Frankie's Letter - By Dolores Gordon-Smith Page 0,35

He didn’t like it.

SIX

Sir Charles stood up and, with his hands clasped behind his back, walked to the window, gazing unseeingly at the traffic on Cockspur Street. He turned, looking at Anthony wryly. ‘I’ve put you in danger. If you want to join the Medical Corps, I won’t stand in your way.’

Anthony jerked his head up sharply. ‘What about Frankie?’

‘Damn Frankie,’ muttered Sir Charles. ‘The Germans know who you are.’

Looking at Sir Charles’s crestfallen face, Anthony felt torn. He wanted to join the Medical Corps but he had a huge reluctance to leave a job undone. He seemed to hear once again the desperation in Terry Cavanaugh’s voice as he died. Gentleman. He must be a gentleman.

There was a gentleman in England and Cavanaugh thought he was at Starhanger. Tara O’Bryan was at Starhanger . . .

‘No, Talbot,’ he said firmly.

Sir Charles’s eyes widened. ‘No?’

‘No, damnit. I said I’d find Frankie and I will. The Germans must think I’m a complete dud. I wouldn’t think much of an enemy agent who boasted in the newspapers and was fooled by that cringing little weasel who searched my room. Good. I won’t be caught napping a second time, by the Weasel or anyone else. They think they’ve got away with it. Let them. Don’t forget, I can recognize at least one German agent. That might prove very valuable.’

‘It might,’ conceded Sir Charles. He cocked his head to one side, raising his eyebrows. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain,’ said Anthony firmly. ‘After all, what have we lost? We think our gentleman might be Sherston and we’re fairly sure he’s associated with Starhanger. Sherston is the one person in the one house in England where I can’t pretend to be anyone but myself.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Sir Charles. ‘Well, I’m not going to argue. You’re a sight too valuable for that.’

‘Besides, I want to go to Starhanger.’ Anthony leaned forward. ‘You were looking for a plan, weren’t you? Some information so choice the Germans simply won’t be able to resist it. I’ve got an idea.’

Sir Charles listened as Anthony ran through his scheme. ‘That’s exactly the sort of thing I wanted,’ he said enthusiastically when Anthony had finished. ‘Would you mind if I worked on the details?’

‘Feel free.’

Sir Charles clicked his tongue. ‘Thanks to that article, you can’t take the principal part. If they use the Weasel again, he’ll know you’re a fake. Never mind. I’ll get somebody else. Leave it with me, Brooke.’

The following morning the ineffable Farlow called on Anthony with a note signed ‘Yr affectionate Aunt, Emily’.

Anthony’s Uncle Albert, it appeared, was as well as could be expected. Aunt Emily enquired after his health, but Aunt Emily’s heart wasn’t with her nephew but in her garden. She mentioned her three plum trees were in blossom but her budding roses were afflicted with greenfly. She’d sprayed them four times with soap solution and was going to try two applications of a nicotine spray before seeking advice from Mr Thornbury – Anthony remembered Mr Thornbury who’d been such a help to Mrs Rycroft – who had done so well with his roses at the Chelsea flower show.

Anthony had an Aunt Constance and an Aunt Cicely but no Aunt Emily, or, come to that, no Uncle Albert either. These relatives were convenient fictions. Anthony thought they appealed to Sir Charles’s sense of humour.

The innocent-sounding message, when read properly, told him to ask for a Mr Rycroft at 42, Thornbury Road, Chelsea at three o’clock that afternoon. That Sir Charles had written in code, even when the note was delivered by his own messenger, told him how much the Weasel had rattled him.

‘Tell Mr Monks I’ll meet him in Aunt Emily’s garden,’ Anthony said to the waiting Farlow.

42, Thornbury Road was a neat Georgian house, a few streets away from the Embankment. As the chimes of the clock from the Old Church sounded the hour, Anthony was shown into the sitting room where Sir Charles was waiting, accompanied by two men.

Sir Charles introduced the first man as John Rycroft, the owner of the house, and the second as Michael Greenwood. Greenwood, an open-faced, bright-looking lad with a shock of ginger hair, wore the uniform of the Intelligence Corps. ‘Greenwood’s our stalking horse, Colonel, if I can put it like that.’

‘It sounds like a very easy assignment,’ said Greenwood cheerfully.

‘I hope so,’ said Anthony, accepting the chair Rycroft offered. ‘Incidentally,’ he added, ‘I’ve been followed. It wasn’t the Weasel but there was a man on the tube. I managed