Frankie's Letter (7 page)

‘I've never thought about that side of it,' said Anthony. He was oddly unsure of himself. Sir Charles was right; it was impossible to imagine life in Britain under the victorious Germans. Arrogance? Yes, he supposed it was.

Sir Charles put a hand to his chin. ‘Supplies are the devil. We've had to ration shellfire down to two rounds a gun in some cases – two rounds! – and there's nothing left in the depots. We're supplying ammunition straight from the ships to the field and even that supply has, on occasion, dried up altogether.' He picked up his whisky, swirled it round in his glass and finished it with a gesture of finality. ‘Revise your ideas, Brooke. We're fighting because we have to fight and it's a grim struggle for survival.'

Anthony raised his hands in protest. ‘All right. So we have to fight. But Talbot, wouldn't I be more use in France than in Germany?'

Sir Charles shook his head decisively. ‘We need information. Information that only people like you and that poor devil, Cavanaugh, can provide. Without it we're fighting blind.' He walked to the desk and picked up the notes he had made. ‘“Spy in England. Gentleman. He must be a gentleman. Seems to know everything. Knew about me. Frankie's letter. Read Frankie's letter
.
”
And then there's this phrase you couldn't catch.
Star's anger
?'

‘I don't know what
star's anger
means,' said Anthony. ‘I thought it was the name of the ship, but it obviously isn't.'

‘
Star's anger
doesn't mean anything to me. What about Frankie's letter? Who's Frankie?'

Anthony shrugged. ‘There again, I don't know. I've never heard him mention anyone called Frankie, man or woman. I thought at first Frankie was a girl, a girl he cared about, but now I'm not so sure. He said “Read Frankie's letter”, and added, “I loved her”. I asked him if he had the letter, but he said – he died seconds later –
“It's not that sort of letter.” I've had plenty of time to think about it, and I think that the Frankie who wrote the letter and this girl are two separate people. What he meant by “not that sort of letter”, I don't know.'

Sir Charles clicked his tongue. ‘Frankie's letter . . .' He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Let's put that to one side for the moment and concentrate on what we do know. “Spy in England
.
” Well, we know there are spies. We even know who some of them are.'

‘Do we?' asked Anthony, startled.

‘Absolutely we do,' said Sir Charles with a smile. ‘If we want snippets of misleading information to be breakfast reading in Berlin, they're invaluable. We have to flavour it with a salting of truth, just to keep the pot bubbling, so to speak, but I watch over the welfare of these innocents like an old mother hen. They aren't all German, of course. Traitors are rare, thank God, but they do exist, and the Germans pay well. They go up to a thousand pounds or so for something really juicy.'

‘Good grief,' said Anthony with a lift of his eyebrows. ‘That's a sight more than I seem to be worth,' he added.

‘Don't underestimate yourself.' Sir Charles leaned forward and tapped the paper. ‘This sounds like someone we don't know. “Spy in England. Knew about me. He must be a gentleman
.
”' Sir Charles sat back, frowning. ‘It sounds like unfinished business.' He cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at Anthony. ‘What do you know about Cavanaugh?'

‘I know he was an Irish-American and a journalist. As a neutral and especially an American neutral, he was welcomed by the Germans. He was about fifty, but as tough as old boots. He'd been a ranch-hand and a prizefighter and a raft of other things in between. He had a pose of being anti-British.'

‘That wasn't entirely assumed,' said Sir Charles thoughtfully. ‘Cavanaugh wasn't his real name, by the way. He found it necessary to change it. I took a risk with him, but it was justified. As you know, if it hadn't been for the war, the bill granting Irish Independence would have gone through Parliament. Cavanaugh, in common with many others, was certain that independence would lead to trouble as the Nationalists and the Loyalists battled it out. As a journalist he wanted to see for himself what was going on. He joined a New York Irish group called The Hibernian Relief Fund and what he found shocked him.'

Anthony looked a question.

‘The Hibernian Relief Fund was supposed to help poor Irishmen and their families, both in New York and Ireland. What it actually did was raise money for arms. Not only was a civil war anticipated but it was being eagerly provided for.' Sir Charles put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. ‘Now, before the war, the money raised came from the New York Irish. Guess who else has taken an interest.'

