more than some trifling love affair with his sister – you remember Sherston said Cavanaugh presumed on the relationship? – or Sherston could be our man and realized Cavanaugh was on to him. We’ll find out more at Starhanger.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Anthony agreed. ‘By the way, you know we want a scheme to sell the Jerries? I’ve got a glimmer of an idea. It was all the talk about Africa which set me off, but I need to think through the details.’
The next morning Anthony telephoned Sherston to say the necessary permissions had been granted.
He was rewarded by an invitation to Starhanger for the following Friday and a visit from a senior reporter from the Sentinel. The day after that, he had the dubious pleasure of reading about his own anonymous exploits under the title ‘Germany! The Truth! One Intrepid Briton’s Account Of Life Under The Kaiser’.
He couldn’t complain about the lack of enthusiasm shown by the writer but he wasn’t prepared for the amount of interest it stirred up.
He got his first inkling when Diana Willis sprang to her feet as he was announced. She was his cousin’s wife and he’d been invited for tea. The room seemed to be a sea of great-aunts, a sprinkling of youths in uniform and a few men too old to be in the army.
She drew him to one side, her eyes sparkling. ‘Anthony, it’s you, isn’t it? The man in the paper, the One Intrepid Briton? I knew you’d done something frightfully brave but I had no idea what. Listen everyone!’ she said, addressing the room. ‘You’ve all got to be most fearfully respectful. This is Anthony Brooke, the man in the paper, the one who’s just got back from Germany.’
‘Cut it out, Diana,’ he said, laughing. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
But nobody believed him.
That the article was to have another and unwelcome consequence was brought home the next morning.
Bertram Farlow called with a note from Sir Charles asking him to call at five o’clock. Anthony, who was just off to lunch, invited Farlow for a bite to eat in Simpsons. As they walked down the Strand, Anthony felt an indefinable prickle at the back of his neck. He knew