Frankie's Letter

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Anthony felt his pulse quicken. ‘You saw her?’ he demanded. ‘When? Where?’

  ‘Wait a minute, young man. Let me get my thoughts in order.’ She looked at Tara and her face softened. ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right, my dear. Now let me see, when did I see your mother last?’ Her face cleared. ‘I know. I was on my way to catch the ten past three to London, so it would be about twenty to three. Ralph brought the trap round and we were on our way down the hill, when I saw your mother on the other side of the road. She was on horseback. I didn’t have a chance to speak to her.’

  ‘She was on Station Hill?’ asked Tara, puzzled. ‘But she said she was going to Carson’s Water. Whatever was she doing there?’

  Mrs Moulton shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but she was there.’

  ‘Which is Station Hill?’ asked Anthony.

  For an answer, Mrs Moulton pointed over the platform fence. ‘There.’

  Station Hill was a long, steep road, dusty white with chalk, leading out of Swayling. The village made a start up the hill then straggled to a halt, leaving the road to run on between fields and woods. There was a substantial wood which cloaked the crown of the slope, and, at the very top, a distant gleam of white from the walls of a house.

  ‘That’s my house,’ added Mrs Moulton with a wry smile. ‘Right on the edge of Ticker’s Wood. It’s quite a pull up. That’s where I saw your mother, Tara. It’s one of her favourite rides. I’ve seen her go into the woods a few times.’

  ‘The horse was found near the Slough,’ said Anthony. ‘Is it possible to get to the Slough from Ticker’s Wood?’

  Mrs Moulton pulled a face. ‘It’s possible,’ she admitted reluctantly, ‘but the path through the woods is very boggy and neglected and there’s a couple of fields to cross.’

  ‘It’s a way back to Starhanger, though,’ said Tara. She clutched at Anthony’s arm. ‘That must be it. We’ve been looking in the wrong place. Can we go? Can we go and look now?’

  They walked into Ticker’s Wood. The path was nothing more than a dirt track, the surface churned up by horses’ hooves and thrown into deep ruts by cartwheels. Mrs Moulton’s house, a little gem of a Georgian building, stood behind them, just visible through the trees.

  Anthony had sent his bag back to Starhanger with Kindred and he and Tara accepted a lift up the hill from Mrs Moulton in the trap driven by her handyman, Ralph.

  Anthony was glad Mrs Moulton hadn’t come into the woods. Tara was jumping with nerves. She could only, he thought, stand so much of Mrs Moulton’s rather clumsy kindness.

  It was a walk Anthony would have usually enjoyed, with the sun glancing through the rustling delicate green of the young beech leaves, picking out clumps of purple violets and yellow dandelions, but Tara was so keyed-up she seemed on the point of panic. She was almost, Anthony thought, what the Scots called fey.

  ‘Something awful’s happened,’ she said, her voice so low Anthony could hardly hear her. He tried to say something comforting but he couldn’t find the words.

  Tara turned on him suddenly, her eyes studying his face. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Miss O’Bryan—’ he began but she cut him off.

  ‘You’re not real! You don’t really care. You’re pretending, aren’t you? You’re not a friend.’

  Profoundly uncomfortable, Anthony glanced away, unable to meet her intense stare, and there, amongst the scrubby undergrowth, he saw a flower – an odd flower – of shining black, nearly covered by harebells. It was rounded and regular. Tara picked it up with a little cry. It was a lady’s riding hat.

  ‘Look,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘It’s my mother’s.’

  With the hat in her hand she stopped, looking round intently. The rustling shade of the woods seemed suddenly sinister, a closed-in green world.

  Anthony saw it first, a bundle of brown huddled up beside a moss-covered fallen trunk. The trunk was rotten with decay and loaded with fungus. Anthony had never liked fungus.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said, suddenly desperate to save her from seeing the worst, but Tara hardly heard him.

  She walked towards the trunk like someone in a trance. The fungus had been broken, leaving clumps of black slime.

  Anthony looked acutely at the rough bark of the trunk, the lichen, the moss and the fungus. He knew what the brown bundle was and was putting off facing it.

