Frankie's Letter

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Anthony saw his eyes widen, waiting for the punch, then a searing pain blasted his left shoulder as a shot rang out. He fell away, rolling back into the ditch.

  The other man was by the car, gun in hand. ‘Get him!’ he yelled.

  The chauffeur picked himself up, straightened his tunic and lunged at Anthony with murder in his eyes.

  From somewhere in the distance came a shout, the crack of a whip and the sound of wheels and horse’s hooves. Sprawled on the edge of the ditch, Anthony could see a horse and cart, the driver whipping the horse into a canter, rattling down the road towards them. The driver shouted, his words lost over the racket of the cart.

  The man by the car looked round wildly. ‘Leave it!’ he shouted. ‘Come on!’

  The chauffeur stopped, drew back his foot and landed a kick in Anthony’s ribs. For a second or so everything went black. Lights scratched jagged lines of pain in his head, then there was the sound of swearing, a revving engine and Anthony felt a hand on his collar.

  He opened his eyes and saw the carter bending over him, hauling him out of the ditch. Anthony made a vague gesture with his hand – he was halfway to being strangled – and, raising himself on his elbow, managed to get unsteadily to his feet.

  The car was already some distance away, a cloud of dust marking its passage.

  The carter, a big man, stood back. ‘Was that a gun?’ he said incredulously. Anthony nodded, unable, for the moment, to speak. ‘A real gun? A pistol, I mean?’ Anthony still couldn’t speak.

  ‘You need a doctor,’ said the carter. ‘The police will have to know too, I reckon. Who were they?’

  Anthony didn’t want a doctor and he certainly didn’t want the police. And, although the carter had been useful, he didn’t want him, either. All he wanted was to get his hands first of all on the chauffeur and then on James Smith. He straightened up and took a deep, gasping breath.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said to the carter’s obvious incredulity. ‘The gun wasn’t real. I’m an actor. We were trying out a scene for a film.’

  ‘A film?’ echoed the carter. ‘Moving pictures, like?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anthony, brushing twigs and leaves off his clothes with his right hand. His left arm, the same arm that had been injured before, felt like a block of wood. ‘It’s a spy story about the war,’ he said. ‘Mr Sherston’s making it.’

  At the mention of Sherston’s name, the carter’s face cleared. ‘It should be a good film,’ he said. ‘It looked real, so it did.’

  Anthony laughed dismissively. ‘No, but if the fight was real, I’d have been very grateful to you. I think I’ll put the bit where you save me into the film.’ He felt in his pocket and drew out two half-crowns. ‘Here you are. Thanks very much.’

  The carter shrugged and took the money. ‘Thank you, sir. And you say it’s a film?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Anthony, removing leaves from his hair and forcing a smile. He cast a look downwards. ‘We’re thinking of calling it Ditched!’

  The carter looked at him uncomprehendingly, then at the ditch by the side of the road, and suddenly threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Ditched! That’s a good one, that. Wait till I tell everyone about that. Ditched!’

  Still laughing he went back to the horse, climbed back up to his seat, jiggled the reins and slowly clopped away.

  Anthony watched him go, the sound of the horse’s hooves gradually fading into silence. He moved his left arm tentatively and winced. The bone hadn’t been touched, thank God, but the muscle was damaged. His ribs were incredibly sore. He was desperate to follow the car but his arm was screaming for attention.

  He managed to pull off his jacket. The bullet had creased his biceps and his sleeve was wet with blood. He thought of going back to the house for help but all he wanted to do was follow that bloody chauffeur and his car.

  His shirtsleeve was ripped already and he tore the fabric off. Using his teeth and his good hand he managed to make a passable bandage with his handkerchief. He draped his jacket round his shoulders to cover his arm – he didn’t want to have to explain myself to any kindly passer-by – and set out to follow the car.

  He was alone. Cooke and Bedford would take a long time to recover and he didn’t have a clue where Parkinson was. In the meantime he had a fresh trail to follow.

  SIXTEEN

  For about a mile there was no turning in the road. He should, Anthony realized, after walking for ten minutes or so, have left some sort of note for Cooke and Bedford, but he couldn’t face the thought of going back. He trudged along, gradually recovering his strength. There was a horse-trough on the road fed by a spring and Anthony had a rudimentary wash.

