The Spies of Shilling Lane, page 22
38.
Betty sat up, alone in the dark in Baxter’s bed. There was a scuffling coming from the living room.
Someone else was in the house.
Had she been followed?
She got out of bed and riffled through a pair of trousers that had been left on the back of a chair, finding a theater ticket, a small men’s comb, and—aha!—a penknife.
Flicking it open, she began to creep to the door of the bedroom, listening intently as the sound seemed to be coming closer, in the hallway, and then nearing the bedroom door.
She deliberated whether to whip open the door and plunge the knife into the intruder before he (or she) could discover she was there. She’d rehearsed this move plenty of times in training, but would she be able to make it work properly when it was a very real, potentially armed, and probably violent enemy?
She’d have to find out.
Counting to three in her head, she swung the door wide, thrusting the penknife up savagely at—
Baxter.
The snarling man in front of her dropped the kitchen knife he was holding at the ready and put his arms around her in a tight embrace.
“Oh, Betty! Thank heavens you’re all right!”
39.
“Hours, it was,” Mrs. Braithwaite huffed as they struggled on through the downpour. The lane back to the village was pitch-black, dense woodland on each side. “I was frantic with worry, not to mention the cold.”
“How was I supposed to know it had started to rain? The windows were blacked out. I didn’t want to raise suspicion by rushing out.”
Mr. Norris gave her a blow-by-blow account of how the evening had played out. Apart from the error of judgment with Ernie, she thought he’d done rather well, especially considering that he was, after all, the most woefully timid man in the world.
“Anthony Metcalf leading a fascist ring!” She beamed at the prospect of holding something over Mrs. Metcalf. “But does Betty know? I’m sure she would have mentioned it to me. She and Anthony are good friends. He still writes to her.”
“By the sounds of it, he’s only just come up from the South West. Nobody at the meeting knew him, and he hasn’t yet met Fox or any of the main London group,” Mr. Norris said. “I wonder if Betty knows about Mary Montgomery, the girl in Baxter’s photograph.”
“What’s she like, this Mary Montgomery?”
“Actually, she seemed quite nice. She’s a nurse, and if you ask me, her heart wasn’t in this fascism nonsense.”
“What do you mean?”
“She lacked the fervor. She told me that she’s engaged to Mr. Fox, which could be the real reason she’s there.”
Mrs. Braithwaite frowned. “But if she’s engaged to Mr. Fox, what was her photograph doing in Baxter’s house?”
“Unless Baxter and Fox are one and the same?” Mr. Norris gave a knowing smile.
“You think that he goes under two names?”
“What if Fox is Baxter’s undercover name? Maybe Baxter works with Betty, and he has infiltrated the gang using the name Fox.” He suddenly raised his finger in the air, as if struck by an idea. “In which case, Anthony Metcalf is right: Fox is the mole. He’s Baxter.”
“That would explain why he’s sending love letters to Betty and yet has Mary’s photograph displayed. Mary is the fiancée of make-believe Fox, while Betty is the girlfriend of Baxter, the real man.”
They fell silent for a moment, thinking it all through, then Mr. Norris suddenly said, “Oh, I found out about someone else, too.”
He began to explain that when he’d shown Betty’s photograph to Ernie, Ernie had said that he’d seen Betty at some of the meetings. “He said that Betty was with a girl called Gillian, who was courting both Ernie and Metcalf.”
“The conniving little minx,” Mrs. Braithwaite said. “Did he say anything about this Gillian? What she’s like?”
“Very glamorous, apparently, with long auburn hair and a love for chaos. Sounds a little like someone we both know.”
“A love for chaos.” Mrs. Braithwaite gave a laugh of recognition. “Florrie! She said that about herself the first time I met her.”
“Ernie must have heard her say it enough times to think that it describes her.”
“When it does no such thing.”
“In actual fact, it hides her; it’s a smoke screen of pandemonium behind which lurks a mastermind.”