  Tara still hadn’t caught on. Anthony gritted his teeth and turned it over. It wasn’t nice. It wouldn’t have been anyway, but two days in warm, damp woodland hadn’t helped.

  Tara screamed.

  They’d found Veronica O’Bryan all right. She’d been shot.

  ELEVEN

  Anthony caught hold of Tara and took her to the side of the path where they sat on the grassy verge.

  Anthony knew he was speaking a stream of disconnected, comforting words. He hardly knew what he said and Tara didn’t hear him. She sat with her arms gathered round her knees, a tight, defensive ball shutting out the rotting tree trunk and the dreadful bundle beside it. After what seemed like a very long time she raised her head. Her eyes, wide and circled as if they’d been rimmed with soot, stared past him. Her whole body was trembling.

  She drew a deep breath and Anthony saw her blink and focus, seeing him once more. Dragging the words out she managed to speak. ‘How? How?’

  ‘She was shot,’ Anthony said, awkwardly.

  Tara shuddered once more and bowed her head onto her knees.

  Again, time passed. Anthony heard her breathing steady.

  ‘Can you walk?’ he asked gently.

  She nodded and, like a stiff puppet, let herself be helped to her feet and, with his arm around her, allowed him to guide her down the path to Mrs Moulton’s house.

  The door was opened by an elderly, neatly-dressed maid. She looked a sensible woman and, thank goodness, knew Tara.

  ‘Why, Miss O’Bryan, whatever is it? Have you had an accident?’

  Anthony admired Tara then; she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. He let her speak, knowing it was important for Tara, the self-possessed Tara, to get back a measure of control.

  ‘I’m all right, Doris, but my mother . . .’ Her voice faltered but she forced herself to continue, ‘she’s dead. We’ve just found her body.’

  Her voice broke on the word ‘body’ and it galvanized the maid into action. In an incredibly short space of time they were gathered into the sitting room where there was warmth and comfort. Mrs Moulton took charge and Anthony was glad to let her do it.

  She insisted on Tara drinking a cup of hot tea laced with sugar and brandy, dispatched the gardener into the woods to watch over the body, instructed Doris to prepare a room for Tara and, summoning her husband, sent him off on his bicycle to the village with a prescription Anthony had written for a sedative.

  Anthony knew he should inform the police but he didn’t want Tara badgered by the local bobby. The police could wait until he’d seen Tara properly taken care of and upstairs out of harm’s way in Mrs Moulton’s spare room. Mrs Moulton, who had a healthy disregard for authority, agreed with him completely.

  Tara didn’t want him to go. Her earlier suspicions of him forgotten, she clung to his hand until Mrs Moulton, with brisk sympathy, dispatched him downstairs. ‘Now you just rest a while, Tara, dear, and don’t worry about what’s to be done. There’s plenty of time to sort it all out afterwards.’

  All that took time, a great deal of time, and it was over an hour later before Anthony could get back to the railway station and the nearest telephone.

  Naturally enough, the first person he rang wasn’t a policeman, it was Sir Charles.

  He weighed his words carefully while waiting for the trunk call to be put through. He knew the operator in the telephone exchange at the rear of the post office wasn’t supposed to listen to calls, but human nature makes short shrift of rules.

  Sir Charles’s voice came on the line and Anthony braced himself. ‘Uncle Albert?’ he asked.

  There was an
infinitesimal pause before Sir Charles replied. ‘Good to hear from you, dear boy,’ he said jovially. ‘Still in the village?’

  ‘I’m still in Swayling, yes.’ Sir Charles, he noticed, hadn’t used any proper names. The mention of Uncle Albert had warned him to feel his way cautiously. ‘That job you asked me to do,’ he continued, ‘is finished. It’s over. In fact you could say we’ve come to a dead end.’ There was a longer pause this time.

  ‘A dead end?’ repeated Sir Charles.

  ‘I’m afraid so. Normally I’d do it –’ he paused – ‘like a shot but it’s murder down here.’

  An even longer pause followed. ‘Does Bobby know?’ asked Sir Charles.

  ‘I’m going to tell him soon. He’ll be able to fill you in in about an hour or so. I’d like Bobby to speak to me, though.’