  He plunged his head into the clear water, taking off the worst of the dirt and the mud. It would take more than a wash to make him feel better but it did him a lot of good. He could feel his arm stiffening and, gritting his teeth, forced himself to move the damaged muscles.

  Then came a choice. The road proper continued on, but a cart track stretched off to the right. It wound off between the trees, dark underneath the overhanging branches. It looked little used. Anthony followed it for a few yards, looking intently at the ground. After a few minutes’ walk he was rewarded with a fresh tyre-track in the red clay soil.

  A little further and he saw where the bank had been scraped by something large. Crushed grass-stems and cow parsley hung forlornly, but the flowers on the cow parsley were still fresh. They had been broken very recently. Less than ten minutes later the track widened out into a clearing.

  He crouched down behind some shrubby undergrowth. Before him stood a cottage with its door open and, to the side of the cottage, was the big green tourer.

  The clearing was deserted but, from the open door of the cottage, he could hear the murmur of voices. The place looked as if it’d been abandoned for years.

  Tiles hung off the roof, the glass in three of the windows was smashed and the lean-to privy at the side stood with its door hanging drunkenly from broken hinges. What had been a kitchen garden was overgrown with nettles, loosestrife, brambles and scrubby trees, surrounded by a low, broken wall.

  The only people he could imagine finding shelter here were passing tramps, glad of any sort of protection from the elements.

  He shrank back into the bushes as the chauffeur and the man in the brown suit came out of the cottage door. They had mugs in their hands and they were both smoking cigarettes.

  ‘Please God we don’t have to spend the night here,’ said the brown-suited man, taking a drink from his mug. From his accent, he was from Belfast. He pulled a face. ‘Why didn’t you bring sugar? I can’t abide tea without sugar.’

  ‘I put it in the box,’ said the chauffeur, drinking his tea. ‘You’re blind, Keegan.’

  ‘Blind yourself,’ said Keegan morosely. ‘I’ve had enough of this job. For two pins I’d be on the next boat. To listen to the boss, you’d think all we had to do was whistle for that bastard Brooke and he’d come running. I’d like to see the boss get his hands dirty.’

  ‘The boss is tough enough,’ said the chauffeur. ‘And he is the boss. Don’t get any fancy ideas about leaving. You wouldn’t get far.’

  ‘D’you think I’m scared?’

  ‘You should be,’ said the chauffeur grimly.

  Keegan looked back at the cottage and shifted uncomfortably. ‘Maybe. But no one’s ever spoken to me like that.’ He spat in disgust. ‘It’s going to be dark soon, all under these trees as we are. What’s the boss going to do? We can’t stop here. It’s not fit for a pig. And what will we do with the girl?’

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ said the chauffeur with a laugh. ‘The boss’ll see to her.’ He inclined his head and lowered his voice. Anthony had to strain to hear. ‘She’s not going anywhere.’ To Anthony’s horror he mimed taking a gun from his pocket. ‘Bang. End of problem.’

  Keegan started away and swore. ‘Jesus, what about the cops? Count me out.’

  ‘You’re in if the boss
says so,’ said the chauffeur. ‘You don’t say no to him.’ He laughed at Keegan’s expression. ‘Relax. He’ll see to it. He enjoys it. He wants to find out what she knows first, though.’ He laughed once more. ‘He’ll enjoy that too.’

  Keegan shuddered and threw away his cigarette end. ‘I’m going back in. These bloody midges are biting me to death and I can’t see a thing out here. Fancy a game of cards?’

  ‘We might as well.’

  The two men went back into the cottage. Anthony saw a glow from the room as they lit the lamp.

  He sat back on his heels. His original idea had been to find Smith, then get help. Well, he’d found Smith all right but he couldn’t afford to waste a minute. Somehow he had to get into that cottage. The thought of Josette in Smith’s hands made his blood run cold.

  He dropped back into the woods and made a wide circle round the cottage, coming round to the back. A tumbledown wall with a broken gate enclosed what had been the yard. The windows were unlit and the back door stood half-open. Judging from the heap of leaves that had blown against it, it had been that way for years. Anthony looked up. There was a light from an upper window. He crept forward cautiously.