Anthony looked at him sharply. ‘Germany?'

Sir Charles nodded. ‘Germany. As I said, the Germans aren't stupid. If there's a rebellion in Ireland, we, the British, would have to do something about it. That means troops and supplies tied up in Ireland which would otherwise be used on the Western Front. Cavanaugh was all for a Free Ireland but he didn't want a civil war and he certainly didn't want the Germans involved. He published his story and all hell broke loose. From then on he was a marked man.'

‘You mean his life was threatened?'

Sir Charles nodded. ‘Several times. Cavanaugh changed his name, came to London and made it his business to get in touch with me. He'd learned enough in New York to realize there was an active Irish-German link in London and was stubborn enough to want to get to the bottom of it. He joined a London group called Sons of Hibernia, which, like its American counterpart, was supposed to be a Friendly Society, aiding poor Irishmen and women. It wasn't, of course. Having learned from bitter experience, he was rather more cautious this time round and he uncovered some very valuable information. However, it was only part of the story. By his own request, he went to Germany to try and get the other end. There are Irishmen in Germany, honoured guests of the German government, and he wanted to find out exactly what they were doing.' His mouth twisted. ‘It seems as if they got to him first.'

Once again he looked at the notes he had made. ‘“Spy in England. Gentleman. He must be a gentleman. Seems to know everything. Knew about me. Frankie's letter. Read Frankie's letter.”'

‘That sounds as if Frankie betrayed him.' Anthony clicked his tongue. ‘And yet, it's odd, isn't it? Frankie and the Gentleman sound like two different people.'

Sir Charles nodded. ‘Yes. So we've got a gentleman spy and his assistant, Frankie, who's in touch with the Germans or the Irish in Germany, which is much the same thing. So who the devil are they? A gentleman in England
. . .
It's not much to go on, is it?' he added in disgust. ‘England's full of gentlemen, particularly if you use the term loosely.'

Anthony reached for another cigarette and lit it, smoking thoughtfully. ‘D'you know, that's exactly what he didn't do,' he said after a pause. Sir Charles looked at him enquiringly. ‘Use the term loosely, I mean,' he explained. ‘Perhaps it's because he was American, but I'd noticed that about him before. To Cavanaugh, to call him that, an English gentleman was a fairly technical term. He never used it politely or ironically but meant the sort of bloke who mixes in fashionable society and gets invited to house parties or who is asked to come for a few days' fishing or play a bit of country-house cricket.'

Sir Charles sat very still for a few moments. ‘A real gentleman, you mean?' He swallowed. ‘My God, I hope not. The information a gentleman spy could pick up is frightening.'

‘What are you so worried about?' asked Anthony, his forehead creasing in a frown. ‘Unless the gentleman's a military type or got special information of some kind, I can't see they'll know anything out of the ordinary. I don't want to be flippant, but I can't see the Germans would be much wiser for knowing anyone's batting average or how the trout are rising on the Cam.'

Sir Charles shook his head impatiently. ‘Of course they wouldn't. But don't you see, Brooke, someone who does know that sort of thing, someone who's really in the heart of English society, could pick up all sorts of gossip. You wouldn't believe what gets chattered about. They could have found out about Cavanaugh quite by chance.'

‘By chance? Come on. Cavanaugh's not likely to have told anyone and anyone who did know wouldn't go blabbing it about.'

Sir Charles bit his lip. ‘I wish I could be so sure. Anyone who was on the lookout for information could pick up a dickens of a lot, simply by listening to the conversations round him. You know how people talk.'

Anthony remained sceptical. ‘There's bound to be a lot of chit-chat, I grant you, but something really serious, like Cavanaugh's mission, would be kept under wraps.'

‘Would it?' Sir Charles steepled his fingers and leaned forward. ‘Tell me, Brooke, would you say what I told you about the shortage of munitions was serious? Something the Germans would like to know?'

‘Of course I would,' said Anthony with a short laugh. ‘They probably have an idea that things are tight but if they knew exactly how tight, they'd keep on fighting, even if it seemed hopeless.'