  ‘All right,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I’ll see he has a word with you. Shall I do that right away?’

  ‘Yes. You’d better make a note of this address.’ Anthony gave him the Moultons’ address. ‘I can be reached here for the time being, but I want to have a look round. Can you ask Bobby if that’s OK?’

  ‘I’m sure that’ll be fine,’ Sir Charles agreed. ‘Is there anything more I can do for you? I wish I could get down but it won’t be possible, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No, I can see that.’ And he could. If Sir Charles wanted to carry on pretending to be nothing more than a government official he could hardly take a visible part in investigating a murder. ‘I think that’s all at the moment. I’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘Good man. And I’ll speak to Bobby.’

  Anthony rang off, drew a deep breath, picked up the receiver and had a rather less elliptical conversation with the local police sergeant or, as Sir Charles would have said, Bobby. The sergeant was clearly puzzled by his request that he should get in touch with his chief constable before coming out to the Moultons’ but he agreed all the same.

  Anthony put the phone down and did a rapid calculation. At a guess Sir Charles would even now be talking to the chief constable, who, please God, would be both present and cooperative. That should give him some time to see Veronica O’Bryan’s body alone.

  It felt odd going up that woodland track again, consciously retracing Veronica O’Bryan’s last journey. The weather had been fine recently and the track, churned into ruts by heavy cartwheels, was dry and useless for footprints. He knew from Mrs Moulton that the woods were used for timber. There were some muddy patches to the side, incised with the crescents of horses’ hooves, but no footprints. That was much as he’d expected. There was no very good reason why Veronica O’Bryan or her murderer should have sought out the few muddy puddles which remained.

  It seemed to be a much shorter walk than he remembered. A little more than five minutes from the Moultons brought him to the rotting tree trunk.

  He dispatched the gardener back home and crouched down beside the body. The bullet had passed more or less through the centre of the forehead at a slight upwards angle. There was an exit wound on the upper parietal bone – or, thought Anthony, translating it into the layman’s language that Sir Charles would want – the top of the back of her head. That was an entirely natural way to shoot someone who was coming straight towards you and he couldn’t read anything significant into the upwards direction of the shot. As he knew, all guns tend to jerk upwards. It took quite a bit of training to hold a pistol steady.

  When he’d first found the body all he’d really taken in was that Veronica O’Bryan had been shot and that two days lying face downwards in a damp wood hadn’t improved matters.

  Now, without Tara, he was able to consider that badly discoloured face more closely. There was a bruise on her cheek and a scratch on her neck, but no other sign of a struggle. Where had she actually been shot?

  They’d found her hat in a clump of harebells by the track. He went to investigate. Once again, there were no footprints and the grass had had plenty of time to recover, but on the track itself the dried mud was stained with blood. So this was where Veronica O’Bryan had died. He raised his eyes. A few yards away stood an ash tree, its trunk chipped with a new splinter. That’s where the bullet had gone. Now he knew where Veronica O’Bryan had been shot, it was easy to see the telltale marks of broken twigs, disturbed pebbles and crushed plants which marked out where she had been dragged to the trunk.

  He stepped back from the trunk to get a full picture of the slope leading to the track and caught his sleeve on a mass of brambles. He shook himself free, leaving a snag of tweed on the thorns and there, slightly lower, were caught some blue-grey tweed threads. The murderer’s? Maybe. He put a couple of threads carefully in his pocketbook, leaving the rest for the police.

  He glanced at his watch. He didn’t have long before the police turned up, but he wanted to see if he could glean anything more from the woods. The track pretty soon petered out into a clearing which, from the ruts on the ground, looked as if it was used for turning the foresters’ carts. Beyond the clearing, the path was little used, but the grass, ferns and nettles showed signs of the passage of a heavy animal and, in a damp patch of mud, there was the clear print of a horseshoe. Presumably beyond the wood led the fields and beyond them, the Slough.

  Anthony walked back to Veronica O’Bryan’s body and sat on the grassy verge. He took out his pipe, tamping down the tobacco thoughtfully.

  Veronica O’Bryan had found out about the diamonds on Friday night. She’d want to get that information to someone – call them Mr X – as quickly as possible. She’d be wary of the telephone and a telegram was hardly safe, either.

