amongst marble pillars under the ornate gold mosaic ceiling, the editor of the Beau Monde, Miss Rowena Holt was becoming confidential.
‘So you’re thinking of starting a new magazine,’ she said, finishing the last of her chicken pie. ‘It’s not the right time, you know, what with the price of pulp paper and the war soaking up all the really decent staff. We keep going, but we’re a well-known name.’
‘A household name,’ murmured Sir Charles.
She smiled at the compliment. ‘You could say that, I suppose. What you’ve got to be certain of is your intended audience. Who are your readers?’
Sir Charles was ready with the answer. ‘Ladies of some wealth and standing, ladies who, despite wanting to do the very best, both for their homes and their country, still have enough means, leisure and inclination to want to dress and live smartly in accordance with the prevailing modes.’
Miss Holt digested this, together with the chicken pie, as the waiter deftly cleared the plates. ‘Hmm. The same readership as the Beau Monde, in fact.’
‘Exactly,’ said Sir Charles smoothly. ‘Which is why, of course, I’ve come to you.’
Miss Rowena Holt, he thought, didn’t look as he imagined the editor of an expensive journal for the upper classes would. She certainly didn’t emulate the languid beauties who adorned the pages of the Beau Monde. She was short – dumpy in fact – and businesslike, with a sensible, well-worn grey alpaca coat and what were referred to as walking shoes.
‘Well, you could do worse than talk to me,’ she granted. ‘At least I’ll tell you the real facts and not some flannery. You say this American wants to extend his press to England?’
This was the story Sir Charles had worked out. He had presented himself at the offices of the Beau Monde in the guise of a scout for a New York newspaper magnate, and managed to charm Miss Holt out to lunch. He nodded in response to her question.
‘I wouldn’t mind knowing who it is,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Mr Sherston would be interested. I don’t suppose . . .?’ She saw his expression.
‘He would like to remain anonymous for the present,’ said Sir Charles regretfully.
‘Well, he’s probably well-advised at this stage,’ she agreed. ‘To be honest, I’d tell him to find another readership. What about factory girls? They’ve got quite a bit of money to throw around nowadays, what with munitions and so on. The top end is very crowded, you know. Vogue is the one to beat, but there’s plenty of competition. We hold our own, I’m glad to say. Pudding? Oh, thank you. Perhaps one of those strawberry tarts. They looked delicious and marvellously early as well. The thing is, Mr Hargreaves –’ Sir Charles had dropped his name and title for the purposes of the interview – ‘every magazine needs its own personality, something that will draw the readers back time after time.’
‘You’ve got “Frankie’s Letter”, haven’t you?’
She laughed and reached for the cream jug. ‘You’ve put your finger on it. Frankie is the talk of London. She goes everywhere and knows everyone and there’s always that little frisson when you think you might have talked to her. There’s been lots of guesses who she is, but no one’s managed to pin her down.’
‘It must be very difficult to keep a secret like that,’ said Sir Charles with a smile. ‘You must have been tempted to let the cat out of the bag more than once. It must be nearly unendurable to see Frankie at work and be the only one in the room to know who she is.’
‘But I don’t know,’ said Miss Holt, meeting his eyes. Sir Charles looked startled. ‘No, honestly,’ she said, sprinkling sugar on her tart. ‘I grumbled at first, as you can imagine, when Mr Sherston first proposed the idea, but he said it was a condition of Frankie, whoever she is, doing the “Letter” at all. I was very dubious, as it’s one thing to make a newspaper stunt out of secrecy and quite another to really mean it. I nearly refused to run the first “Letter”, because of the conditions. I’m not allowed to edit them, you know.’ Sir Charles’s eyes widened. ‘I’ve got to print them as they are. Still,’ she added with a shrug, ‘it’s the first page everyone turns to and the copy’s always good, so if that’s what Mr Sherston wants, that’s what Mr Sherston gets.’
‘So it was Mr Sherston’s own idea?’
Miss Holt nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. He takes a