Frankie's Letter - By Dolores Gordon-Smith Page 0,40

but, most of all, he had the aching desire to see Josette again. Eventually, thank goodness, Sherston decided it was time to go into the drawing room. Anthony got to his feet with relief but Sir Charles called him back with an almost imperceptible flick of his eyes.

‘Have you got the diamonds?’ he asked softly.

Anthony nodded.

‘Good,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Watch for your cue and follow my lead. See what you can get out of Miss O’Bryan about Cavanaugh.’

They followed Sherston across the hall and into the drawing room.

Josette was there. He watched hungrily as she flicked a wisp of fair hair over her perfect ear-lobe. The sight of her didn’t make him happy; she seemed so utterly out of reach.

Vyse, the butler, brought in coffee and Josette busied herself with pouring it out. Standing in front of the hearth, Sherston, Sir Charles, General Harker, Dr Morpeth and the other men were discussing Gallipoli. Mrs Moulton was holding forth on the problems besetting the village sewing circle, a discussion in which Josette showed a surprising degree of technical knowledge about which fabric was suitable for what purpose and Veronica O’Bryan was buried behind a magazine.

Tara handed Anthony a cup of coffee. Mindful of his instructions, Anthony followed her to the sofa and sat down beside her. He was casting around for a way to bring up Cavanaugh’s name when she solved the problem for him.

‘Colonel,’ she said tentatively, ‘Uncle Patrick said you knew Terry Cavanaugh.’ He nodded. She ran her finger round the top of her coffee cup, obviously bracing herself. ‘How did he die?’

Anthony was prepared for this. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that although Veronica O’Bryan was still apparently deep in her magazine, her body had stiffened in attention. Although Tara was unaware of it, Veronica O’Bryan was listening keenly. ‘It was in Germany,’ he said, seeing how Mrs O’Bryan’s fingers tightened on the magazine.

Tara gave a little cry of surprise. ‘Germany? What was he doing there?’

‘He was reporting for an American paper, I think,’ said Anthony casually. This was the story he and Sir Charles had worked out. ‘He injured his foot in an accident, I believe, and died of blood poisoning. At least, that’s what I heard.’ The fingers on the magazine relaxed.

Tara’s face twisted in compassion. ‘Poor Terry,’ she murmured. ‘I liked him, although . . .’ She broke off.

Anthony’s mind worked quickly. Sherston had told them that Cavanaugh was related to his sister’s family, that it was his sister who had made his acquaintance, but it wasn’t Veronica O’Bryan who wanted to know about Cavanaugh, it was Tara.

Cavanaugh had, according to Sherston presumed on the relationship. Did that mean an affair with Tara? Sherston obviously cared about Tara deeply and a fifty-odd-year-old ex-ranch-hand with no fixed income or position wouldn’t be anyone’s ideal choice for a young girl from a wealthy family.

‘How did you meet him?’ asked Anthony gently.

‘He came to stay here for a few days. My mother met him at a charity function in London and it turned out he was a relation of my father’s, so naturally he was invited to stay. My father’s been dead for years, and it was nice to meet someone from his side of the family.’

Anthony eye’s widened. A charity? This sounded promising. ‘Which one?’ he asked with what he hoped sounded like nothing but polite interest. Tara O’Bryan looked surprised. ‘I did quite a bit of work with charities, one way and another, as a doctor before the war,’ he explained. ‘I wondered if it was one I’d been involved with.’

‘I’m not sure. It was an Irish Friendly Society in Camden Town.’ She glanced at her mother who was seemingly intent on her magazine. ‘My mother does a lot of charity work with poor Irish families. My father was devoted to Irish causes and she’s picked up the torch,’ continued Tara. ‘What on earth was the name? Something Hibernia, I think, but I can’t be sure. It doesn’t matter, anyway.’

Anthony made a little noise in his throat. Something Hibernia! Bloody hell! An Irish charity? The Irish charity, more like, a front for German-Irish links.

Veronica O’Bryan was suddenly very still. Tara, her attention fixed on Anthony, was unaware of her mother’s tension but Veronica O’Bryan was as taut as a stretched bowstring.

Anthony deliberately relaxed his shoulders and sat back in an attitude of interested calm. ‘No, it doesn’t matter. I thought I might know it, that’s all.’ Out of the corner of