  The robbery of the diamonds and maps and Warren’s murder had happened on the Sunday, which didn’t leave enough time for a letter, from this rural district, to arrive. What she could do, however, was telephone or telegram Mr X to ask him to meet her at a prearranged spot. This spot. Mrs Moulton had said she’d seen Veronica O’Bryan pass by her house into the woods before.

  There was another thing, too. He remembered Tara sitting down on the bench beside him on Saturday morning, just before he’d discovered ‘Frankie’s Letter’. The house is like a morgue. I don’t know where everyone’s got to . . . At a guess, Veronica O’Bryan had gone to the post office in the village. She wouldn’t want to telephone from Starhanger.

  He got to his feet as the whistle of a train sounded in the valley. Walking down the hill to where the trees petered out into a scrubby fringe, he looked down into the snuggle of houses that was Swayling. A gleaming stretch of railway wriggled along the bottom of the valley and he saw a train looking, at this distance, like something from a child’s toy box.

  He strolled back to the grassy verge. Yes; Veronica O’Bryan had contacted Mr X on Saturday morning and arranged to meet him that afternoon. Granted that Mrs Moulton hadn’t seen a car, Mr X had come by train. And that meant that, with even a little bit of luck, someone at the station would have seen him. Anthony smiled grimly to himself. This was hanging together.

  By Saturday afternoon, Veronica O’Bryan didn’t just have the diamonds to report, she would have wanted help to escape and if the fair-haired robber, Warren’s murderer and Chapman’s killer was X, then Veronica would have asked in vain.

  She had failed. By her own admission ‘Frankie’s Letter’ was a busted flush and she had moved from asset to liability. The fair-haired X, who seemed to have a pretty short way with human obstacles, shot her and moved her body to the fallen tree.

  It was a good place, he thought, both for secret meetings and to hide a body. Apart from the occasional forester it seemed little used and Veronica O’Bryan was literally off the beaten track. If it hadn’t been for Mrs Moulton, they could have been looking for Veronica O’Bryan for a very long time.

  He looked up as he heard voices along the path and the policemen came into view along the tree-girded track. There were a uniformed constable and sergeant and an older man who turned out to be Major Rendall, the chief constable himself. He drew Anthony to one side, out of earshot of the
policemen.

  Sir Charles had spoken to him and although the chief constable had no choice but to cooperate, Anthony could tell he was unenthusiastic about surrendering his responsibilities to someone who he felt sure categorized him as: ‘a jumped-up doctor, one of these Intelligence types, calls himself a colonel, by Gad! I’d like to show him what real soldiering is about!’

  The fact Anthony didn’t actually want to ride roughshod over him, his men or his procedures and had no desire to give orders to his officers, mollified the major, and when Anthony said they were after a murderer in the pay of the Germans who had killed Peter Warren, Cedric Chapman and had probably killed Veronica O’Bryan as well, Major Rendall was beside himself.

  ‘I’ve been saying it for years, Colonel,’ he snorted, using the title without the audible inverted commas with which he’d adorned it with earlier. ‘For years we’ve let the scum of the earth stroll in to this country without a by-your-leave and look where it’s got us! An innocent woman murdered out-of-hand’ – Anthony didn’t see fit to correct his impression of Veronica O’Bryan’s character – ‘by some damn foreigner.’

  ‘We’re not sure the murderer was a foreigner,’ Anthony said mildly.

  Anthony thought the chief constable was going to go pop. A German running round killing people was bad enough but to have an Englishman doing it was far, far worse.

  By the time they’d finished he was so eager to help that he was disappointed when he found all Anthony wanted was to be kept informed of anything his men should uncover and to lend his weight to Anthony’s enquiries at the railway station.

  The porter, a Mr Hawley, was sitting on his wooden truck, reading a newspaper. The news had travelled fast. Hawley knew all about the discovery of Veronica O’Bryan’s body in Ticker’s Wood and, with the official presence of Major Rendall looming behind him, Anthony had no trouble in getting the porter to speak about what he felt would be the main topic of conversation for years to come.