‘And yet I'm certain the Germans know as much as I do about our shell shortage. You won't have seen
The Times
this morning but there's a telegram from the Front spelling it out.'

Anthony gaped at him. ‘It's printed in
The Times?
'

‘Not only that,' continued Sir Charles, ‘but I'm prepared to bet the information came from none other than Field Marshall, Sir John French. He's extremely friendly with Repington, their chief correspondent.'

‘
What?
' Anthony was utterly bewildered. Not only did it seem to fly in the face of common sense but coming, as he was, fresh from Germany, it seemed akin to treachery. He couldn't imagine what they'd do to a German general who broke ranks in that spectacular way. Nothing very friendly, he thought, and you definitely wouldn't read about it afterwards in the newspapers. ‘Doesn't the fool realize that this will be meat and drink to the enemy?'

‘That's the price of having a free press.' Sir Charles shrugged. ‘The trouble is, that as far as the shell shortage goes, Sir John French isn't fighting the enemy, he's fighting Lord Kitchener. We've got a whole new front opened up in the Dardanelles, and to have any chance of success, ammunition has to be diverted from France. The generals are at each other's throats about it. The fact that the Germans will be a fascinated third in the quarrel doesn't seem to have impinged on anyone. For all the British reputation for having a stiff upper lip, we must be the most garrulous society on earth.' He leaned his elbows on the desk and shook his head wearily. ‘Good God, Brooke, when I think of what I've heard casually chatted about over dinner, my blood runs cold. As an American in England, Cavanaugh would stand out. He could easily have been one of the subjects for discussion.'

‘I suppose he could,' said Anthony soberly. ‘Yes, in light of what you've told me, I suppose he could.'

‘I'll tell you something else, too,' said Sir Charles earnestly. ‘If there really is a gentleman spy on the loose, then we're in trouble. Big trouble. I understated it when I said things were chatted about over dinner. I've heard whole plans of campaigns discussed, for heaven's sake. There aren't, thank God, rules about who can be in and out of society. It's all more subtle and elusive than that, but once you're in, you're in. If there really was someone who was accepted, then they could hear virtually the whole of our war plans without much effort. All they'd have to do is talk to the right people and keep their ears open.' Sir Charles got up and strode to the window. ‘My God . . . The more I think about it, the more horrifying it is. We're so sure of ourselves, so willing to take people on trust.' He clasped his hands together, looking at the palms. ‘Will you do it, Brooke?' he asked suddenly.

‘Do what?' asked Anthony, startled. He wasn't aware of having been asked to do anything.

Sir Charles rounded on him impatiently. ‘Investigate. Find the spy, if there is a spy. Find Cavanaugh's gentleman. This could be nothing more than a nightmare, but we need to know if it's true.'

Anthony drew his breath in. ‘You want me to be a spy in England?' he said slowly. He knew he was being squeamish, but the idea repelled him. It seemed so underhand.

‘That's right.' Sir Charles saw his expression and became urgent. ‘Don't you see, man, we have to get to the bottom of this. If there really is a spy – a gentleman – we have to know. Otherwise many more lives besides Cavanaugh's will be endangered.'

‘That's true.' It was true, but Anthony still winced from the idea of poking into people's private lives. He thought, not to put too fine a point on it, it was rotten.

And that was arrogance, he said ruefully to himself. He was suffering from what Sir Charles had called arrogance. Although Cavanaugh's use of the word
gentleman
had to mean someone inside society, he didn't know if he really believed it. True enough, there were all sorts at the average dinner and many a hostess would sponsor a guest who was deliberately provocative, to throw some sparks into a dull gathering. But that wasn't the kind of man he'd be looking for. Once he'd discounted the brilliant gentlemen of foreign extraction, the tamed anarchist and the ruck of wastrel sons and ne'er do wells – types which surely even the dimmest port-encrusted general would feel shy of confiding in – that left the Sound Chaps, Salt Of The Earth, Trust 'Em Anywhere, Good Man In A Tight Spot and all other clichés which added up to the sort of person who really was trustworthy. Or, at least, appeared to be.

He smoked his cigarette down to the butt and crushed it out. When he'd agreed to work for W. Gabriel Monks, he'd agreed to obey orders, whatever his private feelings may be.