  Through the back door he could see into the deserted room. He stepped over the leaves and into the cottage.

  This had been the kitchen. The door to the front room was ajar, framed in the light from the chauffeur and Keegan’s lamp. He heard their voices and the chink of coins from their game of cards.

  An old sink was against the wall and, on the draining board, were two new wooden boxes. A spirit stove and a kettle stood on one and the other contained a few groceries from, incongruously enough, Fortnum and Masons.

  Anthony’s heart sank. He’d hoped at the very best to find some sort of weapon but all he had was one good hand. It would have to be enough.

  The stairs led upstairs from the kitchen, a black, enclosed pit of darkness. Anthony paused, listening intently. He could hear voices upstairs. Frustratingly, he couldn’t distinguish either the words or the speakers. As quietly as he could he slipped up the stairs. Despite his caution they creaked horribly.

  At the top of the stairs was a tiny landing with three doors. He heard someone in one of the rooms stand up and their footsteps crossing the floor. Anthony flattened himself against the wall beside the door, hoping to avoid being seen.

  The door opened and Josette, holding an oil-lamp high, looked out. She called back to someone in the room. ‘There’s no one here.’ She took a couple of steps forward to look down the stairs, turned back and gasped as she saw Anthony.

  Anthony, spread against the wall, put a finger to his lips, begging her to keep quiet.

  Without saying a word, she opened the bedroom door again and stood in the entrance. ‘He’s here,’ she said to the person in the room. ‘Colonel Brooke’s here.’ She turned to Anthony with a delighted smile. ‘Come in, Colonel. We’ve been waiting for you.’

  Anthony had no choice. With a stomach like lead he followed her into the room, blinking in the lamplight.

  Josette shut the door behind him and stood in front of it, barring his way.

  There was a man in the room, a fair-haired man whose eyes burned with triumph.

  ‘Well, well,’ said the man. ‘Colonel Brooke. At last.’

  Anthony gaped at him.

  This was Warren’s murderer and Chapman’s killer. The gent, the toff, the boss. James Smith.

  And James Smith was the same man who Anthony had cheated and humiliated in Kiel: Oberstleutnant von Hagen. And he had a gun pointed at Anthony’s chest.

  Von Hagen waved the gun towards a chair. There was furniture in the room, cheap wicker picnic chairs and a tray with a coffee pot and cups beside the empty fireplace.

  ‘Please sit down, Colonel,’ he said in German. ‘I have been to some trouble to prepare this cottage for you.’

  Anthony didn’t have any choice but to obey. ‘For me?’ he repeated stupidly.

  ‘Oh yes. Haven’t you realized?’ Von Hagen laughed. ‘Yes, I moved from my comfortable hotel to prepare this cottage expressly for your benefit.’

  He picked up a cup. ‘I would offer you a drink, but I remember what you did once before when you had coffee.’

  His eyes gleamed and in that split second Anthony realized just how deep von Hagen’s hatred for him was. ‘I have been looking forward to this,’ he said. ‘I requested to be sent to England solely to hunt you down.’ He gestured towards Josette. ‘Once I had the missing lady, I knew you would follow.’

  Josette, her head on one side, could obviously follow something of what was being said.

  ‘I wanted to write to you,’ Josette said. ‘I wanted to tell you where I was, but Mr Smith said you’d find us. What’s happened to your arm?’

  Von Hagen smiled icily. ‘His arm, my dear,’ he said in heavily-accented English, ‘is the least of his worries. You took a great deal longer than I expected, Colonel Brooke.’

  Anthony wasn’t going to be drawn. Not by him. Instead he looked at Josette. ‘What are you doing here?’ Anthony could hardly credit her manner.

  She seemed so completely at home and in control of herself that it beggared belief. She smiled as happily as if she had been in the drawing room at Starhanger.

  ‘Please, Colonel, don’t be angry with me.’ She clasped her hands together in a childish gesture of apology. ‘After Patrick was arrested I had to do something. I knew Mr Smith could help poor Patrick.’

