EDDIE STORMED OUT, leaving his father profoundly shaken. For a few minutes after his son’s departure, Eddie’s final words of condemnation ringing in his ears, William stood quite still in the middle of his entrance hall, staring at the pattern on the rug beneath his feet. He had never expected that Eddie, his feckless and inconsiderate son, would berate him in quite such a way—and with such clear justification. Eddie was in general in no position to criticise anybody, but on this occasion William had to acknowledge that he was absolutely right. Yes, he had behaved with complete disregard for Freddie de la Hay’s feelings; yes, he had let the trusting dog down. He had handed him over without any enquiry as to provisions for his welfare, taking instead the vaguest of assurances as to how he would be looked after. And all the time his head had simply been turned by two female agents of MI6. What a fool he had been! Of course they would use women to deal with him—they must have known his susceptibility. And Tilly Curtain, who had seemed so attractive and interested in him, was probably laughing behind his back all along, thinking how easy it was for her to trap this middle-aged wine dealer (well, only just fifty, late forties really) into a harebrained scheme to listen in to the gossip of Russian gangsters in Notting Hill.
William turned round and went back into his sitting room. Eddie had brought a newspaper with him and had left it lying on the floor—even as a visitor, thought William, he leaves the place untidy. He picked up the paper, and grimaced; it was just the sort of paper that Eddie would read—a salacious, hectoring mixture of indignation and populist diatribe. He glanced at a headline: Espionage Boss Found in River. He read the few lines beneath the heading: the unfortunate espionage boss in question was French and had nothing to do with MI6, but still the story filled him with alarm. Was this the fate awaiting Freddie de la Hay, or was it the fate that had by now been doled out to him? Was Freddie already floating in the Thames somewhere, or possibly lying in the mud on the river bottom, a block of concrete tied to his collar? William closed his eyes. He could not bear the thought that it was he who was responsible for this. It was his fault.
He reached into his pocket, taking out the piece of paper on which he had jotted Tilly Curtain’s telephone number. They had parted on frosty terms, having barely managed to complete their dinner together. There had been no mention of a further meeting, and all the MI6 agent had promised to do was to telephone William if there was any news of Freddie de la Hay. Well, that was not good enough, he thought. If this is my fault—which it is—then I am going to be the one to do something about it.
He picked up the telephone and dialled the number. “I want to see you,” he said when she answered.
There was a brief silence at the other end of the line. “I’m afraid I’ve got no further news.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” said William. “I want to see you. I insist.”
Tilly agreed—reluctantly—and suggested that they see one another at Farmer Brown’s, a café on a small street off St. Martin’s Lane. William knew the place; he had occasionally dropped in for a cup of coffee or for lunch. They agreed to meet in forty minutes and rang off.
She was already there when he arrived. Although her manner on the telephone had been distant, it struck William as he sat down at the table with her that there was something different now—a sympathy, perhaps, that he had not witnessed at their last meeting.
“I’m very sorry about … about what happened at dinner,” she said. “And I’ve been thinking about it.”
William made a non-committal gesture. He was waiting to see what she would say.
“I was acting on instructions, you see,” she said, her voice lowered. “I was told that I was not to say anything to you. Or at least not to say anything significant.”
He leaned forward. “Oh?”
Tilly lowered her voice further, although there was nobody who could overhear them. The café was virtually empty, apart from a couple of stage designers from a nearby theatre sketching something out on a paper napkin.
“Yes,” said Tilly. “What I was not allowed to tell you is this: Freddie de la Hay is alive. And we know where he is.”
William’s heart gave a great leap. Instinctively he reached out and took her hand, clutching it tightly. “Oh, that’s marvellous, marvellous news. Where is he? And when will he be coming back?”
Tilly frowned. “Well, I don’t actually know. When I said we know I meant that the service knows. Ducky does—I’m sure of that. But I don’t know personally.” She paused. “And I shouldn’t really be telling you any of this.”
William looked puzzled. Ever since he had started having dealings with MI6, he had felt that he had wandered into a maze of some sort—a garden of twisting paths and passages, with no signs to show one the way and nobody to ask for directions. He was pleased that Freddie de la Hay was alive, but he wondered whether this was the same thing as being safe. One could be alive and yet at the same time very unsafe, and perhaps that was the position that Freddie was now in.
“All right,” Tilly went on, her voice now barely a whisper. “Listen to me, William. Freddie de la Hay has been set up. They knew all along that the transmitter in his collar would be discovered. They knew it.”
William stared at her. “Why …”
He did not finish. She raised a finger to silence him. “Ducky wanted to find out where their other place was. He knew that they had somewhere else in London, but we could never find it. He thought that if they discovered Freddie was working for us, they would take him there. And so he fitted a small locating transmitter under Freddie’s skin. It’s been sending out homing signals loud and clear.”
William sat back in his chair, stunned by this disclosure. “We’ve got to find him,” he said weakly.
Tilly looked down at her cup of coffee. She’s ashamed, thought William. She’s every bit as ashamed as I am.
“You could try speaking to Ducky,” she said. “You could appeal to him. Try to get through to his better nature. Ask him to tell you where Freddie is and how to get him out of the cold.” She sighed. “I don’t think he will, of course. But you could try.”