They let the information sink in. Florrie had been playing all of them.
“But it still doesn’t answer our question,” Mrs. Braithwaite continued. “Where are they holding Betty?”
“Mary Montgomery told me about a meeting in the butcher’s basement next Tuesday.” He shrugged. “We’ll have to go to that.”
“But that’s not until next week, and who knows if we’ll find out anything helpful.”
They both walked along deep in thought.
Mr. Norris suddenly clutched her arm more tightly. “I have it! We’ll take the train to Sevenoaks and find Mary Montgomery. She told me that she works in the local hospital. It’s our only option, and Sevenoaks isn’t far from here at all. I bet she’ll know where Betty could be, or at the very least she’ll be able to tell us where Baxter is.”
“What a good idea, Mr. Norris. We’ll head off to see her first thing,” Mrs. Braithwaite said, hurrying her pace.
The sound of a car came from behind them, its headlights covered so that only slits showed, and Mrs. Braithwaite and Mr. Norris were forced to stop on the side of the road, waiting for it to pass.
Except it stopped beside them.
“Want a ride?” A gruff voice was accompanied by the sound of a car door being thrust open, someone tall getting out.
“No, thank you,” Mrs. Braithwaite said briskly. “We’re already wet, so it’s no bother to continue on.”
But as she spoke, she felt a large, muscular hand on her arm, dragging her and Mr. Norris toward the waiting car.
“Unhand us at once,” she yelled.
But the man was already shoving them into the back of the car. “Get in.”
And as she turned to look, she found herself looking into the face of a very angry man.
Taplin.
40.
“Thought we might have a little chat.” Taplin pushed his nose up to Mr. Norris’s, watching him in the light of a torch as the car swung sharply around the bends of the country lane.
“Oh, er, terrible weather tonight, isn’t it?” Mr. Norris tried to make light of it, but he felt a thud of fear inside. Ernie must have told Taplin what he’d said about Ernie not having to listen to him.
Taplin was a dangerous man and a loose cannon—any hint of antagonism toward him or the group and he’d make someone pay.
Mr. Norris could see Ernie in the driver’s seat, ever faithful, even though he must have had suspicions that Taplin was unhinged. It was written all over him, from the ranting call for sabotage to the bullying control he wielded over Ernie.
Taplin scowled at them. “Who’s your lady friend here, the one you left out in the rain?”
Mrs. Braithwaite was on the other side of Mr. Norris, peering over his shoulder hesitantly.
“She doesn’t mind; do you, dear?” Mr. Norris said, turning and smiling at her as if she were a biddable wife.
Mrs. Braithwaite, horrified at first, promptly realized it was an act and put on the meekest smile. “Of course not, dear.” Then she added, “I had to wait outside. It was frightfully stuffy in the church.”
Mr. Norris cleared his throat. “It’s awfully good of you to give us a lift on a rainy night, but may I ask where we might be going?”
“We’re taking you to the station, so that you can get a train home.” Then he grabbed Mr. Norris by the scruff of the neck, yanking him toward him. “And to make sure you never come back.”
Mr. Norris yelped.
“See, I didn’t like the looks of you, snooping about, talking to Ernie here about what he should and shouldn’t do. So I decided to follow you.”
“Ernie must have misunderstood, I only meant—”
But Taplin jerked his collar tighter.
“You keep away from our meetings. We don’t like interlopers, do we, Ernie?” His voice lowered to a menacing snarl. “And if I hear you blabbing about the rail sabotage, I’ll ruddy well slaughter you.”
Mr. Norris yelped as a piercing prick of pain surged across his throat.
Taplin held a knife blade to the light, where it glinted sharply, a drip of blood at the tip.
“No, please—” Mr. Norris gasped.
“Let him go,” Mrs. Braithwaite squealed from beside him, flinging herself over to take the man on.
But he was too quick, whisking the blade away, and then lifting it to slash Mr. Norris’s neck again.
The car screeched to a halt before he could.
