in it together, that might explain something. Sherston’s surprisingly well-liked locally, when you consider the crowd here tonight are solid county types and he’s an Irish newspaper proprietor of humble origins. Everyone likes Tara O’Bryan, but no one can stand her mother. Mrs O’Bryan’s an expert card player, which should make her popular, what with bridge parties and whist drives and so on, but none of the ladies like playing with her. She’s got a sarcastic tongue, dislikes her neighbours and, in addition, has a real down on Mrs Sherston. Mr Moulton, quoting his better half, reckoned that Mrs O’Bryan thoroughly enjoyed running the roost and had her nose put out of joint good and proper when Sherston turned up with his glamorous new wife. General Harker agreed.’
This, felt Anthony, was getting onto dangerous ground. ‘Glamorous?’ he queried.
‘Good Lord, man, didn’t you notice? She’s outstanding. However, apparently Mrs Sherston is content to give Mrs O’Bryan her own way. The General said – quoting his wife – that Mrs Sherston is known for her generosity and kindness. Mrs Harker’s opinion is that Mrs Sherston is verging on sainthood for putting up with Veronica O’Bryan. The general opinion is that Sherston should make Veronica O’Bryan an allowance and, for his wife’s sake if not his own, issue his sister her marching orders. If they’re in it together though, he’d want her close at hand.’
He frowned. ‘I just don’t know about Sherston. In light of what you’ve told me, Veronica O’Bryan has to be our chief suspect, but I’m not dismissing Sherston yet. I hope it’s not him, though. I can’t help liking the man.’
Anthony crushed out his cigarette. ‘He seems agreeable enough, I grant you.’ And that, he thought, with a dull ache twisting his stomach, was about as much enthusiasm as he could honestly manage.
After breakfast the next morning, Anthony was gathered in politely but firmly by Sherston to be interviewed in his study.
The study was a pleasant, book-lined room, with French windows leading onto the sun-filled garden with the waters of the lake sparkling through the trees. There was a collection of box files on the shelves, each marked with a name of a newspaper or magazine, a solid oak table with the cigarette box agreeably close at hand, some comfortable chairs and a desk which held a neat and crisply new stack of magazines and a serviceable-looking typewriter. Elstead, the secretary, sat waiting, ready to make a shorthand record of the interview.
Sherston, Anthony was surprised to find, was conducting affairs himself. ‘There’s very few things associated with the newspaper business I can’t do, Colonel,’ he said with assertive pride. ‘Although I say it myself, I’m the best man for the job. You see, I know the entire range of the Sherston Press and I’ll think of questions it wouldn’t occur to anyone else to ask.’
Or which, thought Anthony, it might be useful for their gentleman to know, but, as the interview progressed, he became more and more convinced that Sherston wasn’t their man.
If Anthony refused to answer a question, Sherston moved on, remarking that he didn’t want to publish anything that would endanger British interests. He might have one eye on the censor and another on the Defence of the Realm Acts, but he didn’t, as Anthony half expected, press him or try and get the information ‘just between the two of us’.
However, there was his attitude to Cavanaugh to account for. So far, the idea that Cavanaugh had been smitten with Tara O’Bryan was nothing more than a theory. To try and draw him out, Anthony brought up the treatment of neutrals in Germany, using Cavanaugh as an illustration. That led onto an entirely fictitious story of Cavanaugh’s death. To Anthony’s disappointment, Sherston listened, frosty-faced but without comment.
It was odd, sitting in that quiet room, with sounds of early summer drifting through the open window, to cast his mind back to those desperate months in Germany. The events he was recalling seemed so far away it was as if he was describing another man’s life.
After a thorough grilling, during which Anthony thought he had given Sherston enough material to write a three-volume treatise on Germany, laced with some of his more memorable exploits, his host was in an expansive mood. ‘I’m very grateful to you, Colonel,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. He turned to his secretary. ‘Get those notes typed up, Elstead. The Colonel will want to read them through, I’m sure.’
Anthony wasn’t sure he wanted to