  Stupefied, Anthony went to draw his cigarette case from his pocket. Von Hagen stopped him with a gesture of his gun.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Anthony. He knew he was being absurdly polite but he couldn’t help himself. Josette seemed so bewilderingly at home that it was easier to take his tone from her, rather than the brutal fact that a cold-blooded killer was pointing a gun at him. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ He instinctively looked towards Josette for permission as if she was his hostess and he was her guest.

  ‘Please do,’ said Josette.

  Von Hagen nodded warily. ‘No tricks, Colonel Brooke. I understand English very well.’

  Anthony lit a cigarette, glad of the few seconds respite while his mind readjusted itself. He looked from von Hagen to Josette. ‘Mrs Sherston, does your husband know anything about your association with this man?’

  She clasped her hands eagerly once more. ‘Not a thing. You’ve got to believe me.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ said Anthony slowly. ‘I’m coming to believe quite a few things, as a matter of fact. There’s a lot Mr Sherston doesn’t know, isn’t there? I’m surprised I haven’t tumbled to a good many of them before. “Frankie’s Letter”, for instance. It’s bright and lively and contains all sorts of gossip about fashion and fashionable people. You wrote it, didn’t you?’

  Josette’s smile faded. ‘I don’t understand, Colonel. Why are you talking to me like this? You’ve always been so nice before and you’re not being at all nice now. Why? I haven’t done anything wrong. Not really wrong.’

  Anthony looked at her steadily. Incredible as it seemed, she believed what she said. ‘Writing “Frankie’s Letter” was wrong. Letting Patrick Sherston take the blame for writing “Frankie’s Letter” was wrong.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘But it was Patrick’s idea. He asked me to write “Frankie’s Letter”.’

  ‘Did he ask you to use it to send information to the enemy?’

  She wriggled uncomfortably. ‘Of course he didn’t. He’d have been horrified, so I never told him. I didn’t want to upset him. Patrick doesn’t like being upset. I had to do it, you know. I didn’t have any choice. If you’re looking for someone to blame, blame Veronica. She told me what to put in the “Letters”. She’d have written it herself if she had any talent for writing but she didn’t. You don’t understand.’

  Her lip trembled. ‘Veronica threatened . . . Well, I had to do what Veronica said. Besides that, it wasn’t wrong. It was only trivial gossip. It wasn’t really wrong. It was all a joke.’


  She meant it. ‘A joke?’ he repeated. ‘It might have started as a joke.’

  ‘But that’s all it was,’ she said eagerly. ‘Patrick said it was a joke. He suggested the title and it seemed so funny. He called it “Frankie’s Letter” because that was his middle name. But that’s all it was. A joke.’

  Anthony stared at her. ‘For God’s sake, Mrs Sherston, it’s no joke. After all,’ he said acutely, ‘you knew enough to burn the drafts of “Frankie’s Letter” in Veronica O’Bryan’s grate, didn’t you?’

  She swallowed. ‘So what if I did? If she’d been capable of writing it, she would have. It doesn’t matter, I tell you. It was only a joke.’

  Anthony’s voice was very quiet. ‘That joke, as you called it, killed Terence Cavanaugh.’

  Her head jerked up. ‘That wasn’t my fault!’ Anthony said nothing. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she added desperately. ‘I wouldn’t have harmed Terry.’

  ‘You told the Germans where he was.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was Terry.’ She looked at Anthony with an expression that caught his heart. ‘Terry told me he was a journalist. Veronica asked me to write about a spy. I didn’t know it was Terry. When Patrick told us Terry had died, Veronica laughed and said it was my fault, but it wasn’t.’ She swallowed. ‘I would never have harmed Terry.’

  Anthony looked at her wonderingly. She was utterly convinced of what she said. ‘You loved him, didn’t you?’ he asked, wondering once again how he could have been so slow.

  Her sudden intake of breath told him he was correct. ‘You told me it was Veronica who was in love with Cavanaugh but it was you, wasn’t it? Terry Cavanaugh was in love with you and your husband found out. That’s why Patrick Sherston disliked him. That’s why Cavanaugh was forbidden in the house.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything wrong!’ she said desperately. ‘I couldn’t help Terry falling in love with me.’

  For his own sake Anthony had to know the answer to the next question. ‘Did you love him?’ he asked quietly.