Taplin opened the door and dragged Mr. Norris out after him, slumping him onto the pavement.
“Mr. Norris!” Mrs. Braithwaite stumbled out behind and knelt over him.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” Taplin roared, a note of jubilation in his voice as he got back into the car. “Don’t come bothering us again!”
The car careered off, leaving the impression that these brutes were everywhere and nowhere, watching, waiting, all the time.
“Are you all right?” Mrs. Braithwaite sobbed.
He looked up at her. “I think I might need some first aid. Where precisely are we?”
She peered around. “By the railway station. They must have assumed we were going back to London.” Fumbling in her handbag, she took out a handkerchief. “Let me have a look at that cut.”
He winced as she dabbed the wound. “Is it bad?”
“No, it’s not deep. There’s some blood, but you’ll heal up fine.” She sniffed, and he wasn’t sure whether to believe her. Then, and more like her usual self, she proclaimed, “What a nerve!”
“I can’t believe I gave myself away, and with something so stupid. What was I thinking, trying to help Ernie out?” The rain was still coming down, but they were now oblivious to it. “I put you in danger. I’m so sorry.”
Suddenly the sound of footsteps came from the corner. The flash of a torch beamed over, and they braced themselves for another onslaught.
A deep voice bellowed, “What’s going on here?” and in moments they were surrounded by four men in full uniform.
Four guns were aimed straight at them.
“Stop pointing those things at us!” Mrs. Braithwaite yelped, pulling away. “Who are you?”
“Knockholt Home Guard, night watch patrol.” The men brought their heels together with more of a shuffle than a snap.
“The Home Guard! Thank heavens!” Nearly weeping with relief, Mrs. Braithwaite grasped for her torch. From their boots and uniforms, the men appeared to be normal soldiers. From the neck up, however, they were old men, tired from the walk and in need of a hot cocoa and early bed.
“Can you help us?” she stammered. “My friend here is injured.”
“Guns down, men,” ordered the captain, puffing out his chest before wheezing slightly. He was the most elderly of them, an alarmingly robust white mustache making him look like a grizzled old sailor. “Where’s our medical orderly?”
Two of them had first-aid training, but they all stooped down around Mr. Norris, fussing over bandages.
“Who did this to you?” the captain demanded, his bushy, white eyebrows pulling together into a frown. “We’ve heard there’s a dangerous gang operating around here.”
“It was only one man,” Mr. Norris said calmly. “He tried to mug us as we came out of the station.” It wouldn’t do to explain the full story to the Home Guard. If the BUF weren’t already aware that they were spying on them, the Home Guard barging in would make that patently clear.
Mrs. Braithwaite shot him a look of surprised admiration at his quick thinking.
“We’ll find the rascal,” the captain snapped. “Leave everything to us. Come on, men. Let’s take these poor devils home and search the area. The blighter can’t have got far.”
Which explained why, when the landlord of the Crown finally opened the door, he found Mr. Norris and Mrs. Braithwaite joined by a motley battalion of old men.
The landlord helped Mr. Norris in and gave the Home Guard a quick drop of scotch.
“Right, men, no time to waste,” the captain commanded after necking his own scotch and someone else’s for good measure. “Let’s separate and find the culprit.” He looked earnestly at Mr. Norris, then added with a sharp salute, “We’ll have him in our custody before you know it.”
After waving them off, the landlord helped Mr. Norris upstairs to lie on Mrs. Braithwaite’s double bed. The cut, when Mr. Norris inspected it in a hand mirror, was impressive looking but not as deep as he’d feared. There had been a worry that it wouldn’t stop bleeding, but it had tapered off.
“What happened to you?” the landlord inquired.
“A man tried to mug us outside the station,” Mr. Norris said, and then he met his accomplice’s eye with a grin. “Mrs. Braithwaite saw him away with a few hearty swings of her handbag.”
41.
