Frankie's Letter - By Dolores Gordon-Smith Page 0,33

someone was watching him.

He walked on a few steps before stopping by a newspaper vendor. He bought a paper, then turned casually, looking at the crowds on the pavement. Nobody. He stepped into the shelter of a shop doorway and, beside a curved glass window, stopped and glancing in idle interest at the packets of tea and granulated sugar displayed in the window.

There he was! Reflected in the curved glass was a man in a dark overcoat and bowler hat. He had a split-second glimpse of startled eyes, distorted in the glass, then the man disappeared into the crowd. Damn! Anthony waited a few more minutes, apparently intent on the headlines, but, although at least five bowler-hatted, dark-coated men walked past, Anthony knew his watcher wasn’t amongst them. He folded up the paper, tucked it under his arm, and mounted the steps into Simpsons.

‘I’m being followed,’ he said to Farlow in a low voice, once they were inside and had been shown to a table.

‘Indeed, Colonel?’ asked Farlow in a voice that sounded as if he was about to announce the next hymn. ‘Can you describe him?’

‘Apart from the fact he’s average height with a dark overcoat and bowler hat, no. I saw him reflected in the tea shop window. He knows his stuff. He knew exactly what I was up to and scarpered before I could get a proper look.’

‘Perhaps he’ll be there when we leave,’ suggested Farlow. ‘Let me go first. I’ll cross over to the other side of the road, to March and Weeks, the umbrella shop. I’ll see if I can spot anyone taking an interest in you.’

However, when Anthony joined Farlow outside March and Weeks, Farlow, peering into the window, shook his head as if gravely dissatisfied with the sticks and umbrellas on display. ‘Not a trace of him, Colonel.’

Anthony nodded. The prickle at the back of his neck had disappeared. He kept a careful lookout as he walked back to his club, but could see nothing out of the way. Then, as always, doubts crept in. Had he been mistaken? Perhaps he was simply being overly sensitive.

A succession of late nights had made him tired and, although it was only quarter to three in the afternoon, he curled up in an armchair with a book. It was a long-winded Victorian thing he’d picked up in the library downstairs and could induce sleep after a couple of pages. He wouldn’t mind a rest before he went to see Sir Charles.

He was halfway down the page before he realized he’d read the account of tiger hunting in Garhwal before. That was odd. His bookmark was in the wrong place. He couldn’t be bothered to find the right page and let the book drop to the floor. Although tired, he was unable to settle. His suspicions were pretty nebulous but even a nebulous impression was probably worth reporting. He got up and went to the desk, intending to jot down exactly what he had seen.

His pen had been moved. It was at that point his senses flared. The few papers in his desk had been searched, he was sure of it. He sat rigidly still. Very faintly from the next room, his bedroom, came a tiny succession of noises.

He got up and crept to the door, resting his hand on the handle. There it was again. Tensing himself, he flung back the door and erupted into the room.

Anthony felt a complete fool. Standing by the bed, duster in hand, brush and pan beside him, was a club servant, dressed in the standard uniform of black trousers and striped waistcoat, covered by a khaki apron. He looked up with justified astonishment.

‘What the devil are you doing in here?’ Anthony snapped.

The man fingered his wisp of a moustache, nervously avoiding Anthony’s gaze. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said in deferential Cockney. ‘I was just finishing your room. I didn’t hear you come in. I’m sorry if I disturbed you. We got behindhand this morning and Mr Baxter told me to catch up while you were out.’ He was the picture of aggrieved innocence.

Baxter was the chief caretaker and his name was reassuring. Anthony relaxed and stood away from the door. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you. I heard someone creeping about and wondered who on earth it was.’

‘Not at all, sir,’ he said, obsequiously, picking up the brush and pan. ‘It’s all done now. Terribly sorry, sir.’

He left and Anthony flung himself back into a chair. Damnit, had his papers