Swishing the sheet off her naked body, Betty swung her legs out of Baxter’s bed. “Wonderful as it is to see you, my dear, I have to go.” She scooped up her petticoat and began to put it on. “But before I do, I need some information.”
“But you’ve only just arrived!” Baxter wailed, watching her from the bed. “Don’t you understand how much I missed you, darling?”
Picking up her bra, she glanced at him. “I have to find my mother.”
“Your mother? You’re wrapped in my sheets and talking about your mother?”
“Yes.” Now she came to say it out loud, it seemed extraordinary. “She tried to rescue me, Baxter. The only one who tried, thank you very much indeed.”
“You know I couldn’t, darling.”
She softened slightly. “Of course I do, but nevertheless, it was Mum who came searching for me, with my landlord of all people, and somehow they managed to find me. The problem is now she’s been taken.” She paused, hands on hips. “I have to help her.”
“You can’t possibly be serious. They’ll recognize you instantly, even in disguise,” Baxter said, frowning. “It’s absurdly dangerous. Tell Cummerbatch to send out someone else.”
She stopped, halfway through pulling on her blouse. “There’s no one else to send out, and by the time your someone else has been found and briefed, my mother will be floating down the Thames.”
“I thought you didn’t get on with your mother.”
“Well, perhaps we will a little better now. When she rescued me, she seemed different. She looked the same, obviously, and still wore an appalling tweed suit, but this time she was, well, nice…” She paused, thinking of the right word. “Plucky. Less selfish. She’d been searching for me for days, thinking of nothing but how to get me out of there.”
“What’s she normally like?”
“Permanently cross, controlling, and rather cold. Full of strict notions on how to live, most of them gleaned from my overbearing aunt who brought her up as if she were in Queen Victoria’s court. Did I never mention my Aunt Augusta? She lived with us until she died a couple years ago. I’m sure she was part of the reason why my father left.”
Baxter lay on his side, watching as she pulled on a stocking. The sheet had come off most of him, and his body looked utterly soft and inviting. He leaned over and stroked her thigh. “Poor darling. Your childhood sounds horrific.”
She shrugged. “Oh, it wasn’t that bad. I started at the grammar school in town when I was eleven, and we could avoid each other for the most part.” She looked for her skirt and found it behind a chair. “What are your parents like?”
“Oh, you know, lovable in their way. My mother is rather a wit and writes poetry, and my father grumps around the garden a lot, talking about the last war and the medals he won.”
“They sound uncomplicated.”
“Sometimes I think my parents understand each other better than they understand themselves.”
“That’s a very tender thing to say.”
He smiled, getting up and coming toward her, cupping his hands beneath her chin. “Perhaps one day, you and I might know more about each other…”
“I think I’m a relatively easy person to know, actually,” she said matter-of-factly. “You, my darling”—she leaned forward and kissed him—“are far less so. It’s lucky that I’m clever enough to get to the bottom of you.”
He grinned. “Please do. I’ll submit to a thorough investigation.”
But after a few kisses, Betty stepped away.
“Except not right now. I need to get back out there and find her.” She leaned over and scooped up one of her shoes from under the bed. “Do you have any thoughts as to where Briggs might be holding her? They won’t use the butcher’s again; they’d know that’s where I’d look.”
“Well, there’s that church in Knockholt, but I doubt they’d hold someone there, or the garage behind Clapham Junction Station—it’s behind a bombed nightdress factory beside the park. It’s mostly used as a drop, but they might hold someone there if the butcher’s basement wasn’t safe. It’s also possible that they took her to one of their homes. The professor has a few spare rooms he’s always giving up for the cause.”
“What about Mary Montgomery?” Betty had never felt quite comfortable with the idea that her boyfriend had a pretend girlfriend, especially one as beautiful as Mary. “Could you ask her?”
“She isn’t speaking to me at the moment,” he said flatly. “Suspects that I’m having a fling with Florrie, for some reason. Utterly absurd, of course. Florrie isn’t my type at all.”
